Being a role model

I found out the other day that one of the boys in the children's choir wrote an essay about me for women's history month. He named me as his role model because he says I'm so good at working with the choir and I'm so smart and helpful. This makes me even more acutely aware of the fact that, at any point in time, there is someone watching what I say and do.
I'm also a Tante, doing chicken duty about once a week for my little niece. She's only three months old, but already I catch her looking at me. The other day I had her while trying to write my paper - normally she'll camp out on my shoulder and let me write with my free hand but she was having none of it so she ended up in the sling. I tell you what, those baby sling things are so awesome - there is no such thing as one-handed research. Every now and then she'd pull her head up and look at me, eyebrows scrunched together, examining my chin and it made me wonder how aware she really is of what's going on around her. Did she hear me cursing my under my breath while I was redoing my footnotes? I hope not.

One of my first memories from early childhood involves feeding pigeons at Niagra Falls. The next one that immediately follows is getting spanked in pre-school. Want to know why? I snuck out of nap time with a book and they caught me reading in the girls' bathroom, sitting under the sink. Who were my role models? The principal of my school in first grade, because she let me into school even though I was younger than everyone else and below the state age requirement but acknowledged the fact that I could read and write and therefore deserved to be in school. My piano teacher, who gave me shit for not practicing. My high school choir teacher, who embarassed me in front of the entire class because I hadn't learned the accompaniment for the second movement of the Faure Requiem and attempted to sight-read in front of everyone. My college theory teacher, for really making us learn and never belittling us for making mistakes. My college piano teacher, for having the guts to tell me I wasn't going to be a concert pianist (something I already knew, but to have her say it took nerve) and then telling me that she still thought I was going to be a great musician. The dean of the honors college for being a ballsy woman in academics and telling me that I could be too. There have been many others before and since, but really I think we learn the most from the people we watch. That said, I'm putting my ass in bed so I can be on time to church tomorrow morning. You can't give the hairy eyeball to the kids for being late if you're straggling in as well.

I'm someone's role model. That's pretty awesome. And really scary, all at once.

Guarding the home front and why I want a pair of Crocs

I found out yesterday that Crocs makes a ballerina flat. And it comes in seafoam, celery, and SILVER. Why do I find this irresistable? Especially the part where they can basically be rinsed out at the end of the day and still look decent. Can't say that for my Danskos, no matter how much I love them. My mom keeps telling me to go use the gift certificate she got me for my birthday, but who wants to get a pedicure when you're still wearing cold weather shoes? I say this, but I'm already breaking in a pair of sandals I got at Marshall's last week in hopes that the weather will warm up just a wee bit more and I can actually show my toes some sunshine in the near future.

I'm at home on my Thursday, as usual, practicing some music for a concert I have in two days and working on the paper. I wish there were only one paper, but for the moment there is only THE paper for seminar that has been plaguing me for at least a month and a half and the part where my teacher re-tooled my topic two days ago makes me more than just a little bit nervous. So I'm starting over, I've written six pages of the 18 she expects to receive in two weeks, and I'm just going to hope for the best.

The mailman comes into the foyer of our house to deliver the mail to us and our landlord, who lives directly above. He stands there sorting the junk mail and the advertisements and the bills, trying to make sure everything goes in the right place, and Sam being the very good watchdog that he is, goes up and growls at the mail slot. When the rubberband-bound pile of junk comes through the slot, he circles it, growls at it once more for good measure, and gives it the deep-tissue sniff (as we call it around here). No one would ever call Sam ferocious but I tell you what, he can growl and sniff with the best of them. Good Sam. You growl at that junk mail.

I had another dream last night - this time I was in the last performance of Don Pasquale, none of my costume pieces were to be found, my props were not in their proper places, and I managed to not come on correctly in a single place. Halfway through this dream I said to myself, "What happened to my aria?" I know that I have anxiety about sucking on stage, but when it reaches into my subconscious mind, that's just going a little too far. Two more weeks and the semester is over. I must keep telling myself this.

Why can't I have normal anxiety dreams about being naked in front of the class or something?

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes

I had a dream last night that my parents had up and sold our house and moved to Jennings, LA.
I've never been to Jennings, but apparently it wasn't too far from Boston, as directly after the move, I had to be at work downtown at Trinity. There were strange people also living in the house with us, and some really awful 80's reminiscent wallpaper. People were coming and going from the house, and I didn't have a room to sleep in. I think I ended up in the pantry, with my incredibly outdated cell phone plugged into the outlet to wake me up.

It doesn't take a dream analysis to figure out that I have anxiety about moving.

We have approximately three weeks left of school, in which I must finish this Poulenc paper, start and finish my Stravinsky paper, write my topic proposal for independent study, and do about four recitals for other people. They seemed like good ideas at the time.
And then we will go to Seattle to look for an apartment.

Some people in the program aren't even moving to Seattle. They're going to sublet their places and just rent a room in Seattle for the weeks at a time they need to be there. In some ways, I envy this possibility, but it also comes with a lifestyle that I don't have. They are single, have no pets, no cars, no serious quantities of furniture. I'm not saying I want to get rid of my husband/dog/sofa/bedroom set in favor of disposable furniture from K-Mart that can be left on the curb when we move, but there are times when that incredibly portable lifestyle seems very lucrative.

Most of my friends are married now. It's kind of cool, really. We get to talk about being married, go on double dates without it being awkward, have dinner parties. I spent last night doing a concert with a bunch of my married friends who are going through the adoption process. Things I did not know: if you are one half of a legally married lesbian couple in Massachusetts and one of you has a baby, the other then has to adopt the child in order to have legal rights as a parent. And, if you happen to be the gay man who fathered the child of the lesbian couple (yes, this conversation did take place last night over cheese and grapes between concert sets) you must sign over your rights to the child so that both women can be legal parents. And still, if you happen to be married to the gay man who fathered the child, you must sign a paper saying that you are not the father of the child and relinquish any claim you might have to the child. Or, if you are the wife of the lesbian who donated an egg to a couple, you must also sign the paper saying you are not the father of the child. Yes, I'm being totally serious about that one.
It's all terribly interesting, but none of it applies to me directly :)

I get to babysit for my friends' kids, playing Tante for a little while and dreaming of the day when I have my own house and my own yard and I can go sit on my back porch in my swing with my dog and my kids. Whenever that happens, and however it happens for opera singers.
It's a weird time in my life. I'm at the start of my career that's looking pretty good these days. I'm twenty-seven, married with dog (who is sleeping sweetly on my foot as I type) but I honestly don't know when those other chapters of my life are going to start (house, kids).
We're moving for the third time in three years and when my parents ask me how long we're going to be in Seattle, I really don't know what to tell them. I'm trying to finish up my doctorate coursework by December so I can advance to candidacy by spring and write my dissertation, but that will also depend on how the opera singing part works out - I have a few years to figure out that one yet.

Hubby says we don't have to worry about this right now because the only thing that's immediate is finishing the papers that are due in the next three weeks and he is likely right.
Sam the dog does not care where we live, so long as he can sniff and lay in the sun and chew on his Kong toy so in the meantime, I will try not to fret. (fretfretfretfret)

Fresh coffee.

There is something seriously wrong with me

Today is the day before Easter. The only Saturday afternoon that I have had off in a while, and what do I do?

I go to a rehearsal. I go to the grocery. And then, I clean the car. We're not just talking about throwing away the little bits of trash and removing the travel mugs, we're talking full-scale with the shop vac and the windex and the upholstery cleaner cleaning the car.

Today is also my Opa's birthday. I think my Hindrichs genes were on in full force to celebrate his birthday. How do the Hindrichs celebrate? They clean.

Seriously SERIOUSLY wrong.

Another day, another digit

Today is my birthday. I am 27 years old.

When I was born, on a rather rainy afternoon in New Orleans, my mother tells me that I was already 10 days late and the doctor actually told her at one point that I had just gone to sleep for a while. I like to think that I just wasn't cooked yet and I wasn't coming out till I was good and ready.

It is also Sam's and my four-year anniversary. I acquired Sammy the big silly Lab for my 23rd birthday. He was much smaller then, and I could still pick him up. This did not last long. Now Sammy is four, weighs about 90lbs (after the diet we put him on this winter), and still looks funny when he runs. He's my heart.

Today was also the opening day of Red Sox season and, in their honor, I am sporting my new Red Sox hat with a nice red 'B' on the front. Ruth Ann says that B stands for Birthday Girl. My mom says that I shouldn't have to go to school on my birthday and I totally agree, but the Provost from NEC said he really didn't care. I asked. The Red Sox got their asses handed to them.

I don't mind being in my 'late twenties.' It seems a lot more respectable than being in my 'early twenties' and I feel that with every passing year, the likelihood that I will make an ass out of myself in public diminishes. The large exception to this idea has to do with costume malfunctions and personal fears of tripping and going headfirst into an orchestra pit, landing on someone's terribly expensive violin, but it hasn't happened yet so knock on wood.

My ten year reunion for high school is in about six weeks. I am not going. You might think it's because I'm not emotionally ready to see 'those people' or because I'm avoiding some sort of long-standing conflict that I'm still not prepared to deal with, but the simple truth is that I have a job and a competition and leaving to go home doesn't really fit into those plans. Husband and I are going to Seattle in June to look for an apartment and I don't think it would be right for me to just to take off and go to Natchitoches for a weekend, much as I would love to have a meat pie. Mmmm, meat pies. All the other emotional crap is probably true, but just the same, I'm sure that whatever baggage from high school I'm still carrying will get dropped by the 20 year reunion.

In the meantime, I'm going to spend the last 33 minutes of my birthday taking a hot shower and eating a birthday cupcake. Life's too short to not eat cupcakes, especially when your husband made the icing from scratch!

6 weird things, courtesy of Stacey

People who get tagged need to write a blog entry of their own 6 weird things as well as state this rule clearly! In the end, you need to choose 3 people to be tagged and list their names.

