The heat is on

It's spring training and has been for the last few months already. I'm in week 7 of my 'novice supreme' marathon plan (was it Robin who said 'novice supreme' sounded like a dessert?) and that means I'm following this very carefully laid out plan that takes me all the way from early springtime to my October marathon in Chicago, for which I am very VERY excited. So far, I've done pretty well. Doing my short runs and my long runs on Saturdays, with the occasional exception where my very short (2mile) run turned into a walk because I was dumb enough to bring the dog with me. Sammy is great, for about the first mile. He's bopping along with mom, nose high, ears back, and then he does his business and loses all sense of purpose. After that, he just wants to take it easy and smell everything along the way. Totally ruins my pace, but at least I know better now.

The weather has been really wonky. I had to pull out a sweater the other day because it was ridiculously cold, and I even ran my little 3 miles in TWO long-sleeved shirts to stave off the awful damp yuck. But that's not the case today, nosir. Today, it's lovely and clear and probably going to get HOT. Where am I? Sitting at the computer, being a huge chicken about getting out there in the heat....grrrrr......but it's for sure time to get going. Momma's got three miles to run, Hal Higdon says so, and it's not going to get any cooler before dark. Best be on my way.

Happy springtime to you and yours!

Well isn't that special

Shiksa on the move, Canadian issue: Toronto

Whenever my mom (known to many of you as "Miss Jean") wishes to express her disdain or displeasure at the poor manners/behavior/choices or sartorial catastrophes of others, she is known to say, "Well isn't that special." She says it with this beatific smile on her face that in no way belies what she's actually thinking, thus preserving the Miss Jean mystique.

It takes me by surprise when anyone else says this, because I immediately think of my mother and wonder what they're trying to pull. Day before yesterday, I was on a shopping mission for an audition dress because a minor miracle occurred: my agent was able to get me a last-minute audition with an opera company between my concert performances and, for the first time ever, I had packed for this gig without bringing along a day dress OR my audition binder. Oy gevalt.

So I'm trying on what seems like dress #5999 (but was probably only dress #9) on this search-and-destroy shopping venture and the saleslady (who, I swear, needed to adjust her dosage because she was waaaaaaaaay too enthusiastic about taffeta) is asking my friend Allison about why we're hunting for this dress, what's the occasion, blah blah, and Allison says, "she has an opera audition tomorrow," and miss perky 2010 says "well isn't that SPECIAL!!! How very exciting for you!!!!!" at which point in time I nodded and shut the dressing room door. Exhale.

I'm not good at explaining this part. When I tell people what I do, they get this slightly confused and very enthusiastic look on their faces. Like when I'm talking to a parent of a student and tell him that I need to plan lessons because I'm going to be out of town doing auditions for ten days in Europe. He immediately says, "well isn't that exciting! You get to see all those exotic places!" I really have to resist the urge to say, "It would be exciting, were I going on vacation. Which I'm not. And if I were sight-seeing, which I'm not. I'm auditioning. It's work. It's a work trip. With work." As soon as someone gets even the slightest whiff that this crazy job might actually be a job and not sunshine and rainbows with singing, they look like I've stepped on their very small dog. There are obvious exceptions, and sometimes I just lie and say I'm a music teacher. The glamorous part is what happens on the stage: the pretty dresses, the lovely music, the flowers and applause. But everything leading up to that is straight up hard. For example: I got this amazing last-minute gig filling in with a great symphony and a conductor I adore. I got this amazing last-minute gig approximately eight days before the performance, on a piece I'd never done, and the rehearsal started two days after Easter. This meant I spent most of holy week carrying around a score and studying it like mad, trying to get every bit of detail off the page and into my brain, instead of listening to any of the sermons at the six services I did between Maundy Thursday and Easter Sunday. It was also my birthday weekend. I had 15 minutes with a pianist before we jumped into orchestra rehearsal. The alto soloist was coming straight from the airport so the first time I sang our duets was with her, in front of the orchestra and the conductor, no piano time, no nothing. The next day was orchestra rehearsal 2. I'm trying to swallow my normal fears and just focus on the singing, but there's also this issue of foreign taxes afoot. The symphony isn't allowed to help me, so they point me in the right direction. I become best friends with the concierge at the hotel, who lets me print out copies of all my paperwork and fax it to the tax agency. First they say they have it and will process it within 30 days. Then they say they have to have it 30 days before I get paid, or they take 15% off the top and maybe I'll get it back at tax time next year. WHOA. Maybe? Excuse me? Then I spend the afternoon on the phone with a tax accountant/lawyer person who's a friend of the symphony, he sends me more forms to fill out (print, fill out, fax again, more quality time with the concierge) and then I wait, with the world's worst headache from staring at screens and small print, and oh did I mention this is performance night? Four ibuprofen later, we get through the performance reasonably well, I know it will be better on night 2 because I'll be more relaxed, then the post-show dinner but can I stay late and eat the chocolate mousse? No, because I have an audition the next morning. MORNING. Get up, run my small mileage, shower and make self ready for audition, attempt to look elegant, taxi to audition, wait wait wait sing Fire then Queen then lunch with the pianist, not sure what that was about but fine. And then I spend most of the afternoon in my jammies watching 30 Rock because I'm so incredibly tired.

I love my job. I get to sit in front of an orchestra and listen to some of the most glorious music ever written. And nobody does D major like Bach, nobody. I relish every single moment during which I am so privileged to be a part of this wonderful music-making. I try to soak it in and stay in the moment as long as I can because it's the payoff from all of the practicing packing faxing flying eating food with plastic silverware and spending time away from my husband and dog and house. It's good stuff, and I wouldn't trade it, not for any other job. But it itches my skin like bad starched lace collars when people presume that it's all fun and jet-setting. Sometimes I get to see old friends along the way and sometimes I get to see cool places. But I miss big family anniversary parties and Christmas Eve with my grandmother and usually my birthday and my husband's birthday are spent away from home, celebrating with friends there if I'm really lucky.

I live a pretty great life. I'm healthy, strong, and good at what I do. My husband is supportive like all get-out, my dog is well-socialized and lets me know how happy he is to see my home. And when I'm listening to the Sanctus in the B minor mass, I swear I feel a wave of something very holy and otherworldly come over me and all the hair on my arms stands up and my breath catches in my throat and I'm so SO glad I don't have to sing right after that because I'm overwhelmed. But given the choice between soaking in the hot tub at the hotel in Toronto alone or sitting on the sofa at home watching West Wing with the husby and the dog, we know which one I'd pick.

