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.