I'm really supposd to leave a message for these people on their blog telling them to read mine, but if you're reading, that's good enough for me.

Six weird things about me

1. I inherited the OCD thing from my dad. When I get on an arranging binge, I will stand in front of my dining room table that is covered with all of my homework and letters and bills and arrange them so that they are all facing the same way, and sort all of the papers so that each task to be accomplished (Poulenc syllabus to write, program notes for recital, props for opera next week) are in little piles. I also do this in my bathroom, separating all of the medicine and the makeup and the hair stuff and then arranging it so everything is separated and facing the same direction.

2. My OCD does not apply to the kitchen. I don't know where most of the things are in my kitchen (because my friend Jaci was the one who unpacked the kitchen boxes 2 years ago) and strangely, I don't care. I know where the dishes, glasses, and coffee mugs are and that's enough for me.

3. I scream at horror movies. I don't mean whimper and cower behind the blanket, though I do that too. I mean full out, blood-curdling, only an opera singer could possibly scream that loud, SCREAM. I was once dragged to see a horror movie at a theatre with this girl in college. I told her, you don't want to go with me, you'll be embarassed and people will hiss and point. She didn't believe me. Don't even ask me about the Blair Witch Project. My boyfriend actually got mad at me. And don't think that I don't warn people - I'm not one of those people who engages in social disruption just for the fun of it. So next time you want to watch the Omen, you just go ahead. I'll be in the other room watching Sense and Sensibility, thank you.

4. I am addicted to lip balm. It was classified as a full-scale addiction when I discovered that I was actually having an allergic reaction to my favorite mint-flavored lip balm from Bath & Body Works. I had to switch to cherry Chap Stick. Never did succumb to the Carmex thing like the DP. It just didn't do anything for me.

5. I have perfect pitch. You can play any note anywhere on any instrument and I can tell you what the note name is. You can also ask me to sing any particular pitch and (so long as it's in my singing range) I can sing it for you. I took a test run by a university in California that tested how good one's pitch memory was, and I scored above the 95th percentile. By most accounts, this classifies me as a freak, even among my musician friends. I am a veritable walking pitch pipe.

6. I'm a little superstitious. I believe in luck, I think that strange things happen when the moon is full, and I think that there is such a thing as fate and destiny. I also think that astrological signs are just a little bit true. I think this has more to do with the fact that my astrological sign describes my personality a little too perfectly, but let's be real: I married a Libra. Most of my good friends are Libras. I also carry a lucky gold dollar with me.

I tag:
Casey
Siggi
eBroadhead

If you ain't got no money, take your broke ass home

Yes, that's right. I'm listening to Fergie again. What I like the best about this song is that the video involves big hair, big earrings, and acid washed jeans. Fergie absolutely cracks my shit up.

It's spring break and today is really the first day that actually resembles spring. I spent most of yesterday here in my office working on all of my homework that didn't get done because of the undergrad opera. We had some friends over last night for a late dinner and watched Sixteen Candles until about 2am because one of them had never seen it. How could anyone's childhood be complete without Long Duck Dong? I spent most of this morning cooking breakfast and working on the syllabus for a Poulenc class I'm teaching next week. And then I got an email from my boss at my church job. He's not really happy with me right now as I've missed a lot of work in the last two weeks. My first response was to write him the longest email in the history of email about how I'm juggling my DMA coursework, a class that I teach, an undergraduate opera program that has just come into the curriculum and is held together by myself, two pianists and gaffer tape, my church job, my last DMA recital that is happening in seven days, and a career that is trying very desperately to get off the ground and is so almost there I can taste it.

And then I deleted it, wrote a short apology, and sent him my availability until June, promising to not double-book myself anymore.

This is perhaps the thing that I find the most frustrating about being a musician. When you don't have a standard 9-5 job where you are scheduled to be every day, five or six days a week, you end up doing what I do. You have class for a few hours on this day. You have rehearsals scheduled for several hours other days a week at odd hours because the stage director and the pianist have schedules that don't intersect until after dinner. You have your church job rehearsals two nights a week and then all morning on Sunday. And between all of those things, you put on your headphones on the train and memorize recital music. You get up early on Thursdays, the only day that you don't have class, and you go into the library to do research for the papers that aren't due for another month and a half but you know you won't have time to research them later. You eat dinner with your husband once, maybe twice a week. You eat lunch at school five days a week. You grow accustomed to carrying a large lunchbox with snacks because going to Starbucks for a break is something that has become part of the past, your former life, before it was the last semester of captivity.

My husband says that I'm so close to the end, what am I worried about. The other side of being this close to the end is that you have so much more to lose. My last academic recital (EVER) is in seven days. It's being adjudicated by members of the DMA committee who are not singers. I'm putting together a proposal for an independent study so I can finish my last academic class long-distance in the fall so I can advance to candidacy on time in December. The closer I get to the end of my post-secondary education, the more frightened I am that it will slip through my fingers through some freak mishap.

None of the people I work for care that they are not paying me enough to pay my rent and my bills and my health insurance. None of them care that they play only a small part in the larger sphere that is my occupation. I think music may be one of the only fields where you are expected to start practicing your craft long before you're done studying for it. If a medical student started hiring himself out as a doctor before he'd even finished the first year of medical school, you'd think he was crazy. But the simple fact of my occupation is this: my jobs are what pay most of my bills, and my craft is why I take the jobs. Until the craft pays most of the bills, the jobs are the necessary evil. And no boss wants to be told that they are the necessary evil.

If your kids tell you they want to become musicians, tell them that it's the most difficult and rewarding life they could ever choose. And offer to cook for them frequently.

All the news that's fit to print!

First of all, I'm amused that they actually compared this to 'American Idol.' Second of all, my husband says I win because I got the most words in the article. Happy reading, I'm off to rehearsal!

A Classical 'American Idol'
Baritone Chan Wins Vocal Competition
By Tim PageWashington Post Staff WriterMonday, March 5, 2007; Page C05

Of all the gifts that the Friday Morning Music Club brings to our city -- free Friday concerts downtown, performances in schools and retirement homes, an umbrella of support for musical activity throughout the area -- special mention should be made of the annual Washington International Competition.

Saturday afternoon at the Kennedy Center Terrace Theater, the emphasis was on young adult singers (the competition also honors pianists and string players, in a three-year rotation). Six finalists, selected from 45 entries, sang mini-programs of four songs, arias or spirituals before a distinguished panel of judges and a small but intently interested audience.

Somewhat surprisingly, there wasn't a tenor or a bass in the bunch, but rather four baritones, a coloratura soprano and a mezzo. All of the artists, whose ages ranged from 23 to 30, had their strengths and weaknesses but they provided, for the most part, a charming afternoon.

The opening set was by soprano Emily Hindrichs, who studies at the New England Conservatory with James McDonald, and offered works by Ravel, Richard Strauss, Handel and Verdi. To this taste, she had the finest voice of the contestants -- firm, full, lustrous, agile and distinctive -- yet I thought she sang too loudly for such a small hall, and her coloratura passages sometimes took on the disembodied quality of vocal exercises.

Still, her personal charm, her sure sense of pitch, and her refusal to indulge in the inane birdy mimesis that so often passes for coloratura singing were strong attributes.

The other artist who especially impressed me was baritone Eugene Chan, who made himself right at home in the 500-seat Terrace -- never straining, making the most of every phrase. He was equally at home in the dark melancholy of Yeletsky's aria from Tchaikovsky's "Eugene Onegin," the refined grace of Fauré's "Clair de lune" and the hearty good humor of Ravel's "Chanson à boire."

Sidney Outlaw, another baritone, lacked some of Chan's subtlety but brought a palpable sense of yearning to Wagner's "Evening Star" aria from "Tannhauser" and a mixture of unbridled joy and evangelical fervor to the familiar spiritual "Git on Board." Lucia Cervoni has a pleasing light mezzo voice, sang sweetly and straightforwardly, and was especially effective in Samuel Barber's "Must the Winter Come So Soon?"

Evan Bennett sounded like a much older man; his baritone voice was curiously worn and uneven in production, although his earnest musicianship was never in doubt. And Museop Kim, the last of the baritones, has a lovely middle voice but grew tremulous and then strained over the course of his set.

The judges -- Santa Fe Opera General Director Richard Gaddes, soprano Victoria Livengood and pianist Martin Katz -- awarded the first prize of $10,000 to Chan, who also won the "Audience Favorite" award of $500 (the program booklets included ballots). Hindrichs came in second, with a prize of $4,000, and Outlaw took third place and $2,000. The Friday Morning Music Club decided to add a fourth prize of $1,500, awarded to Cervoni. Bennett and Kim each received $500.

Some honor should be reserved for the accompanists: Israel Gursky, Laura Ward, Shane Schag, Danielle DeSwert and Tamara Sanikidze, vigorous and versatile musicians all. With the exception of some of our military ensembles, the Friday Morning Music Club is the oldest musical group in Washington, founded in 1886, and its good works should be better known.

Playing with swords

So we have a visiting instructor for the next three weeks while our stage director, Marc, is out of town directing Cendrillon. His name is Adam, and he teaches people how to play safely onstage with swords and such. As some of you may know, I've already done training in rapier & dagger and unarmed stage combat, so any excuse to practice my skills sounds like fun to me. As a soprano, there isn't much call for sword fighting, but I'm eagerly awaiting the day when someone says to me, "Emily, we've decided to cast you in this show, and you have to learn this fight sequence." Just you wait. So Adam was putting us through some basics yesterday and I was trying my best to be diplomatic with my partner when she wouldn't fully extend her arm. Timid fighters make me very nervous - you never know when they're going to really extend and possibly hit you. Kind of like timid drivers, the ones who creep out into the middle of traffic and then look scared. This is usually why I end up fighting with boys. This comes as surprise to no one. But I've gotta tell you, my quads are absolutely killing me from doing 'advance-retreat' over and over and over again and I just want to get back in there with a sword and do it all again. I hate going to the gym. I hate running. I hate walking unless it's for the purpose of getting somewhere. But you hand me a sword and tell me to work on my footwork and I am SO THERE.