So with all that off my chest, I'm going to enjoy the rest of this gorgeous afternoon reading a book. I hope this day finds you happy or on the way there, and with the ability to count your blessings. Back to the list.

1. for the runners who wave and smile when they pass me on the sidewalk

2. for the friends in cities who make time to have a meal

3. for baklava from the deli down the road

4. for the beautiful sunshine that showed up today

5. for Bach, still kicking ass centuries after his death

the last day of my 20s

...and boy am I relieved. Tomorrow, I can put the last of that decade behind me and breathe the clean, sweet air of 30. So as not to burn too much emotional capital on the recollection of those years, I'll do the quick and dirty list method.

Things I did between 20 and 29

started and finished two masters' degrees and a doctorate

bought a house

got married

became a dog mom for the first time

ran my first half-marathon

discovered sushi

became an opera singer

learned to knit

discovered my love for pie

learned to speak German

learned to suck less at Italian

fit back into my single-digit jeans

joined Red Sox Nation

To be fair, most of that list was accomplished in the last four years. I remember the first part of my twenties being confusing, tumultuous, and a seemingly never-ending roller-coaster of issues and drama. Except for the pie and the sushi. But I do love baseball....

Things I'd like to do between 30 and 35

run my first marathon, and then some

suck even less at Italian

get a shredder and a bigger filing cabinet (to downsize the paper crap)

take a real vacation (no family, no auditions, no work) with my husband

learn Lulu

reconsider playing softball in the summer

learn to make really good pie crust

add another continent to my passport stamp collection

spend more time with my friends and family who live far away

It's funny to look at this list as well, because only one of those goals has to do with my career. I want to spend more of my 30s living and doing it among the people I love. I want to worry less and sleep better, run longer and harder and enjoy the aches that come with it, and I want to live my life on my terms instead of seeking the approval of my professors/teachers/conductors/agents. And what's more, I think I can do it.

12 hours and 49 minutes left. And with that, I'm going to practice and head to the gym.

Personal commandments

I've been reading Gretchen Rubin's blog for a while now. She's a smart cookie and frequently talks about things to do in order to foster happiness in daily life. Little things, like eating a piece of fruit or making your bed, hugging someone you love, being friendly and gracious. She also has this list of twelve personal commandments:

Be Gretchen.

Let it go.

Act the way I want to feel.

Do it now.

Be polite and fair.

Enjoy the process.

Spend out.

Identify the problem.

Lighten up.

Do what ought to be done.

No calculation.

There is only love.

Of the twelve on this list, I think the hardest is the first. Being yourself, being fully inhabited in the person that you are and convicted in your own individuality and opinions, means that you won't always make everyone happy. And my inner golden retriever really wants to make everyone happy, even when it causes me serious turmoil. It's also about loving yourself for your choices (or in spite of your choices) and not trying to mold yourself to fit the hook on which you have hung yourself.

What the heck am I talking about?

A multitude of things. I've been taking advice on my singing, my appearance, my headshots, how I present in auditions, how much makeup I wear, and what exactly I'm doing with my career. All of this affects my mental clarity. Changing my appearance to become more like an opera singer and less like a doctoral student makes sense - especially when I'm no longer a student and definitely an opera singer. But for some reason, I've been discounting my own knowledge of my instrument. I've been trying to beat myself into this repertoire that doesn't really suit my personality, my tastes, and as it happens, my voice. Roles that people have said to me forever "oh, you'd be a stunning *insert name of major heroine here* and I'd just love to hear you sing *insert name of another major heroine here*," so I've picked up these roles and spent hours of practicing time and lesson time and coaching time trying to stretch my voice into those roles. And why? Because I thought someone else knew better. I thought I was being difficult. Or that I simply didn't have the appreciation.

Is any of that true?

NO.

When did I realize all of this?

Yesterday. (yeesh)

In a coaching, as I'm struggling (and I do mean struggling) to get through this aria that's supposed to be "just perfect for my voice" we end up having this whole serious discussion about why I'm looking at this rep and do I really think I'm going in this direction and do I really want to burn that many daylight hours trying to make myself into that kind of singer or am I doing it for someone else's benefit?

I've always been a good girl, or tried really hard to be. I try to do what I'm supposed to do, and when someone tells me to try something, I usually will. (this goes back to the "why I don't eat oysters" story involving my father and some hot sauce) I don't think it makes me gullible or easily led, I think it usually means I'm open to suggestions. BUT I shouldn't discount my own instincts because someone else might have more experience. When my gut says "that ain't right," I need to listen.

So I took them out of my aria book. I put them in my suitcase, and that's where they will stay until I get home and put them in the recycle bin. I am old enough and smart enough to be able to say, "nope that's not right for me." And as long as I own those choices, I will be contributing to my own happiness. Bam.

And with that said, I have to get ready for the George London Competition and, more importantly, the tea and scones that will follow!

Seeking the process

I've been wrapped up in the vortex of my own agitation since about a month before I finished my doctorate. What should I do next? Does it make sense for me to look for a faculty job? Is this singing thing a waste of my time and education? Is that the fear talking? (the short answer to those last few questions is YES) Every time I'd get close to clarity, something would happen to force my hand. An audition would come into direct conflict with a teaching schedule that I had constructed in order to give my life some "structure." And not just some little crappy audition either. Big, serious auditions.

I was just about at the end of my rope when we went to go see Bill, our priest. He's been down the academic road before, having a phD of his own, and his temperament and love for structure is similar to mine, so I can take all of his words with the full weight of his experience when he says to me, "There is nothing more that you can DO. You planted these seeds deeply, and you don't know when they will bear fruit. But you can try to enjoy the small victories when they come and you can be grateful for the security and support that you have." All true, and mostly difficult for someone who focuses on the DO part of life.

I thought that, if I could just get through January, February would take care of itself. Sure enough, March started yesterday and I barely remember February at all, except for a few days when I was in Colorado. Despite the worst travel karma I have ever EVER had (a four and a half-hour train delay, a flight turned around in mid-air, delayed and then canceled all in the same week) I managed to get to Colorado with my luggage and at least my body intact. And promptly had an allergy attack that made me so stuffy I could barely see straight for the first two days. This meant that I couldn't do as much work as I had intended. Hmmm.....

So in my free time (read: when the altitude caught up to me in the middle of every phrase I tried to sing) I started reading some books and working on some knitting and having conversations about how to approach this point in my career. It's hard to describe - I feel like the plates of the earth are moving, slowly, sometimes imperceptibly, and then I get a big ole jarring movement that shakes the little toothpick sculpture I've been building to give myself structure. Something is happening in my life/my career/my destiny and I have no idea what it is, but I need to have my hands free when the time comes. What does this mean?