In other news, hubby and I are moving to Seattle so I can get paid to be an opera singer and so we can move away from the lunatic fringe of Boston. As I said to a friend of mine today, the liberals up here make me look like a cookie-cutter conservative, and I consider myself to be pretty darned liberal. And if I'm not putting words into his mouth, I think this friend of mine considers me to be pretty darned liberal as well. But when the bomb squad can't tell the difference between Cartoon Network marketing and a bomb? An ounce of prevention, pound of cure, blah blah blah. If these things had been there for weeks, wouldn't they have blown up already?

Speaking of bombs, our neighbor just pulled his souped-up sorry excuse for a Subaru into the driveway and made the windows rattle. I'm sooo looking forward to living away from him and our lame landlord.

Happy Friday!

WARNING: It's the first day of school

"So I thought about the army. Dad said, 'Son, you're fuckin' high."

This is a line from one of my favorite Ben Folds Five songs. I seem to only listen to Ben Folds Five when I'm in the mood to give the finger to the universe. Or at least my DMA seminar professors. It's not because of the work, or the papers, and certainly not because of the company: quite the contrary - the DMA kids and I have a blast chewing the fat over lunch every Tuesday afternoon when seminar is over, and Helen seems to actually take an interest in our diversity so it might not suck this semester. It's because they can't ever tell us we're doing an okay job. Your paper was either:

1. too long/short
2. topic was too broad/not broad enough
3. too much like musicology/theory/history/your mom
4. had too much to do with a discipline that they don't care about
5. too much/not enough expression of your own opinions

I got my seminar paper back today. Can you tell? It had no comments, no grade, no remarks within the body of the paper itself, but it did have a one-page eight point font single spaced letter from my teacher telling me how he just can't figure me out because on the surface, I seem to be open-minded and adventurous but really, I'm just narrow in my singer-centric attitude toward the musical world. I would like to point out that I got an A in this class. This is not about bitterness over a grade - this is about the part where my teacher decides to try and play psychologist through commentary on my paper. Do you want to know why I'm singer-centric? Because I'M A SINGER YOU SHITHEAD. Maybe if my degree coursework somehow reflected that fact, I might be more willing to sit through your discussions on middle eastern tonal systems instead of trying to memorize operas that I don't have time to practice because I'm doing what? WRITING YOUR FUCKING PAPER.

This is grad school. It is impossible to write a perfect paper. But the constant ivory tower pontificating on the importance of education addressing all sides of diversity why didn't you tie in the part about serbian music of the 1980s and make it work with a topic on 14th century chant and do a spectrograph of the pieces you were listening to blah blah blah who cares makes me want to set myself and others on fire in the middle of the conservatory parking lot. Last time I checked, getting your doctorate was about becoming specialized in an area. I'm not getting a DMA in 'purveyor of all knowledge that pertains to everything with the word music in it' I'm getting a DMA in 'vocal performance.' What was my paper on? It was on issues of performance and sonic differences between the boy's undeveloped voice and the adult female voice - a topic that is both interesting and pertinent to my studies. This topic was approved in advance, and I gave an in-class presentation stating exactly why I excluded certain aspects from my paper. I excluded discussion of consonants because it would have taken another ten pages to explain all of the anatomical information that pertains to execution of consonants. I didn't deal with pronunciation because I would have had to do another month of research on pronunciation of texts that are versions of bastardized Scottish, which I didn't have time to do and furthermore, the paper was only supposed to be 25 pages not a fucking dissertation.

Sidebar: my husband is now addicted to the song 'Fergalicious' and I actually took five minutes our of writing this blog so I could play the video of it for him. I suppose it could be worse. At least it sounds like a good rip-off of 'Supersonic.' He says the line that makes him laugh the most is the part where she says, "I be up in the gym, just workin on my fitness."

Know what I want? I want to put my stupid seminar jackass teacher in the same room as Fergie and see who comes out alive. I'd bet all four of my degrees that she'd kick his ass.
And I would SO sell tickets.

It has become that time of evening.....

....the time of evening when one sits and listens to Barber and wonders why it is warmer outside than it is inside. And furthermore, why is it 65 degrees in Boston in January? Confusing, really. One might even say it was unseasonably warm. The two phrases at which my husband rolls his eyes the most are, in order of usage,
1. Social Darwinism and 2. Global Warming.

When Joel and I drove down from Middlebury in the summer of 2005 to look for a Boston apartment, we called AAA, we printed out maps from Mapquest with our route clearly marked, we filled up our water bottles and got snacks, and prepared for our road trip. I wouldn't consider myself a novice at road trips, quite the contrary. My parents are really into the whole Great American Road Trip thing, so I was subjected to many trips in the back of the Caprice Classic (sidebar: this Christmas vacation was no different - we flew into New Orleans and then drove to North Carolina. You tell me how that makes sense and I'll send you a praline.) and as a result, I know exactly how long I can hold it before it becomes absolutely necessary to stop, which truck stops are less sketchy and therefore worthy to eat in, and what snacks are best for car travel (mess/taste/sustenance). We read our directions, followed them exactly, and where did we end up? Woodstock. We ended up in Woodstock. And after concluding that the smallest part of each Northeastern state's budget is devoted to signage, I developed the Emily Hindrichs Lecture Series on Urban and Suburban Development, a sixteen-part lecture series that deals with how to properly lay out and obscure city structure as to confuse and obfuscate tourists and travelers. Part 1 is appropriately entitled: Signage and Social Darwinism.

While we were in the South for the holidays, my husband and I managed to drive from New Orleans all the way to Asheville, NC by way of Birmingham and Atlanta, without consulting a single map. And do you know why? Because there are SIGNS that say where you're going before you get there. Social Darwinism my friends. If they want you to know how to get there, the signs will be there. If you don't know where you're going, you obviously don't belong and should therefore turn around and go back to wherever it is you came from. Welcome to New England, please leave now.

The Global Warming thing is different. I'm touchy about weather, coming from the south and growing up with hurricanes and tornados and tropical depressions and all that whatnot. You notice when the pressure drops, you notice when it's windy in the mid-afternoon (almost invariably means rain) and you notice when those clouds start to turn green because that means the sirens are going to go off any moment and you'd better get in the hallway. And with all of the press surrounding the hurricane last year, more studies are being done that deal with global warming and its effect upon things like water temperatures, storm strengths, wetland preservation. Not that many people are paying attention more than they did before, but when we drove down I-10 to the airport the other day, it had not rained in more than a few days and I couldn't help but notice that the water levels were so high, they were creeping up to the interstate and even pooling in one of the off-ramps. So I turn to my husband and say, "Global Warming." He thinks I'm an alarmist.

I'm not suggesting that everyone go out and buy a hybrid car and recycle every little stitch of paper in their house. I'm just saying that it's worth noting that people get paid NOT a lot of money to tell the federal government that water levels are high and perhaps we should do something about it. Call me twitchy, but I still have the pictures of the sludge line on my momma's wall and it makes me ill every time I think of her holed up in the loft for three days. End of sermon.


In other news, Sam got us a digital camera for Christmas. Good dog he is, and we have put it to good use, so I think I'll include a few pictures from our holiday trip. I hope everyone's holiday was festive and whether you spent it bundled up in sweaters and blankets or in t-shirts with the AC on, you spent it with people you love. And with that said, I'm going to watch a movie with the dog. He got his toenails clipped today and has been looking at me very mournfully for subjecting him to such an injustice. And if anyone comes up with a way to surreptitiously clip a Lab's toenails, you just let me know and I'll send you a praline for that too!

The eleventh hour

I went to my first Chanukah party last night. Lots of traditional Jewish food, spiced cider on the stove, and the lighting of the candles, Hebrew songs sung in the next room. It was a really nice night, quiet, and a little bit reverent. I wonder if I'll have moments like that at the Christmas parties I'm attending this weekend, as we drink our egg nog and toast the new year. I'm really excited about seeing my family next week - there's a party on Christmas night at my aunt's house and according to my mom, everyone will be there. It will be like family reunion to the tenth power.

Speaking of the mom, she started her job on Monday. Hooray for mom! She's a funny duck - decided to go back to school and become an accountant, managed to get through her undergrad and masters in five years with a 4.0. Tell me I don't come by my neuroses honestly. But she has a whole week off so we can make merry together as a family. Looking forward to seeing Opa and having him brush up my German. Even the little brother will be in attendance, murmuring from the back seat in monosyllables. Isn't family fun?

I turned in my grades today. After picking up last-minute assignments from my students and updating my database, I am free from the fetters of this semester. Husband says that this may have been the worst ever, in terms of the auditions and the workload of my courses and my jobs, but amazingly enough, we survived.

The computer lab here at school closes in twenty minutes, and then I will have to walk away and find something to do for the next four hours till choir practice starts. It seems like a holiday, but not. I have a role to learn, family to see, and many miles to drive in the process. I keep telling myself that a vacation will be in order soon, but it seems to me that I need a vacation from my vacation.

Miles to go before I sleep. Merry Christmas, Happy Chanukah, and to all a good night.

Animals, children and balloons

These are three things that will misbehave on stage, if given the opportunity. And if you would like to know more about this, then come see the final performance of the opera this afternoon.

I'll be the one chasing after my balloons with a beard on my face.


Things might be crazy for a while, have to finish grades up for the classes I teach, cast an opera, finish my DMA seminar paper, memorize the rest of my monologue before Wednesday, and go to NYC twice for auditions, all before this Friday. Hope everyone is having a happy and festive holiday season, catch you in a week or so.