During one of my lessons, this phrase came up. Since then, it pops up in many many conversations I have, and almost every time I find myself in a snarl about something.

Are you ready? This is a good one.

"You have to seek the process. You can't seek the result."

Now what the hell is that all about? For me, it meant divesting myself of those fetters that would keep me from being ready to jump at the best opportunities - the class I thought I could teach that would keep me booked up for the next ten weeks. The extra lessons (teaching) I thought I could squeeze in that would completely eat up practice time. This was the hard one: the faculty searches for jobs that would never, not in a million years, even consider letting me jump up to New York for auditions when they come up. Why spend all of my daylight hours preparing my faculty CV and materials and such, when those jobs would effectively put an end to everything I've been working for? Why would anyone sabotage themselves like that?

Fear. Plain and simple. Fear is the voice that creeps in when you're sitting in the hallway for an audition and asks the question, "Do you think she's younger than I am?" Fear tells you that Spanx will not hide your cellulite, that your high notes really are shrill, and that you're still that doctoral student wearing her glasses and sweaters, masquerading as a professional singer.

Fear is the single most powerful enemy you have as a performer because it seeks out your deepest and darkest insecurities and speaks to them in seductive tones, to the point where you're sweating and shaking before you even begin.

And this is where the process comes in. I cannot control what the judges/casting agents are looking for. I could show up with the most beautiful mangos in the world, but if they are looking for blueberries, I'm not getting that job. I can make sure that my languages are well-honed, my legato is secure without being anchored, my coloratura is clean and sparkly, and my acting effective BUT the only way to do all of these things is to be fully present in my own life. I cannot sit in the back seat and pray that someone else will take the wheel. Even if I'm scared, I cannot relinquish the only opportunity I have to be a part of my own life.

So what does this look like in application? Example: I went in to audition for a tour. It was NOT high art. It was NOT serious. Sitting in the hallway, I was thinking to myself, "I have nothing to lose." Which is great, because you're then able to sing without judging every little note that comes out of your mouth. They called me back the next day, worked with me a little, and were so so positive. I went across town to another audition, feeling generally good about what I had done. Not over the moon, but good. Secure. Confident. I sang another really good audition. And then I went home. I just kept thinking, "how is it possible to sing so well when I'm not invested in the outcome?" Well duh. Of course I sing well when I'm not invested in the outcome. Because when I'm thinking about the outcome, I'm not thinking about singing or acting or emoting or anything. I'm judging myself. Which is the surest way to check out.

I'm not saying this works every day. I'm not saying there aren't days when I stand in front of the mirror at the gym and question whether or not I'm competitive against the 22 year-old soubrettes whose metabolisms have not yet succumbed to sluggishness, but those days are slowly being replaced by the days when I stand in front of the mirror at the gym and appreciate the muscles showing up in my arms and my shoulders. There are days when I surprise myself in a really good practice session and think, "Wow, I'm really enjoying this." And as a person who likes tangible proof, there are beautiful days like last Saturday when I step into the dressing room at Gap and put on a pair of size 8 jeans, which I have not done since junior high school. And you bet your sweet bippy I bought those jeans.

So this is me, trying to seek the process. Trying to be ready, hands free, light on my feet, to take whatever crazy pass the fates throw at me when I'm not looking. Ready go.

Paying it forward

It's been a little while since I've posted, so I thought I'd talk a bit about luck and control issues. I have a fair helping of both.

Since I finished my dissertation last spring, I've been chomping at the bit to graduate and get on with the business of "my future." Being who I am, I've had a clear picture of "my future" since I was about 15. That picture included a good teaching job with benefits, a house, a husband, a dog, and (as of 2005) some kind of singing career. I knew it would be hard, but I was convinced I could handle it. And, being who I am, I expected it to come to fruition in just the right way. Immediately.

If you know me, you'll laugh your ass off at that statement and also know it to be entirely honest. I'm a linear thinker, a total type-A personality, and everything about how I approach my work has to do with problem-solving, negotiation, networking, and finding the pathway to what I want or what I think is right for me. Additionally, if you know me, you'll also know that I've been tap dancing since last May to try to figure out what my next move is. I graduated, I take the auditions, I put in the applications, which leaves the ball in the court of providence.
And momma does NOT like that. So I try to prod providence along. I take more auditions, I seek out new rep, I apply for a huge smattering of faculty positions. I accept interviews for jobs that may or may not be appropriate for me. I make large-scale contingency plans that involve dramatic changes in vocation (German teacher, personal trainer, author) and a general slash-n-burn approach to the present. Because hanging out in the present makes me INSANE when there's no visible future.

I say 'visible' because I know there is a future. I know there is a path laid for me and it is but my duty to learn patience ($%^&*&**#$@$%$#@#$) and try to accept where I'm being directed when I'm being directed. This could take forever and, likely, will. Husby and I sat down with a very insightful third party last week who has also walked the long academic walk that leads to the prefix "Dr." and he told me that the seeds one plants when investing in a doctorate are not short-term bloomers. They are long-term, deeply rooted, and may not bear fruit for a while. In a way, it's comforting to hear this from someone who has been there, but it doesn't get me out of the present fix of "what the hell do I do until May 2011 when I have a gig?" The biggest thing I can do is learn to appreciate and rejoice in the little victories. According to our financial adviser, we're on a good track. Score. I'm training for my first marathon (Chicago 10/10/10 baby!). Score. Despite lots and lots of travel, I'm still reasonably healthy and will be home for a little while. Score. Against all odds, the Saints won the Superbowl against the Colts. SUPER score (Geaux Saints!). I have this tendency to focus on the yuck, things I want to change, things that are usually out of my hands. So now, I'm going to try to put into words the things I'm really grateful for, and the incredible luck I've been given.

Ick: I have to travel to New York more often than I'd like.
Luck: The incredible generosity of patrons who have extra bedrooms and let me stay with them instead of a hostel, a sofa, or a hotel I can't afford.

Ick: I don't have any big opera gigs for another 15 months.
Luck: I have seriously big auditions lined up that could lead to some good work. Also, I have lots of rep that needs to get learned in this down time.

Ick: I don't have a job with health insurance benefits and security.
Luck: I do have a great church job where I work with wonderful people who love and support everything I do. They let me come and go when I have auditions and gigs, and always welcome me back with open arms.

Ick: A horrible snowstorm forced me to come to NYC a day early for an audition.
Luck: The horrible snowstorm conceals most of the daily yuck that makes me hate coming here. People are out with their kids, their dogs, their sleds. Everyone helps each other over the snowbanks, and it makes me smile so much that dogs are wearing parkas and little old men take my hand when I offer it to them.