This is the end of the innocence

Yes, it's true. I've been listening to Don Henley. It's my old woman genes kicking in, the same ones that make me really really like Sting more than anyone should. Did you know he has a CD of John Dowland songs out now? What's hotter than regular old Sting? Sting singing with a lute!

But that's not the subject of my blog today. I did the last of my auditions for at least a week and it gives me a moment to reflect. On the way home last night, at approximately hour two of my train ride, I ran into the dance instructor from NEC, Melinda Sullivan. Melinda is hilarious and I miss seeing her regularly, but with my teaching schedule, taking her dance class is not an option for me. If only it were. We were talking about how some of the kids in the undergrad program I teach still have the shine in their eyes about becoming a 'SINGER!' instead of actually looking at it as a profession and how it sometimes clouds their ability to understand how important actually working at your craft can be.

I came about this profession in a roundabout way - through pianist, organist, choir director and musical theatre coach - so I see being a singer as more of a genesis of who I am. I enjoy it, most of the time, and when I do well in an audition (as I did yesterday at both of my auditions) it still feels really good and there's a flash of "Oh, it might just happen, I might actually get hired to be an opera singer!" but it's quickly tempered with "Don't get your hopes up too high, you've done more than ten auditions already of the 15+ you applied for, this is just one more and it will hurt less if you don't start planning your move before they call you. IF they call you."

Does this make me jaded? Am I wrong to immediately shunt my enthusiasm in the face of possible disappointment? My husband nearly burned down the house when I didn't get into San Francisco Opera and all I could do was say, "They didn't need me this year." He doesn't understand why I don't rant and rave when they don't take me, but I'm trying to keep my head cool through the terrible hurt that says, "It's not that they don't need me, it's that they don't want me." Sounds like some sort of a twisted relationship, hm? If only I could end this sadomasochistic relationship with opera.

The other night, I was telling my boss at the church I might be late for rehearsal coming from a 6pm opera rehearsal and he said, "Can't you just tell them that this is your job and you can't be late for work?" I waffled, but my immediate internal response was, "Yes, this may be my job, but that's my profession." The distinction is very important to make - one helps pay the bills for now, the other is my career choice. I envy those who can take performance or leave it. I think I used to be like that - back when I was doing 85 different things and hadn't really committed to this craft. I could be okay sitting in the orchestra pit or directing a choir or accompanying for singers or whatever, I used to say. And yes, in truth, I would be 'okay' no matter what, so long as I didn't have to do geometry for a living, but without getting too prosaic, opera is what I'm meant to do. It is what makes the most sense to me without me having to make sense of it.

And before I get too terribly depressed (please please please let one of those damned companies call soon) I'm stealing a meme from my cousin, Siggi.

58 QUIRKS ABOUT ME:

1. Initials: EMH

2. Name someone with the same birthday as you: only met one person, in elementary school, Mandy Lafargue.

3. Last thing you ate: potato leek soup

5. I say Shotgun! You say: fine, but that means I get to drive.

6. Last person you hugged? hubby

8. How many U.S states have you been to? I'd say at least 35

9. How many of the U.S states have you lived in: 7

11. Name something you like physically about yourself? my eyebrows

13. Who do you go to for advice? my mom

14. Why are you still up? because it's 11:19am and I couldn't stay asleep

15. Who made you angry today? no one yet

16. Favorite type of Food?: comfort food - bring on the black eyed peas

17. Favorite holidays: Halloween

18. Do you download music: No, but I do pilfer from the LP collection in the music library

19. Do you care if your socks are dirty or not? um, gross

21. Would you date the person who posted this? she's my cousin, and I don't want any cracks about being from Louisiana!

22. Has anyone ever sang or played for you personally? I'm a musician, what do you think?

23. Do you love anyone? Just anyone? No. Do I love someone? Yes.

24. Do you like Bush? I suppose I might if he weren't the leader of the free world. In that sort of, "Hey, let's go play pool and drink cheap beer if you're buying" kind of way.

25. Have you ever bungee jumped? no

26. Have you ever went white-water rafting? no

27. Has anyone ten years older than you ever hit on you? rather frequently

28. How much money ya got on you? four dollars, some change, a safety pin and a tiger's eye rock

29. Have you met a real redneck? of course - it's not like you only find them in museums

30. How is the weather right now: weird - unseasonably warm for a Boston December

31. What are you listening to right now? Sting playing the lute

32. What is your current fav song? hard to say

33. What was the last movie you watched? Albert Herring

34. Do you wear contacts: yes

35. Where was the last place you went? NYC, for auditions

36. What are you afraid of? Sucking at what I do.

37. How many piercings and tattoo's have you had? 3 piercings, don't ask

38. How many pets do you have? just the one, Sammy the lab. Mom & Pop have Max the dachsund, but he's hardly more than a hairy yapping paperweight so he doesn't count.

39. What's one thing you've learned? I get assigned Tennessee Williams monologues because my natural dramatic voice is southern.

40. Do you get along with your parents? yes, now

41. What do you usually order from Starbucks? tall latte

42. Have you ever fired a gun? goodness no

43. Are you missing someone? my friend Emily, who I haven't seen in nearly two years

44. Fav. TV show? Nip/Tuck

45. Do you have an iPod? I refuse to convert to Mac in any way shape or form. I have a Creative Zen Nano!

46. Has anyone ever said you looked like a celeb? Emma Thompson

48. Who would you like to see right now? my mom

49. Favorite movie of all time? When Harry Met Sally

50. Do you find yourself loved? all the time

51. Have you ever been caught doing something you weren't supposed to do? more than I'd like to admit

52. Favorite flower? Gerbers

53. Butter, plain, or salted popcorn? popped in the pan with nothing on it

54. What Magazines are you reading? the New Yorker

55. Have you ever ridden in a limo? yes

56. Has anyone you were really close to passed away recently? Oma, earlier in the week - it's hard to say if we were really close, but we were family

58. What's something that really bugs you? How I paid for highlights and now my hair just looks light brown. It's stupid and vain, I know.

Shiksa on the road....Part 2

Coming through my headphones: Justin Timberlake's 'SexyBack' - after 75 minutes of art song last night, I need a little candy in my ears. Think of it as PixyStix for the classical singer.

So it's Thursday, I have class in half an hour, and I just tried to schedule my third recital, but since NEC is bound up in its own red tape, I have to go back and schedule my recital in an hour because the guy in the scheduling office (who was doing a CROSSWORD PUZZLE) told me that they don't do that sort of thing until later in the morning and he's busy. Right, 'busy'. Is that what they're calling it these days? Don't be too 'busy', I hear tell that people can go blind from that!

But I really can't be upset about anything today. My recital went better than I ever could have hoped for, and during intermission I got a voice message telling me that I'm a finalist for San Francisco Opera's MEROLA program. And what does this mean? That's right, back on the road. I've been to New York four times in two weeks, I think I might have actually figured out the Subway system, and the fine art of packing everything I need into a backpack. Who says girls can't pack light?

Suffice it to say, I'm nervous. Excited, but nervous. Terrified and exhilerated, but nervous. I don't know if I can bring my A game twice in one week, but I'm sure as hell gonna try.

WAHOO!

Shiksa on the road

I'm in Louisville this week singing for their New Music Festival. Three days of rehearsals, recording sessions, and concerts. So far, I'm having a great time, getting lots done and sleeping as much as humanly possible so when I return to Boston, I will not need to sleep off my worn-out voice. I like Louisville. It's strangely multi-cultural for Kentucky (no offense to anyone who is from Kentucky) and considering the most time I ever spent in Louisville was at the McDonalds off I-65 on my way home, it's a very pretty town. I miss living in a real town - where they have stretches of trees and houses with yards and parks. I know, I know, Boston has those things too, but the Boston Common isn't really a place where you can have a picnic and run your dog and enjoy the quiet. There is no quiet in Boston, not really. The closest thing to real quiet that you get is late at night at the train station when there's virtually nobody there because you're catching the last train out after opera rehearsals. It's eerily quiet then, no buskers, no newpaper vendors, even the pretzel guy has gone home. I spend a lot of time in the train station. At least twice a day, I stand on a platform and wait for the train that will carry me to or from my house. Moreso this time of year than any other, as I'm in and out of NYC at least once a week for auditions until this ridiculousness is over.

This brings me to the update on the audition scene. As most of you know, this is audition season, the season in which one sends out the best of her work to see if someone will take an interest. This process begins in mid-September with the preparation of the audition packets. Every company is different. Some of them want the application, the headshot, the resume, a CD with two contrasting pieces, letters of recommendation, proof of age. Some want the resume, some don't, some want letters, some only need the contact info for your references, some want two photos and a copy of your passport page. Personally, I think part of the weeding-out process is to see whether or not you have the detail skills to put the right stuff in the right envelope, but that's just me and my social-Darwinist brain at work. After you've sent off all of these packets and paid your fee for the pleasure of them opening the envelope, you wait for the first round of letters saying whether or not they are going to hear you.

Once you are given an audition, one trusses herself up like a Thanksgiving turkey with all the fixins and goes into any number of rented studios in NYC in order to sing two arias with all of the flair and panache that can be mustered (which is a sufficient amount, especially when sporting items of Grandma's bling) after which we sit and wait until one of two things happens: I get an envelope in the mail with an offer, or I get an envelope in the mail with a rejection.

I've been through my fair share of auditions now and I've grown accustomed to the format of rejection letters from companies who either weren't looking for a coloratura this year or have decided to hire someone back from last year, or would like to hear me again in a year or so. To date, the nicest rejection letter I ever received was from Chicago Lyric Opera's young artist program. I didn't feel bad reading it - they were supportive, said they very much enjoyed hearing me, and would really like to hear me again in a year, and that this should in no way be construed as a reflection of my level of talent. It was the perfect balance of information and personalization.