Ick: I have no idea what I'm going to be when I grow up. And I have a sinking feeling I'm very near the "grown up" line.
Luck: I have more options than I can count, a supportive husband, an amazing dog, great friends, and I don't have to figure it out today.

When I look too closely at the ick, I forget how lucky I am. And that's something I can totally fix. The ball is in someone else's court for everything else. Today, I'm going to watch the snow and try to be grateful for the view.

Post #300...or...Haters

Haters. Haters are people who have dissed my home football team since I was a kid. Haters do not even bother to roll their eyes when my team loses, because this is the norm. Haters expect the worst and most of the time, gloat if it comes to pass.

Haters got schooled on Sunday night by my boys, the New Orleans Saints. That's right - the Saints are going to the Superbowl! GEAUX SAINTS!

There are lots of other kinds of haters out there, and I encountered some of them this past Sunday afternoon as well. The people who will try to disrupt your peace (do you see the iPod in my ear? it means I don't want to talk), the people who will try to steal your sunshine (what did you sing? do you think it went well? were you nervous?), the people who will try to rain on your parade (did you think the hall was good? I didn't think the hall was very good. I don't know how anyone could sound good in there), and the people who will fill the air with such garbage so as to divert attention from their own inadequacies (omigosh, did you see what she's wearing? what a nightmare. did he really start with that aria? ugh). Now y'all know that I have my opinions about how people dress for professional occasions (spanx and a full-length mirror are REQUIRED) and whether or not they are ready for certain repertoire (Tosca at 22? I don't think so.) but when I'm in the zone for a competition, I try very VERY hard to keep it all above the line. You never know who is listening or watching, and you don't want someone to mess with your game. Hence the iPod. I plug myself in and read tips about organizing my kitchen to block out the stream of chatter that would otherwise distract me from my business. What is my business? Singing is my business.

Which is why I have decided to give the finger to all the Haters. There was one particular Hater who went so far as to tell me, in great detail, what she did not like about my voice. Not my singing, not my musicianship, not my presentation, my voice. That thing that comes out of my body, just as the good Lord made it. That instrument that cannot be swapped out or exchanged. I have very VERY strong opinions about this. You can tell me about the stuff I can change (my dress, my hair, my shoes, my language skills, my stage presence, my acting, my body movement, my understanding of style and nuance) and you can tell me about the issues you think I might have with my technique (breath control, vibrato, vowel shape, legato, coloratura cleanliness) but when you start giving me your personal opinion of my personal voice, I start to wonder why you're doing what you're doing. Is this about how tough my skin is and whether or not I can take the criticism, no the downright MEAN-SPIRITED sentiment as you tell me that my voice is harsh and strident and monochromatic, a voice you wouldn't want to listen to for extended periods of time. That works out well for you, because it means I won't offer you comp tickets to my next performance.

Constructive criticism. You know it when you hear it because you can feel yourself learning something. You can sense that someone wants you to grow. All I sensed was that this person hates my voice and wanted to let me know. Super. Why don't you get me a nice paper cut and pour some lemon juice on it.

What do we learn from this, you might ask. I learn that my skin is thick, but not yet thick enough. I learn that I should not seek validation from the opinions of others. I learn that I cannot determine my value as a performer based on three judges' disagreement (that's right, the other 2 thought I was good) on my performance. In short - finger to the Haters. GEAUX SAINTS.

The feats of strength

Isn't that from a Seinfeld episode? The one about Festivus? I can never remember - a lot of them do run together. This weekend I was reminded of the Seinfeld episode about the BO in the car that just won't go away and Jerry ends up leaving the car somewhere, with the keys - there was this great call on Car Talk from a young girl who may have infested her mother's car with Madagascar hissing cockroaches. Look it up if you need a seriously good laugh. It was a hilarious story, ending in a prescription for dry ice and praying that the car would 'accidentally' catch on fire.

But I digress.

In my experience, singing competitions are much like a celebration of Festivus. Only without the clever writers of Seinfeld, or the large aluminum pole. There are lots of people gathered together, there is plenty of airing of grievances, and then there are the feats of strength. This takes place in many forms - sometimes you're herded into one large room and called out one by one. Sometimes you're ferried from one room to another - first the waiting room, then the warm-up room, then the green room, then backstage, and back to the waiting room. Sometimes the public are allowed to come and sit among the contestants and vice versa. This I find especially unnerving, as there is always some well-meaning person who really yearns to know more about you and your art in the five minutes before you have to go sing. And, depending on the format, you may really really have to do some singing. Anywhere from three minutes up to fifteen - arias, art songs, oratorio, musical theatre, chamber music, take your pick from the veritable buffet of choices and then prepare for almost all possibilities. Oy gevalt I'm nauseated just thinking about it. And I didn't even have to sing today.

Today I went as an observer and friend to my favorite VeganDiva, who was singing her tush off in the Met regionals in NYC. I couldn't make it for the whole thing, but I was there for the last four or five contestants, the endless deliberation, and the announcement. In rooms like this, I want nothing more than to whisk myself and my friend away to a place where we can talk about running and what we're going to have for dinner and anything ANYTHING but the competition. Because that's ALL people want to talk about. How did you sing how did I sing what did you wear did I wear the right thing how about those shoes don't you think he's too young for that don't you think she's too old to wear that I mean seriously and the judges did they look interested I think they looked interested but how could I know with the lights and all the pressure and was the tempo okay in the allegro I think the largo was a little too slow my breath is all hopped up today I think I should have worn nude hose SHOOT ME IN THE EYBALL AND PUT ME OUT OF MY MISERY.

People deal with this situation in a multitude of ways. The VeganD and I are more likely to plug in our iPods and listen to something raucous (she: Ludacris, I: Fergie) and try to tune out all of the twittering and fluttering about. There is no room for hysterical wing-flapping when you're trying to keep your cool. If you win, you don't want to be so overwhelmed you can't thank people. If you don't win, you want to be able to exit the room with enough grace to be known as 'steadfast' and 'level-headed.' No mad scenes here, people. I won't say I agreed with the outcome of today's competition, but I wasn't there for all of it so that's my personal bias talking. It's how we deal with these situations that help define us as people, performers, and citizens of this career.

My Met is this Sunday. I'm not really nervous as all of my rep is well-broken-in and I sing it well. I have a fabulous dress (Carmen Marc Valvo you're my dreamboat) and shiny hair (though I really need to get a pedicure if I'm going to wear those fabulous pewter heels) and I like singing in the hall. A recipe for success. But there are x-factors, to be sure. 15 singers x 5 possible arias each x 1 pianist x 3 judges. Just looking at the math on that gives me vertigo.

I cannot compete with anyone else. I am not in competition with anyone else. I go out there. I sing. I do my business and what I do well. And then, I plug myself back in to Fergie (or perhaps some Lady Gaga for the occasion) and wait. I am the best at what I can do. If they are shopping for my brand of singing on Sunday, I have a chance. And the rest is out of my hands.

It sucks sooooo bad.

But I'll tell you what I can do. I can get good sleep and drink lots of water and hit the gym hard (but not too hard) between now and then. I can practice my languages and my phrasing and those devilish passages that make what I do sound really impressive. And I'm going to start first by drying my hair (a lovely shade of chestnut brown, I might add) and get to work on that beauty sleep. Momma's got some ass-kickin to do. Ready GO.

Comfort ye

Cindy wrote a great blog about thinking habits and eating habits. As someone who didn't really think about what she ate until she was nearly 26 (and at least the last three years leading up to 26 were straight-up denial) and didn't pursue serious fitness until 27, it's always interesting to read about other people's journey with food and exercise, pertaining to weight loss or no. Growing up in the South, food is not just a means of sustenance, it's usually an event.

Classic example: Christmas Eve at my grandfather's house. Every year, we would drive into Metairie, park the car, and walk up to the smell of roast pig. Now I'm not talking about a ham. I'm talking about a pig. An whole pig that had been roasting for a very very long time and then carried into the greenhouse at the back of my grandfather's garden (a garden of bananas and papayas and guava with an errant pen of goats and wandering geese, but a garden nonetheless) to be carved by many of my uncles and aunts, with my grandmother smacking their hands from nibbling while they carved. Tables laid with huge portions of black beans and rice, yucca root (to DIE for), fried plantains, and any number of delicious things brought by relatives. Miss Jean's family is large and enthusiastic, especially when it comes to food, and once you've tasted those black beans and rice, you would cross Lake Pontchartrain in a paddleboat to get to them. Gallons of frozen daiquiris (gotta love New Orleans - drive-thru daiquiri shops) and coolers of beer and bottles of soda for the kids. It's a foodie's fondest dream. Even now, when I go home, my grandmother cooks for a full day and implores me to have another pork chop, another serving of beans and rice, more yucca, and do I want ice cream because she's gotten some creole cream cheese just for me. And then she pinches my arm and tells me I'm getting too skinny.

Part of this is about the deliciousness that is on that plate. Part of it is about reaching back to my childhood with every single bite of creole cream cheese ice cream (it is of the Lord - look into it) that I remember taking from the carton, sitting on my grandfather's knee as he spooned it out for the both of us with a serving spoon. But most of it is about comfort. When people talk about emotional eating, I honestly can't think of any other way one might eat - eating is totally emotional for me. Beignets and cafe au lait say home to me. King cake on Fridays at school during Mardi Gras season says home to me. Fried shrimp po-boys (the best ones are found at the truck stop near my parents' new house) eaten off the paper with a glass bottle of Barq's root beer say home to me. Comfort ye, my people, saith my stomach.

What does this have to do with anything? It has to do with everything. The biggest deterrent to my personal/physical/mental well-being (because they are completely related to one another) is the nasty chain reaction that occurs during audition season. It starts early, in September, when I fill out the paperwork for those last few apprenticeship programs/competitions for which I'm eligible. Write, label, stuff, stamp. The auditions begin in October - I start booking my bus tickets and learning the rep that's requested. I go to the salon and get the hair touched up. New pairs of stockings, shine up the shoes, iron the dress, let the games begin. I go into this season with a good attitude, but when my inbox remains empty of offers (even though I know that most houses won't really make decisions till after Christmas) I start to get dejected. I allow my happiness and mental stability to enter into a relationship with my perceived level of success as pertains to work. I start to sleep later (I'm tired, I'm traveling, I tell myself) I start to exercise less (I don't have the time, it's hard to pack all that extra stuff and the shoes, I tell myself) I eat out more (I'm in New York, I'm visiting friends, I tell myself) and I wrap my hands around beverages that are warm and sweet and...that's right - comforting. (it's 9 freakin degrees outside, of course I want that latte with whole milk!)

The audition season is but one part of my year - an important part, no doubt, but still only one part. And yet, I allow it to take my progress down to a grinding halt. I allow it. I'm still in New York for work right now and it would have been so easy to keep up with this nasty progression of backwards two-stepping. But my husband put his foot down and told me that if I'm going to be there for five days out of every week, it's worth it for me to get the one-month pass to the NYCS and go. I hemmed and hawed, but he's right and it is, so I did. I found the one that's three blocks from where I'm staying (also conveniently one block from the subway stop I use) and I just did it. I bought the one-month pass, I packed my crap into my bag, and I went. And do you know what happened, dear readers?

I felt better. I felt more in control of my own destiny, more responsible for my personal success, and actually more likely to succeed. Singing engagements or no, I felt like I was taking steps to get back on track. I'm on the bus now, going back to NYC for another week of rehearsals which will be long and tedious, but I will pack my bag so I can go to the gym as soon as it's over. I will alternate my cardio and my weights. I will do the freaky Pilates shit that makes my stomach flat and happy. I will up the resistance on the elliptical to get my heart rate out of that very comfortable lazy place into the kicking my own ass place. And really, that's when I'm happiest - when I'm kicking my own ass.

And now, a little sidebar. The Met regionals are in two weeks. I was having this conversation with my dear friend Malinda, who is so incredibly insightful it sometimes makes me forget we've only been friends a year. We were discussing - of course - THE dress. Repertoire is set, I'm not going to mess with it. The venue is an old friend, and the pianist is a coach I've worked with before, so the only x-factor is the dress I'm going to wear. I was saying to her that it's very likely I'm the oldest woman, perhaps even the oldest singer, in the competition. Looking at the list, it seems there are quite a few younger singers, and I was worried that I might skew too "mature" to pique the interest of the judges. A 23 year-old soprano who has her shit together is exceptional, a 29 year-old soprano who has her shit together is expected. And we're talking about how if I wear anything that's too 'classy' it might skew me too conservative and maybe I should try for something a little flashier. And she says to me, "or, you could own your age and maturity and eat the little girls for breakfast."