I'm in the middle of the season now, with most of my auditions lined up, three of them already done, and two more in the next week. It's hard on your ego to go into these halls, see all of the other singers lined up waiting for their slot, everyone humming into the wall or yodelling in the bathroom, trying not to check everyone else out, trying to stay focused on the job at hand. I don't do well with the waiting. I try to arrive as close to my actual time as possible so I won't have time to sit and fret and contemplate all of the reasons why someone else is better suited to this audition than I am. I'm auditioning for some big programs this year: San Francisco Opera, Wolf Trap, Houston Grand, Florida Grand. These are the programs that you really really REALLY want to get into if you wish to start a career in opera. I made it through the paper and CD round, and now they are hearing me live. So far, I've sung really well and should I get rejected, I won't feel bad because I really did give them a good sing. But it is this delicate process of which I spoke above, this balance that needs to be struck when telling a young singer that he or she is not going to be hired for this season.

And finally, that brings me to the rant of the day. Central City Opera is a small company in Colorado. They do pretty good productions with small-ish professional names and they have a young artist program. Last year, I was given a live audition but they did not hire me. I was not entirely surprised, as it was my first year of young artist auditions, and my resume was not nearly as filled out as it is now. Which is why I laughed out loud when my poor sweet husband told me (in a very sad voice) that Central City would not be hearing me this year in their live auditions.
First of all, the reason they cited was that I did not have enough experience and the level of talent they are looking for was not found within the contents of my materials. (this makes me wonder, is it possible that I became less talented and less experienced in the last year? I didn't know that one could actually lose experience and gain it at the same time!)
Second, the medium by which they conveyed this information was not a form letter, sealed in an envelope with my name on a label that was pasted on crooked by someone sending out the rejection letters. Oh no, that would be too classy. They sent a POSTCARD. A postcard upon which the words were so poorly printed, my husband noted, it seemed that the printer was running out of ink but they didn't care. A postcard with this very personal information pasted on one side for all of the world to read, the mailman, the sorters at the post office.

Not that any of these people care whether or not I have an audition for Central City, I assure you they do not care. But it's the fact that a company with a young artist program, who claim that they are committed to the development of young talent, would send out this kind of information, the kind of information that young singers wait by the mailbox for, on a postcard, as if to display to the world that this singer is not fit to be heard.

I have a year's worth of levity on this situation. You come to know what the letters look like, feel like, how the wording goes. It's usually a kind letter, couched in encouragement for next year. And so it should be. My feelings are not hurt this year. THIS year. Because when I look at my planner for the audition weekends, they are full of dates and times from other companies with better reputations and more selective criteria. So I bite my thumb at Central City Opera for being so couthless that they carelessly discard singers with a postcard. I bite my thumb at them because while I am missing their audition times, I will be standing in line for Seattle Opera, and Utah, and San Francisco. And I will not miss them one bit.

Meticulosity (adj)

I'm drinking my morning cup of tea out of my new mug from Starbucks. While I'm still quite cross with them because of the continuing problems surrounding my favorite striped thermos, they really did something clever with Akeelah and the Bee. I'm a word nerd, love to do crosswords, used to do the Reader's Digest 'Enrich your word power' quiz when I lived at home, and was always a whiz at spelling. So when this cute mug went on clearance (and we know that I can't resist the clearance bin) I had to indulge. What made it an interesting journey was the part where not one but two of my friends on three separate occasions picked it up and said, "Meticulosity. Extreme attention to detail. Emily, this sounds like you - I think you should buy it."

Now I know that I'm more than a little OCD about detail, but I figure that's my job in attempting to be a professional musician and educator. No, you can't just sing English art song in your own accent unless it's a regionalized folk song and you happen to come from that region. Why? Because the whole point of this is to be understood by anyone who speaks English and I'm sorry, if I have to put aside my Louisiana to sing Barber, so do you. This is why we have the International Phonetics Alphabet. And no, I didn't make the rules, I just teach them. If you don't think phonetics are important, go take someone else's class. In the meantime, we will be learning the difference between voiced and unvoiced consonants and how to apply those rules to learning to sing in German. Do you want to sing that in YOUR accent too?

I'm a phonetics geek. I'm a word geek. And I really really REALLY like doing far out music that makes the eyes of the voice faculty widen halfway through, seriously considering whether or not they should have asked to hear that piece. (giggle)

Speaking of which, if you're in the area, come to my recital on Wednesday, November 15th at 8pm. I promise that there is only one far our piece that involves whistling and yodelling and playing the crotales. It won't hurt for long. And the dress alone is worth showing up for, if I do say so myself.

Oh snap!

So when we lived in Hattiesburg, our good friend Hunter was fond of saying "Oh snap!" at any given moment. I did then, and I still do, find that absolutely hilarious. Which is why I burst into hysterical laughter when the video for Fergie's "London Bridge" came on the random feed at MTV.com the other day, with a big ass low-rider rounding a corner, Fergie with the big Jersey hair, and the scary girls alongside her with the black lipstick and the knee-length shorts and their faux Chuck Taylors and a large chorus of people yelling "Oh Snap!"

I made my husband watch this video with me, and I think that the most entertaining part is where the Beefeaters start dancing. I miss Hunter so much, especially because the dancing part is somewhat reminiscent of his beloved wife, Michelle, and her rendition of the Elaine dance from Seinfeld.

So this is the question of the evening:
"How come every time you come around, my London London Bridge wanna go down?"

And furthermore, what exactly IS one's London Bridge, and where would it go? Paraguay?

the gremlins in my sinuses....

....have built a colony and are setting up house, hammering on the inside of my sinus cavities, making it nearly impossible to see straight and/or converse like a normal person. Singing is also out of the question and, as you know, this is kind of what I do, so today is officially a sick day. And I feel like poop, so I am going to go home and sit on the sofa and watch Nip/Tuck until my little heart is content.

Opa is almost completely moved in with the folks and it seems to be going reasonably well. Hopefully all will be smooth and happy and there will be no stressing on the part of anyone.

I got an audition slot for Glimmerglass/Florida Grand Opera. Cross your fingers that I kick ass. The blogs may be sporadic until my recital is over, so if you're in town on November 15 and want to see me in a goddess dress (and singing too) then come on over!

Succumbing to the media machine and the state of modern health care

I have succumbed. My cell phone now rings "Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic."
And I am not ashamed of it, not one bit. It took every ounce of my strength to not download the other ringtone that was suggested: Justin Timberlake's "SexyBack." Ever since Stacey mentioned it on her blog, my interest in Justin has been renewed. Or maybe it's just because I think he's pretty. But I digress.

I'm here in the 'dell, flying back to Boston tomorrow at an obscene hour of the morning, and it has been a rough couple of days. I flew in on Thursday, again at an obscene hour of the morning, and met with my dad, Tante and Opa for lunch at the hospital, after which we went over to see Oma in the skilled nursing facility. And this is what I have to say: there is such a tremendous disregard for the elderly in our country. People care for their pets better than they do for the infirm, mentally unstable, and those otherwise incapable of caring for themselves. And my poor old Oma, addle-brained though she is, has to be in this facility day after day as they continue to 'care' for her. With this kind of care, I'm surprised that there is not a funeral home attached to the building, just past the circle of comfy chairs stationed out back where all of the nurses go to smoke. You know, the chairs that are supposed to be sat in by patients and their visitors. She looks at us, confused most of the time and speaking in half-German half-gibberish (good thing I took German, right?) and trying so hard to convince us that she really needs to go home. When she's lucid, it's the worst because she knows where she is. I cannot help but think that it would be better were she completely out of it, at least then she would be in her own world all the time, not coming in and out to find herself held captive in this place where her clothes mysteriously disappear and the nurses appear to radiate indifference. There are, of course, the few who are genuinely kind. They address her by name and treat her with the respect and dignity befitting of any human being. But there are also the vast majority of underpaid caregivers (though I am reticent to use that term) who could really care less if she gets her medication, if her shoes go back on her feet after physical therapy, if her clothes are really her clothes and go back in her dresser. Perhaps some families can't deal with it - they have to park their family members in a facility and just pray that all goes well. But when the Hindrichs clan made an onslaught the other day, with me and my aunt and my Opa and my dad, all of us speaking to her and each other in German and demanding to know where the hell her jacket is because Opa put it on her only two hours ago, the natives did look distinctly unsettled. As well they should.

On the way home from dinner tonight, I told my Dad that whatever it is that he desires for his living will, he had better put it in writing because I refuse to make those decisions. It is not life or death that I am worried about. It is that terrible middle ground between, the one where we are neither fully alive nor fully dead, that terrifies me. I worry that the ones I love, or even I myself, will end up there, occasionally surfacing into reality and seeing a host of lackadaisical people who hold my medicine in the palm of their hand and have no interest whatsoever in whether or not I live or die. Living the last of a half-life, and forcing my family to do the same. And I know that Opa's most heartfelt wish is for her to spend her last months in peace and dignity, comfortable and well cared for, and it breaks his heart to see her like this, sad and lonely and surrounded by this band of apathy, and I don't know what to say or do. We catch glimpses of her, and I know that she is still in there somewhere, and we are taking part in a terrible game of hide and seek, where we are neither permitted to hide nor seek, only wait until she comes out and says "Here I am!" for that brief moment before the shades are drawn yet again. It is a sad and depressing game, in which there are no winners and no one with any authority to say "no fair, let's start over."

I am wearing her wedding rings now, two of them. Opa is moving out of their house and in with my parents over the next few weeks, and he wishes to take nothing but his clothes to his new room. The furniture has been divided and claimed, dishes and linens and all things household apportioned, and her personal belongings gone through. He asked me to hold out my hands the other day and put two of their anniversary bands onto my right hand - I think I'm wearing 20 and 40. How unusual it is to be wearing these rings that were hers, and yet she is still alive. They fit my finger remarkably well, stacked up against one another. I look over at my mother, sitting on the other side of her bed and I ask myself, "will we be here in another twenty-five years, me at her side and her somewhere off in Neverland?" I don't think it will be so, as this kind of decline does not run in her family, nor has anyone else suffered from Alzheimer's, but I think it is somehow made worse when someone who is so strong and so firm of will is reduced to a shell as my Oma is now.