Doctor, heal thyself. Sometimes I get so wrapped up in the headgame that I forget how I got here. I got here by being good at what I do. And what I do best is at the heart of the matter: I'm the best at being who I am. No one else is like me, no one else can do exactly what I do the way that I do it. And so, for the sake of being at my absolute best in two weeks (and every two weeks thereafter), I'm getting off the bus tonight, getting on the subway, and heading straight to the gym and THEN to the apartment. I'm putting myself first on the priority list instead of fourth or fifth after the needs sitting in my email inbox and after the requests for time or attention or instruction or whatever. It means seeking comfort in my own abilities, rather than in the refrigerator (or those seductive baked goods - Cindy, you are so right) and taking responsibility for what I put in my body and what I do with it afterward. Packing those right snacks (fruit and veggies yes, salt and vinegar chips NO) and planning for meals (delicious grilled fish yes, take-out Indian NO) and making time for exercise (90210 on the elliptical yes, 90210 on the sofa NO) and also making time for self-study. My friend Shirley suggested that I try to meditate to gain clarity. She's a smart cookie, so I'm going to try my best to clear my brain and make room for nothingness.

Here's to 2010. May it be the year we keep the most important promises made: the ones we make to ourselves.

Breathe in, breathe out

It was a hard week. To and from New York for one last callback, a music rehearsal in which I sang zero notes, and an extended bus trip so I could get back for the nutty weekend that is Candlelight Carols. First, the high points:

Singing for James Levine, who says that I sang passages clearly that no one ever sings clearly.

Tea with a girlfriend I never see, and catching up on the exciting things going on in her life.

Listening to the interlude in Ceremony of Carols, thisclose to the harpist.

I'm trying y'all. I'm trying to tell myself that there are people who didn't get a Sullivan award and there are people who don't have a great husband and a house and a dog and a church job where people love her. I'm trying to focus on the great season I had last year with wonderful colleagues. But it's really hard to do that when you go into an audition and you know that you kill and James Levine TELLS YOU that this is absolutely suited to you, and then you get the email. And you know that it's going to be a no, because if it were a yes they would have called. You know how the polite phrasing goes, you know that they will wish you will and tell you to reapply next year. Maybe. But after such a great audition and walking out of that room feeling like I had a really good fighting chance, having my wonderful church people ask how it was to sing for The Man and being wished well so many times, coming home to that email is a big punch in the gut.

It's six days till Christmas, and I just want to sit down and cry. I hate this time of year. And I hate that this time of year makes me feel like this. I should be smiling and decorating the tree with my husband instead of counting the rejection letters that all feel like a personal slight against all I've worked for. I'm furious and hurt and confused and if we weren't slated to receive a massive snowstorm, I'd take myself out for a run to clear my head. But we are, so I won't. Instead, I'll decorate the tree and try to find perspective. It's around here somewhere, I'm sure of it. Breathe in, breathe out. One day at a time.

The most wonderful time of the year

Ever since Halloween, Crate & Barrel has put out their Christmas ornaments, and Target has cleared that huge space for their display of flashing light crap, and this really obnoxious radio station has commenced with playing nonstop holiday music. I can't cope.

I used to love this time of year. That snap in the air, the first time you have to wear a coat (much later in south LA than here in MA), snuggling with the ones you love, drinking hot cocoa and apple cider. It's really become a downer to realize that this most wonderful time of year, with some of the best music and family gatherings, has become the time of year when I contemplate quitting my profession. Every year. Why is that, you might ask? Because the bitter pill of rejection becomes harder and harder to swallow. I used to have a lot more grace, a lot more patience, and a lot more hope. I surmised that I could make it through as long as I had a few good gigs with good people doing good music. In approximately ten days, I will start the last gig of that ilk that is on my calendar until 2011. And even thinking about that makes me queasy. I've gone through weeks and weeks of auditions, trips to NYC, peppered with visits with friends, revamping old rep, working up new rep, good sings and bad, and I'm still waiting.

Waiting is the worst. It makes you question everything. Should I really be doing this? Should I just chuck it and go to law school/med school/business school? Am I fooling myself?
Last week, I got the 1-2 punch from two opera companies within four hours, and then the salt in the wound: my bill from the union, saying my dues need to be paid. It seems like a cruel joke for them to bill me when I'm NOT WORKING. Another email last night (never check your email just before bed) saying we loved your singing, but we're still not hiring you. One of my colleagues from two summers ago said that the theme of her life seems to be: you're wonderful, we love you, but we don't want none of that.

This is usually the part where I pick myself up off the mat and give myself a pep talk about patience and longevity and how I've worked too hard to quit now. I know I'll get to the point where I can do that. Even after three miles on the dreadmill (that's care of the amazing Cindy) I'm still pretty low. I think that means I need more mileage because I can't shake this funk inside my skin. I want to believe that I'm singing for a reason, that I've been given opportunities in the past for a reason. But gosh, if it could just be a little bit easier. If companies could hold off on sending the rejection emails for a little while, or send them all at once, in the next week, so I could stop holding my breath.

In the meantime, I'm just gonna take this one day at a time. Today, I'm still a singer. Tomorrow, I'm seriously considering becoming an astronaut.

Ups and downs, fried turkey, and the quest for pie

After my last post about practicing optimism, I had a pretty killer audition and, subsequently, won a pretty killer award that will make my financial adviser very very happy. It makes me happy too, because practicing that optimism gets really difficult and a little affirmation from the other side of the table is really helpful, especially when you get feedback that says you're expressive, compelling, and your artistry is more focused, but we're still not hiring you. Again. For the fourth season in a row. Or, as it came today, we're not hiring you but if you want to reapply next year, here's the link. Or also, today, no need to come in unless there's different repertoire or vocal transplants.

Ha ha. You're so witty in your emails. I love it when you talk with nonchalance about the instrument in my throat that I've been training for the last fourteen years.

Up: amazing award with rather good market recognition and prize benefits

Down: artistic administrators who can't find a direct AND polite way to say no, so they use sarcasm to cover their poor social skills

Up: callback for a role that I have always always wanted to sing, with one of the major luminaries of this age in opera

Down: *this just in* rejection email number TWO just appeared in my inbox. That's two in one day.

Up: steak for dinner tonight

Down: a bill from the union saying that I owe them for last year's AND this year's dues as I will be singing a cover at a union house next year. A contract that will be whittled down to nearly nothing after taxes and food and the union initiation fee. Nice.

Let's talk turkey. Fried turkey. This Thanksgiving marked Team Turkey 4.0 at our house with twelve of our friends/chosen family, and some of their family as well. Turkey was fried, sides were brought and cooked, and the din of turkey calls was only muffled by the chewing of fourteen sets of teeth. It was a great holiday, the table looked beautiful - finally figured out the perfect configuration of tables and tablecloth(s) to accommodate all 14 guests - and the food was really fantastic. I'm still dreaming of that amazing sweet potato soufflé. There was some debate about marshmallow topping vs. streusel vs. nuts, so the chef of that particular dish threw the kitchen sink at the dish and put on all three. The result was TO DIE FOR.

I spent the day before in the kitchen making pie. Now those of you who are long-time readers know that I have a personal, almost religious, relationship with pie. This year marked a new milestone - homemade pie crust. Likely the most stressful thing I have ever concocted in the kitchen. Step one - identify ingredients. Discover, after measuring out several cups of flour, that we are 1/3 cup short. Think I have found other container of flour, discover it is powdered sugar AFTER putting in 1/3 cup. Lots of cursing. Make it work. Crust seems good. First pie - pumpkin. Also my first time making pumpkin pie, and I was using fresh pumpkin from a rather large pumpkin that we roasted and pureed after Halloween.

Note: a medium-sized pumpkin will yield 10-12 cups of pumpkin puree. You only need two cups for a loaf of pumpkin bread, or one pumpkin pie, or one batch of pumpkin chocolate-chip muffins. 12 cups of pumpkin is a LOT of pumpkin.

So the pumpkin pie went in the oven. Then I made the second pie, my old specialty, pecan. Last Monday, after a politely-worded but VERY irate email to the pecan company from which I have ordered my pecans every year for the last twelve years, they called me to assure me that my pecans would be on my doorstep the next day, which they were. Two batches of pralines and one pecan pie later, I am still glad that I order from them. I still have several pounds of pecans left, some of which are going into cookies tonight, the pies were both successful, and a good time was had by all. We had second-day turkey sandwiches with cranberry sauce, foisted more pie upon friends who didn't make it on the day, and rejoiced in the wonder that three tables fit into our dining room to begin with. Team Turkey 4.0 = success.

Up: Saints beat the crap out of the Pats last night. Total up.

Down: I don't have any more work today than I did yesterday.

Up: Two auditions on Thursday - opportunity for fun projects.

Down: Two bus rides in the next four days.

Up: Chocolate-chip pecan cookies.

Down: There is no down. Did you not read the previous line?

That's where I'm at. Let's try to get through the week (or maybe just the day??) without any more rejection emails, shall we?

Practicing optimism is hard, y'all. This is me, picking my chin up.

Optimism as a verb

I can't explain why, but somehow my audition yesterday had a strange and happy effect on my state of mind. I went into an audition, stood on a very large stage (!) and sang Ravel. And was then asked to sing......Britten? Wow, really? It was the happiest little surprise I've had during audition season yet. And it made me think that, perhaps, there are companies that have imagination and appreciate singers who have imagination too. Maybe companies will start to notice me for what I can do that's special, instead of trying to fit me into the lyric box with every other soprano.

It's all conjecture. But as I walked out of the theatre, I wasn't agitated or cross. I was hopeful. And then I spent the afternoon and evening with two absolutely lovely people whom I never ever get to see, one because she is so ferociously talented that she's never in the same place for longer than a month, and the other because he works in Switzerland. We talked about work and "the business" and how it made us crazy but also happy, and I'm smirking as I even write this, but this - the visiting and bitching and hugging and having coffee with wonderful colleagues whom you never see - is part of the process too. I love meeting new people and forming these connections with artists who inspire me and teach me, and let me do likewise.

Maybe it's not about optimism. Maybe it's about generosity and vulnerability - allowing yourself to be in the moment with a character, just as much as you allow yourself to be in the moment with a friend. When I get scared, I lose sight of this aspect of singing and I start to freak out about what's next WHAT'S NEXT. So I'm going to try to practice optimism as an action, and take it as a good sign that not only did I sing a killer audition, I have the opportunity to do it again today.

Countdown to Team Turkey 2009: 10 days

Standing in the doorway

My friend Judy sent me a segment from a book she's reading about opening doors in one's life, coping with change, and the general business of living. I don't read a lot these days (scores SO do not count) so it's much appreciated when someone takes the time to share wisdom they have gleaned. In this book, the author talks about doorways and the state of being in one - more specifically, the disorientation and discomfort of being in a between state, transition but without any kind of directional inkling, truly IN the doorway, not sure if you should go forward or backward, if forward then in which direction, if backward then why and then what. Well dear friends, it could not have been more timely. I am decorating the inside of that doorway with the trappings of my former sanity, Martha Stewart and her decoupage ain't got shit on me and the crazy I'm using to make festive my transitional discomfort.

I always knew I'd teach someday. I've been planning to teach since I was in high school. Teach choir, teach piano, teach language, teach something. It's always been there. I met mentors on whose career I patterned my own educational pursuits - honors studies, foreign languages, academic writing, studying abroad, always directed toward the doctorate, always directed toward the classroom or the rehearsal studio. This surprises no one.

I never knew I'd sing professionally. When I started auditioning, I expected that I would gain some valuable insight about the process and learn a little about the business of singing that I would not have otherwise known. And then I'd be able to pass that information on to my students. Never ever did I think I would sing in A houses in foreign countries and at home. And really really never ever did I think I would accomplish those things and still be hunting for part-time jobs to help pay the bills. No one told me that good gigs did not always equal good pay, and that I would sometimes have to take less than great gigs to keep paying the bills and sometimes not get paid as much for the really good gigs that could lead to better things.

So here am I. Standing in the doorway. Teaching options keep falling into my lap - more than I can even contemplate at this very moment it makes me dizzy to think too much about it. Music directing, private students, school opportunities. I'm also applying for faculty positions. Trying to put into words why I want a faculty job is a difficult thing as well. I want to teach good students. I want to reach singers when they are still young and teach them good habits and good technique and fuss at them about language when it's still early enough to do something about it. I want them to learn good repertoire that's not just "standard" and really challenges their artistry. I want to be a part of that. I also want all of the very material things that come with a faculty job - salary, benefits, retirement, an office with my name on the door, and a hangtag for my parking space. Security. Comfort. Holiday breaks.

There are also the things I want out of singing, the things I do get when I am singing. That incredible rush when you make your first entrance and feel yourself floating over the orchestra. The secret smiles you share with your fellow actors in moments when you know that you're really killing in a scene. The fun factor of playing dress-up with eyelashes and hair pieces and that first costume fitting when you're pinned and poked within an inch of your life so you can look like the most beautiful/evil/magical/plain/fancy creature ever to grace the stage. The princess. The evil queen. The fairy. The Jersey girl. The sheer joy of feeling your voice move against someone else's. The discovery when an Italian coach really helps you place all of those vowels in the right place and suddenly the language no longer feels foreign. Traveling to fun cities and learning their ins and outs. Finding new places to eat. Sharing that with friends old and new. And, of course, the applause. Oh, the applause, that drug that takes us by surprise every time.