So before I get too morose, I'm going to kiss my mom and dad goodnight and prepare for the trip back to Boston. I apologize to my readers who were not prepared for this sudden outburst, but the whole thing weighs heavy on my heart. I will blog about the fun parts of my trip another time. Goodnight Moon and goodnight to you all.

Country road, take me home to the place where I belong

Yes friends, I'm feeling prosaic again, and this time it's with John Denver stuck in my head. It's Monday, just before 11am, and in a little less than three days I will be on an airplane (see I avoided the second John Denver reference just now) and returning to the Homeland. Or, as I refer to it among my fellow Southerners, I'm going back to God's country. The land of sweet tea and grits and fresh seafood and temperatures above 60. I always remembered October as the time of year when it started to get chilly at night back home. Football games, rolling houses, parades up and down the boulevard, sitting outside and saying to myself that I might want to go get a sweatshirt. Here in Boston it's a different story. We're already weatherproofing the windows and preparing to have the oil heat turned on and I'm sitting here wearing a scarf already. Crazy. But when my momma fetches me from the airport on Thursday morning, I know that the humidity will reach out and fog up my sunglasses just like it used to and I will have to peel off the layers one by one and throw them in the back seat of the car. I'm already fantasizing about fried shrimp on a po-boy.

Sidebar: my friend Sherri came to visit last week from New York and when she asked me about the places in town we needed to see, after I listed the historic locations I began to rattle off the best pubs and restaurants. She says to me, "Are we planning on eating our way through Boston?" This raised a very interesting subject: the associations of food with regional memory. I know that I'm a foodie, but I never realized how much I associate the comforts of home with the food. My grandmother's marinated pork chops, cuban steak, black beans & rice. Snowballs from Sal's on Metairie road. The tea shop in Victoria and their scones. Timothy Taylor's Landlord Ale at the Great Western Pub in Exeter. Shipley's Donuts.
There are other sensual associations, but I guess for me, food is the strongest. Shortly followed by smell, but that is another blog for another time.

Must go and translate French for my lesson. Wow, I'm hungry now!

And to the DP, I'm going to beat you to Ace's toes. It's on like Donkey Kong.

It's only life, after all

First, I know it's belated, but Happy Rosh Hashanah to all of my Jewish friends out there.

I'm listening to the Indigo Girls in my office with my husband's wedding ring on my thumb, feeling it go clickity-clack when I type (he's making gnocchi in the kitchen) and waiting for our dinner company to arrive. Joel & Jaci, our erstwhile housemates, are now all married and living in their sweet little apartment in JP, and they have decided to join us for some Sunday evening food and festivity.

This was a good weekend for a number of reasons. First, the grandmother actually got up and walked a little with the help of her physical therapists. It's touch and go from day to day - when she's lucid, she's cooperative to a point. When she's not lucid, she's not cooperative at all. But I figure it like this - so long as she's fighting something from day to day, she's got a chance.

Second, the husband and I sang at a wedding yesterday. Two of our friends from Trinity got married and the groom (who is from Ocean Springs, MS) had a bleeding armadillo groom's cake. It was a moment for which I think I have waited my entire life. And I have to say, red velvet cake is only made better when baked in the shape of southern style road kill. After much kissing of the bride and groom and their entire extended family (once you tell someone who's from Mississippi that you went to Southern Miss, you're as good as family) we cleaned out the car and spent the evening at John Harvard's Brew Pub with our lovely friend Osnat on her birthday. The older I get, the more I realize how fantastic my friends really are. The ones who remember how silly and young I used to be (but don't bring it up) and the ones who just met me last year and sat through my constant bitching about the DMA program and the ones who even remember when my hair was red (and THANKFULLY don't bring it up) and didn't comment when I changed it back. Maybe it's the Indigo Girls making me prosaic, but this line has been in my head since I was in Germany:

"All the shiny little trinkets of temptation, something new instead of something old. But all you've got to do is scratch beneath the surface and it's fool's gold."

Even though they're from Georgia, it seemed very natural to listen to them when hiking the path in Ueberlingen, up and down the gorge and around the cow pasture and down the treacherous hill covered with overripe plums. And even though last year was hard for me in many ways, I'm so much happier because of these fantastic people who stood by me and kept pushing me forward. Good people, those crazy chicks from Georgia.

And finally, after two services in the incredible humidity this morning and brunch with the lovely folks from the choir and some homework in the library, I treated myself to getting my damned hair fixed. Apparently, when you say you want layers in Germany, you end up with something that resembles a fe-mullet. And though no one said so, that stupid bottom layer was about an inch and a half too long and I felt my redneck past nipping at my heels (find THAT song reference, why don't you) though I am proud to say that my mother never subjected me or my brother to the child mullet. Thanks mom. But lest you think that the mullet has gone the way of the dodo or stirrup pants, I am here to tell you that the mullet and its companion the fauxhawk are alive and well, flourishing even, among the metrosexual men of Europe. I was frightened by the number of German, Polish, and Italian men sporting one or both of these follicular faux-pas. It's just wrong I tell you.

Observations: almost everything is better with Hollandaise sauce, Labs only get sweeter with age, and even the thought of needles makes me squeamish. Who's not looking forward to bloodwork in the morning? THIS girl. I said to my dad, "You know Pop, I know that it doesn't hurt half as bad as I think it does, but I've just never gotten used to the feel of needles in my skin." And he says to me, "Honey, that's okay. It would be weird if you had." Reason #5079 why Emily will never get a tattoo. Because she's a BIG chicken for needles. Don't ask how the piercing ever happened. It was a moment that will never be duplicated.

Fun with words for today: The word 'schwuel' in German means 'humid.' The word 'schwul' in German means 'homosexual.' What a difference an umlaut makes.

I hope everyone has enjoyed this episode of non sequitor. I just felt like waxing lyrical for a while. Happy Sunday everyone!

And now, a little conversation about food

Update on the grandmother: she went in and out of surgery with reasonable success, and is currently bitching at anyone who will listen in ICU. I take this as a good sign because so long as she is bitching, she is still breathing. A blessing on your house, mazeltov, mazeltov, says I.

Also, the little brother turned 18 on Monday. If my youth was not over before, it sure is now.

And now for a meme, procured from the blog of the DP.

How do you like your eggs?
Poached and runny, so I can smear them on toast.

How do you take your coffee/tea?
Coffee - fully leaded with half and half and a packet of splenda. Tea - also fully leaded, preferably something yummy like Darjeeling, with milk.

Favorite breakfast foods:
Grits with cheese. Oatmeal with broken pralines.

Peanut butter:
Organic, all natural, perfect for spreading on the bagels I can't eat. But toaster waffles with peanut butter are yummy!

Coke or Pepsi?
Coke, and only out of the fountain or a glass bottle.

You're feeling lazy. What do you make? Jam on toast?
Scrambled eggs and white bread toast.

You're feeling really lazy? What kind of pizza do you order?
Mushroom, from Dominos' Pizza.

You feel like cooking. What do you make?
Eggplant pasta bake. Lemon chicken with artichoke hearts. Bananas foster.

Do any foods bring back good memories?
I always think of my grandmother when I drink Camomile Tea. She would only drink it out of a cup and saucer. And every memory that involves crawfish is a good one.

Do any foods bring back bad memories?
OYSTERS. I know that this is borderline sacrelige for the southerners, but my dad slathered a raw oyster in hot sauce and said it was ketchup. I was five. Needless to say, me and the oysters, not so much.

Do any foods remind you of someone?
A few specific bottles of wine, and a rather unpleasant evening of martinis. This is why I do NOT drink gin.

Is there a food you refuse to eat?
Oysters (see above), I usually don't eat pork because it doesn't like me. And if I can avoid it, I don't like to eat pieces of onion unless they are battered and fried.
I think I will make an exception for most anything (NOT OYSTERS) if it is battered and fried.

What was your favorite food as a child?
Oatmeal out of the packet

Is there a food you hated as a child but now love?
Artichoke hearts. Always thought they were weird when I was a kiddo.

Is there a food you loved as a child but now hate?
Croutons. I don't know why.

Favorite fruit and vegetable:
Peaches and spinach.

Favorite junk food:
Hmm. I will kill a bag of Zapp's cajun craw-taters or jalapeno chips, but will only eat salt and vinegar chips with beer. I love love LOVE Oreos, jell-O, and peanut M&M's. All the others are lame.

Favorite between meal snack:
Piece of fruit or tea & toast.

Do you have any weird food habits?
Not really. I pull the skin off of chicken and trim the fat off my steaks. I do blot the grease on pepperoni pizza, just because I think it looks gross. Does that count? My brother used to make sure his food was not touching on his plate. I hope he doesn't still do that...

You're on a diet. What food(s) do you fill up on?
I'm obviously filled up on hallucinogenic drugs already if I'm on a diet.

You're off your diet. Now what would you like?
Beer. A good one, and fast.

How spicy do you order Indian/Thai?
Mild to hot.

Can I get you a drink?
Sure, are you buying?

May I get you a drink?
What is this, fourth grade?

Red wine or white?
Riesling, thanks. Red gives me bad acid.

We only have beer.
Then why the heck did you offer wine? I'll have some St. Bernardus ABT 12. And make it snappy, all this talk about food makes me hungry.

Favorite dessert:
My mom's bread pudding.

The perfect nightcap?
Cognac

Beware: explosion of bile forthcoming

My grandmother has dementia. Over the last few years, she has slipped further and further into the obscure land of wherever it is that people with dementia go, and spends less and less time in this reality. She is a stubborn old broad, as stubborn old broads in my family are, and after many episodes of attempted escape, self starvation, and manic hallucinations, my poor grandfather had her evaluated for care at a facility for patients with dementia. A facility that is designed to make sure people who are not in reality do not hurt themselves or others. A facility that has safety at the fore of its priorities, and respects the needs of individuals who can no longer care for themselves.

I do not know what suffering my grandfather has endured over these last few years, but I am certain that it must have reached a point where he felt it was beyond his capacity to care for himself and her at the same time, because the decision to have a loved one cared for by others is not easy. I cannot even imagine what horrors my grandmother experiences when she comes out of the haze and into reality for a moment, and perceives that she is in a care facility, not at home in her house on Charles Drive with her husband and pictures and dishes and roses.

But far worse is the experience that they, and my parents, have endured on this evening. On their way home from Ruston, visiting the little brother for his 18th birthday, the parents decided to stop in and visit Oma at her care facility. She was in a wheelchair, complaining about pain in her leg. Now Oma is a complainer - not one to keep quiet about anything, but for her to truly complain about pain is something else. So my mom pats her on the leg and realizes that it is hugely swollen. My father questions the nurses aides. They claim they know nothing. Oma says that she fell earlier in the day. She is hysterical, begs my parents not to leave her. The useless nurses aides bring her TYLENOL for her pain, after my father asks if they have any medication. He wants to know if they can have her treated or at least examined. They say that they can call 911 or a family member can check her out. So my father scoops up her 82lb body, and whisks her away to Slidell to the hospital where he works. He calls my grandfather, who knows nothing because they did NOT CALL HIM to tell him that his wife, his partner and helpmate of 50+ years was in pain, let alone that she had fallen. And they meet at the hospital, where it is discovered that she has broken her hip.

To a young person, a broken hip is a major injury. It involves serious and painful surgery, followed by a very long and unpleasant recovery. To a person who is in their late 70s and of poor health, a broken hip is tantamount to the death knoll. As I write it, I cannot even believe it is true, because she was meant to be in this facility where they could care for her better than my grandfather. More attention could be paid, people with more training and better capacity for support would be looking after her and making sure she did not injure herself. And somehow, within the span of FOUR DAYS, my grandmother has a broken hip. Even in her semi-lucid state, she begged my mother to not leave her, saying over and over again that "these people" do not care about the patients, they don't care what happens to them.

What would have happened had my parents not stopped in to visit? Would she have gone on, complaining about her pain and continued to be ignored? There was not even a notation in her chart saying that she had complained about pain, let alone any documentation of her falling. I see over and over again my last vision of her little frail body, the last shell of what used to be a mouthy robust woman and all I can do is think of how scared she must be, living inside her head in an alternate reality, feeling pain and only half knowing the people around her. The anger that wells up inside of me is so great that I can't even think clearly and I may have actually said 'fuck' to my father on the phone when offering to write a nasty letter or sixteen to the facility that managed to neglect her so completely in such a short period of time.

Now I'm not one to get out my Bible and beat people with it, but isn't there some little phrase that has to do with loving your neighbor as you love yourself? And aren't we all neighbors in one sense or another? Then how in the name of all that is holy could an entire staff manage to disregard the cries of an hysterical old woman? Perhaps they are made of stone, or styrafoam, or astroturf. Or maybe they have no souls. But I tell you this: if I learn their names, then they will hear from me. Personally. And in technicolor. Because the heartless walking carcasses that did not call 911, that stuck her in a wheelchair and handed her Tylenol, have a seriously rude awakening coming.

In the meantime, say a prayer for my grandmother and go call yours. Someday, I will be an old broad, and I only hope that I will be lucid enough to enjoy it.

I love Boston in the fall

Just got home from Germany on Monday, still completely uncertain as to when I am supposed to eat and sleep but steadily moving back toward the norm of Eastern Standard Time. Last night, when I got off the train and walked up the platform, I smelled that fantastic smell that absolutely screams FALL!! That wonderful smell of burning leaves. Being from the South, we don't get much of that action before say November, but it's mid-September here and I'm wearing my new festive purple coat and a scarf. Huzzah! I'm sure that the novelty of this will wear off when it's April and I am still wearing a coat, but just for now, I think happy thoughts and let my coat blow open in the wind, just because the breeze feels nice.

Going to see the in-laws this weekend for their 50th wedding anniversary. Should be a good time, and I get to meet more of the cousins who could not come to our wedding. Not to mention the added bonus of being near that elusive restaurant across the bay, Hemingway's. When I am old and hopefully not too wrinkled (sunscreen is the way forward!) I want to be able to walk out on my porch and see the water. I would prefer that it was the Gulf of Mexico, but if it has to be the Atlantic, I can be okay with that.

And to Drew, who so successfully killed my nostalgia buzz on the last post, I have pictures of you with the wallet chain AND the highlights in your hair AND your hiking boots with big white socks. So there mister.

Inspiral Carpets

WARNING: highly personal post, so if you're only spectating for the daily dose of wit, come back tomorrow

Does anyone else remember this band? They were really popular back when 106.7 in Slidell was still the Zephr and they played awesome music. Before the times of jLo came and monopolized the radio scene. Anyway, there was this line from one of their songs that keeps going through my head:

'What have I done with my life? Is this the end, when two worlds collide?'

We're gonna do this the organized way, because I just can't handle it any other.

1. My little brother started college this week at LaTech. This is the same place where me and the DP used to go to summer camp when we were thirteen. And that's just unacceptable.

2. I received yet another email about my 10 year class reunion. Going to little brother's graduation from the same school this past May was enough of deja vu for me, and I don't know if I have the emotional fortitude to face all of those people. Maybe 10 years isn't long enough. Maybe we should shoot for 15 or 20. When the rest of the photos have gotten lost in the next move. Do we ever reach a point where we no longer care what happened 10 years ago?

3. Rode the train from Lucerne to Basel with the DP. Here we are, 15 years later, two married women drinking tea and kabitzing on the train, still getting looked at funny from the passersby. How many times has this moment happened in time before? Three hours was not long enough, and I miss my friend so much. Fie upon the lawyers that she could not come to Stuttgart this weekend.

4. Just saw a new picture up of my cousin studying in Germany. She is, of course, gorgeous, and so full of energy for what is new in her life. And I see in her face all of the fire that I used to see in my Oma, who has unfortunately checked out and may not return. And I don't know what happens to people when they are still physically here but mentally somewhere else. I am afraid to find out, but I must go see her when I go home. So many answers about me are within her. Wehe mir.

5. I have an audition in 20 minutes for Helmut Rilling. And I feel, truly, that this being here in Germany has helped me come to terms with who I am and what it is that I do. And just knowing that somewhere, perhaps not in the US, there is a world in which I am perfectly suited to what I do and the people with whom I speak, not fully comprehending everything they say, knowing that my grammar is not perfect, I feel that this is a good place for me. And if the fates are kind, maybe they will bring me back here sooner rather than later, with husband and dog in tow.

It will be good to be back in the US, where the money is not as festively colored, but tonight I'm going to sit down at the wine festival and drink some good local Riesling and enjoy the last of my time here in Germany. Time to go put on the singer face.

Week two: Wallace and Gromit in German

We are nearly done with week two here in Ueberlingen, only a few more days before we take off for tour. The weather has been beantiful, with the exception of a few nasty bouts of wind and rain. We went to Konstanz on the other side of the Bodensee and it was just amazing - played cards the whole time back and watched the rain pound down. I'm not normally a fan of thunderstorms, but something about being on the water just upps the cool factor infinitely.

Have sampled lots of German beer, as befits a good German girl, and yesterday had my first plate of potato pancakes, for which I have so long waited. The guys were on the hunt for bratwurst but really, it's the potato products of Germany that whet my appetite something fierce. Now all I have to do is wait for the dumplings. Bread, beer, and potato whatnot - these are the best things about Germany, other than the part where I feel I finally speak the language well enough to survive. Purchased two books: Harry Potter 1 in German, and Pu der Baer. I admit that Pu der Baer is a little more on my level for grammar, and it keeps me honest with my articles, but I'm slogging through Harry Potter nonetheless. Still hunting down mp3s of Xavier Naidoo, trying to get as much of the language into my system as possible.

Laundry must be done, and Mahler must be rehearsed. If anyone is in Salzburg or Lucerne, come see me!

p.s. Today is my parents 34th wedding anniversary so send them a note and say congrats to them both for not killing each other? What does Miss Jean always say?
'The arsenic is next to the allspice. I have a shovel and no one will miss you.'
Now if that doesn't spell eternal bliss, I don't know what does.

And now, for another episode of 'Shiksa abroad'

So it's my third day here in Germany. The keyboards are funny (and if you see a y or a z transposed, it's not because I'm eccentric), the food is good so far, and the Bodensee is visible from our cafeteria. Week one of any rehearsal process is tedious at best, and I'm trying to keep my sense of humor up. Jet lag subsided rather easily, and I finally figured out what is good about the Amsterdam airport. The last time I went thru Amsterdam was on the way to Rome. I was tired, hot, and only had two hours to figure out where the heck my flight was. This time, I was tired, cold, and had five hours to figure out where the heck my flight was, and then I found it. The holy grail of travel, above my head. A beautiful sign that said: To Comfortable Chairs.

Yes friends, they had big chairs that resembled deck chairs, but padded, and in an area explicitly designated for sleeping. So I curled up around my backpack, set my alarm, and caught all of the sleep I should have gotten on the plane but did not due to turbulence. It was beautiful. And in spite of all of the travel restrictions, my airport experience was painless. They allowed me to bring my lip balm, didn't confiscate my deodorant (a serious fear that I had - the TSA list only said gel deodorants but you just never know) and after I awoke from my nap in Amsterdam, I washed my face and sauntered over to the duty free cosmetic counter so I could partake of the free samples of moisturizer. The DP will know how important this is, considering that flying is brutal enough on your skin. But flying without moisturizer is just torture. I even got to sample some of that La Mer stuff that everyone raves about and seriously, I think my Nivea in the blue jar works better. It didn't make a dent in the dryness of my hands. But I digress.

I got a cup of tea and ate my breakfast\lunch and waited for my little flight to Stuttgart, where I was promptly met by a member of the staff who transported me and my ginormous suitcase (that also survived unscathed and unpilfered, thank heavens) to Ueberlingen, this little tourist town on the Bodensee and I have to tell you it is just beautiful here. Green as far as the eye can see, hills and pastures and the water. I went and explored a little yesterday with a few of the German girls and found, of all things, a gelateria on the water that served Ferro Rocher flavored gelato. Pretty much like heaven.

I wish I knew how to copy pictures from my phone so I could post a few, but if you want to see where I am, go to the website for the ensemble and check us out!

http:\\www.festivalensemble.org

There should be pictures up on the daily news section. Maybe you'll see yours truly making funny faces while singing. Much love to all from abroad, wishing you all weather as pleasant as it is here. I actually wore my hoodie yesterday and was cold!

And to the DP, look on the website for our dates in Lucerne. We come in the day before the concert with nothing to do!

I am an opera singer

This is yet another reason why I love Cake. There's almost nothing that pleases me more than witty discourse, especially about my profession. So if you don't already know this song, here are the words that bring a smile to my face.

I'm in New York for a few days visiting my friend Sherri. Today is her birthday so we're going to the movies and down to the South Street Seaport to drink Apricot Ale at a brewpub and enjoy being old enough to afford both. I'm not a New York person by nature. I like to visit, but it's not a city that feeds my blood and makes my heart leap. There are some for whom New York is the answer to all of the longing in their belly, but for me, it's just a nice place to vacation for a little while. The subway is too loud and too smelly, the buildings are too tall, the lights too bright. But I will say this - at 11pm when you've been drinking champagne for three hours, with a nice little quantity of vanilla cognac in hand, standing on the rooftop of an apartment building and looking out at the moon and the Empire State building and the Chrysler Building, you understand why people sell their furniture and leave their nice low-rent apartment in the Midwest for this city. Last week I watched Manhattan, an early Woody Allen movie. There's a whole bit at the beginning about this man who has too much romance in his soul for New York, and while I'm always happy to go back to Boston, there's a little more romance in my soul for New York than there was before.

Have a good laugh at the lyrics to the opera singer song. I'm going to go throw my cape.

I am an opera singer
I stand on painted tape
It tells me where I'm going
And where to throw my cape

I call my costars brother
I call my costars knave
I play both good and evil parts
I sing to Verdi's grave

And every single morning
By 10 AM I'm dressed
My rehearsals last for hours and hours
With diligence I have been blessed

Some people, they call me monster
Some people, they call me saint
My talent feeds my darker side
Yet no one will complain

I am an opera singer
I sing in foreign lands
I've sung for kings in Europe
And emperors in Japan

And after each performance
People stand around and wait
Just to tell me that they love my voice
Just to tell me that I'm great

I am an opera singer
I will sing when you're all dead
I sing the mountains crumbling apart
I sing what can't be said

I am an opera singer
I sing in foreign lands
Most people seem to know my name
Or at least know who I am

How could I ignore the boy next door

You know that song, don't you? It's the one that Judy Garland sings in 'Meet me in St. Louis' after meeting Mr. hot stuff love interest on the other side of the hedge. He's sweet, charming, well-groomed, and a bit awkward. And of course, all ends well and they sail happily into the sunset on the trolley.

This story is not about that guy. This story is about the new guy who moved into the 3rd floor attic apartment while I was in Italy. I don't know what his first name is, I've never seen his face, but after yesterday, I already know so much about him.

You know that guy, that guy who used to cruise down Gause Blvd in Slidell with his windows ultra tinted and DMX rattling their highly mirrored reflections? That guy who bought a Honda Civic and then had it tricked out with an exhaust pipe the size of a blender and fuschia pinstriping and neon lights? That guy who spent his life savings at Mobil One Auto Sound so he could get the subwoofers that wake the dead and make the living wish they were? The guy who has actually seen all of the 'Fast & Furious' movies and probably paid full nighttime price for them?

Yes dear friends, this story is about THAT guy. I think he used to own a Pontiac Sunfire. Something relatively benign that didn't sound like the apocalypse when it left the driveway, it was black and inoffensive, and looked like your typical city-mobile. Good gas mileage, small enough to fit in a metro parking space. That is not the vehicle that is currently parked in the driveway. The other day, husband and I came home and saw a very silly vehicle parked in front of the house. It was champagne colored, with the engine intake thing on the hood and the big raised spoiler on the back, the kind of car that you usually see doing circles in the K-mart parking lot after dark. We giggled and pointed, and assumed it was someone visiting Mr. Special on the 3rd floor. But oh no, Mr. Special came home that night IN the aforementioned contraption, went upstairs and came back down with his digital camera and took pictures of it and, when asked by my husband if it was his, he said that he had decided to "treat" himself by trading in his old and boring car for this new and exciting one.

Now let me say that when I was ten, my dad came home with a sports car. It was a 1990 Nissan 240SX and it was cherry red and stick shift and boy did I love driving that car. It got fantastic gas mileage and was by far, the most reliable thing in our driveway at the time, next to perhaps, the lawnmower. I have nothing against people who purchase vanity vehicles. I have nothing against people who take pictures of their vanity vehicles. (Sidebar - the guy who lived across the street from us when I was a kid had a red Corvette that he would occasionally park on the lawn in front of the flood lights and take pictures of it. Interesting.) But when Mr. Man comes home at 11pm and spends fifteen minutes revving the engine IN THE DRIVEWAY just so he can feel the pleasure of the vibration, I have to suppress a giggle.

We are a Honda family now, my mom with her Accord and my dad with his Civic and me with my Civic. And while I would still love to drive a baby blue convertible Beetle, I am perfectly content with my sweet little girl out in the driveway, keeping company with what used to be something made by Subaru but is now an unfortunately altered piece of machinery that sounds like a cross between a leaf blower and my Cuisinart with delusions of grandeur. The car, that is. Not my Cuisinart.

May your mileage be high and your emissions low. Why isn't there a 'What not to drive" show?

Things to do when the power goes out

1. take a nap - if you can, napping is the best way to ignore the power outage. It will come back on eventually.

2. get in the car and go to the grocery store - at least they have a/c. Try to avoid purchasing everything in the frozen food section.

3. take dog for a walk - this is a fine idea, but you eventually have to return to your domicile, in hopes that the power is back on. If it's not, then you're hot and sweaty with a hot and sweaty dog.

4. power down your laptop. If you don't, it will die and then your last connection to the world will be lost and you will have to resort to smoke signals and/or paper airplanes.

5. make fans out of leftover paper like you did in 4th grade. One for each hand is preferable.

6. go down to the basement with the excuse of "seeing if the switch needs to be flipped." most of the time, the switch is not the problem, but the basement is a solid 15 degrees cooler than the house. In your industriousness, do NOT do laundry as the heat from the dryer will negate the 15 degree advantage.

7. drive to the shore and drink blueberry beer with your piano teacher.

And which of these are we doing tonight my friends? We're picking Lucky Number Seven and going to see Dr. Lois Leventhal, the wonderful woman to whom this blog is dedicated and by whom it was inspired. Lolo is waiting for us with a fridge full of cold Wachusett Blueberry Beer* and once the sun sets, we're going to cook some butter chicken and eat it on the porch. Because it's really the only civilized thing one can do.

*Before I catch flak from my beer drinking friends, I want to say that I was very skeptical about the blueberry beer. I'm not a person who conventionally enjoys the fruity beer - sticking an orange in my Blue Moon is really about as close as I'll get. Even Turbodog and Purple Haze are a little much for me. But I tell you, my true believer friends, the Wachusett Blueberry Beer is nothing to scoff at. It is seriously tasty and in no way resembles a wine cooler or anything you would be heckled for drinking at a football game by a self-respecting redneck.

Ta ta for now, I'm going to expire in the next room.

GK

GK, short for Garrison Keillor. This is what they call him in the movie, 'A Prairie Home Companion,' which I saw last night at our local West Newton theatre. Let me preface this post by saying that I love all things kitch, and nothing tickles me more than a good turn of phrase. This is why I have love in my heart for GK.

If you're not a fan of the radio show, don't bother going to see the movie because you won't get it, and you'll wonder what happened over the last two hours or so and who are all those people up there singing? And why is Lindsey Lohan in this movie? - most of us wonder why she was in the movie to begin with, but I have a theory: she was there to provide a reference point of pop culture amid the sea of eloquence and poetry. Boy can that girl NOT sing. - But if you are a fan of the radio show, get thee to a theatre, shell out the cash, and be prepared for the sweet sounds of Prudence Johnson and some unexpectedly good singing from Meryl Streep and Lily Tomlin who are HI-larious as the two singing sisters who are past their prime.

On a completely separate topic, husband and I are staying in the house here in Newton. It was tempting to pick up and move to the other apartment, the apartment with new siding and new windows going in and gas heat, but truly, even in my most poisonous moments, I wouldn't wish a move in the summer on anyone. Especially when we're going through this ridiculous heat wave thing. Now y'all know that I'm no stranger to heat or humidity, but when Boston gets above 90 and the only place that has air conditioning is the Stop & Shop and the mall, there's something seriously wrong. I'm tempted to go sit in Borders for the afternoon, just so I don't sweat while sitting still. I wonder if they serve iced tea....

Two more weeks till Germany - must go and refresh my verb conjugations and adjective endings. Blech. If you feel a breeze, tell it to come visit me, will you?