This is where I'm at. I'm standing in the doorway, scratching my height into it for the twenty-fifth time this week, waiting for a push or pull from the universe to tell me where to go. I suck at rolling with it. I suck at letting things ride. In the words of the immortal Inigo Mantoya, "I hate wait." I'm waiting without very much grace, trying to take what comes when it comes, putting dates into my book and saying yes to everything I can, so as not to exclude any of my options, but also hoping that something will jump out of the texture and bop me on my thick skull and say, "hey YOU! over here!" because I am not so clever in this particular way. I look at the forest, I see trees. I look at the trees, I see more trees. I don't see the Hansel and Gretel path leading through the trees, I only see the trees. I'm getting splinters in my eyeballs.

I'm itching with anticipation. My feet are tapping alternating time steps because they won't rest. I am in a holding pattern and I'm even starting to annoy myself, so I'm relatively certain I'm annoying others.

I'm trying to breathe through this series of moments. In out, in out, in out. Is it over yet?

Sick chicken

At home in day two of a nasty cold. Antibiotics, mucinex (made of angel tears, according to my friend Jamie) and nonstop neti pot between now and my two concerts this weekend. I will get better. I WILL.

How Glory Goes

There's this great song from the musical "Floyd Collins," a lesser-done work by Adam Guettel about a guy who tries to make his fortune turning a cave into a tourist attraction and subsequently loses his life from the endeavor. I don't think it did very well, but the best damned song in the show ended up as the title of an Audra McDonald album that's completely worth checking out if you don't know it. As Floyd is stuck there, contemplating the end of his life, he asks all kinds of questions about the afterlife and what it looks like. Specific questions, like:

Do we live?
Is it like a little town?
Do we get to look back down at who we love?

Today is All Souls' Day. Yesterday was All Saints' Day/All Souls' Eve. At my church, we read out the names of those who have died during the year, in remembrance. I'm always taken by surprise at how much this affects me. Thinking about the people in my life who have passed on, thinking about the notes they sent me, the conversations we had, places we went. Most recently, it was Miss Jeanne, from my old congregations in Hattiespatch. She was so lovely. Her late husband, TB, sang in the church choir when I was the director. TB could not sing a round vowel to save his skin, but he sure did try every little trick I asked of him. They were wonderful, generous people in my life. They established a scholarship at the church and about a week after TB's death, they announced that I was the first recipient. Just before I was supposed to get up and sing 'Schlafendes Jesuskind.' It was all I could do to hold it together. Miss Jeanne has struggled with illness for a little while and I knew she wasn't doing well when she didn't return my birthday note. I was back down there not too long ago and considered going to see her, but one of our mutual church friends said that she wasn't really conscious much, kind of hazy from the pain medicine, and did I really want to remember her that way. I think of Miss Jeanne, hopping out of her white cadillac, insisting that we had to go get frozen custard, talking about how mischievous TB was. That's how I remember her - vibrant, funny, full of love and kindness.

Last night, on the way home, my husband asked me to talk about what I believe in terms of an afterlife. Do I believe that people pass on and hang out in heaven, waiting for the rest of us to show up and join the party? Do they look down on us?

As he asked me this, I started to hear this song in my head, asking those same questions. Is it like a little town? Is my grandmother up there, playing canasta with her friends and making her toilet paper cover-dolls to sit on the back of the toilet? Is my grandfather fiddling with his workshop and hollering to her across the room and still protesting that he won't eat vegetables? Gosh I hope so. When I think about my loved ones, the feelings come back so strongly that I go hunting for that piece of jewelry, the flavor of ice cream, that piece of clothing, anything that I can press into my hands that reminds me of them. Avon discontinued the liquid deodorant that my mother's mother used to wear, but there was a time when I would smell it on a total stranger and be completely swept out of my reality, back into her floral room with the armchair and the bags of yarn and quilt scraps, candy wrappers hidden in the cushions. They are still there, if only in my head and in my heart, but doesn't that make them still there? If they were once here, then aren't they always?

Only heaven knows how glory goes, what each of us was meant to be. In the starlight, that is what we are.

I send you my love. Save me a seat at the card table.

Just a quickie

Three services today. Went running between, have a bit of a wheezy chest now....

For all the saints who, from their labours, rest.

I hate the dentist

Went to the gym first thing in the morning. 45 minutes in, I'm feeling better but not as strong as I did before. This is when I know it's really time. I'll feel the ache tomorrow, but I'll feel stronger every day that I continue to do this. The twelves in my hands will become fifteens again, as they were just before the race. My back won't ache, my legs will be ready to run. This is the plan.

Now on to the weakness. I hate the dentist. I hate needles. I hate the sensation of the grinding and it makes me twitch all the way down to my toes. I twitched for a very very long time until it was over. Three fillings, done. Then, a very successful (and unplanned) trip to the consignment shop.

Teaching today. Hope the numbing in the mouth goes away before I have to teach, or there will be some very funny singing going on.

The ugly truth

I looked at my training log today. Since the BAA Half, I've gone running twice. Three times if you count the catastrophe that was my afternoon run today. Here's the business end of it - if you don't keep your body in shape, it will hate you when you try to do things you did when you were actually in shape. I think it was cutting me slack when Robin and I went running the other evening. First time running in central park, with a friend, auditions were all stressful, I think perhaps my body was just distracted and enthusiastic enough to let me do five miles with minimal issues. But today it was just NOT going to happen. Yesterday was a really shit day with the late bus and the train and the dropped half sandwich and no umbrella, but after I sleep normally tonight and get up tomorrow and go to the gym, it's back on the horse. November will be a stressful month anyway, I need to do everything in my power to make sure I'm in top form. The right dress, the right shoes, and the right rep are simply not enough. I need to be physically, mentally, and emotionally in the game.

And this is the part where I solicit help/encouragement/harassment from the general reading public.

If I run, I will blog it. If I don't run or work out or take Sam for a four-mile walk and I don't have a really good reason (i.e. I was on an airplane all day) I want you to get on me about it. Tell me to get up off my shit. You know I'd do the same for you :)

Signs

Like that song Tesla remade - "Signs, signs, everywhere are signs." Just when I feel I've read one correctly, I get whacked on the head in the opposite direction by the fickle friend called Providence. Here's the hamster wheel breakdown since Saturday.

Saturday - drive to RI, show up 65 mins early with hopes of singing competition early and getting home before nasty storm. They are running early, and I'm told there are two people ahead of me. An hour later, they are now running late. Warm up AGAIN, sweat into my beautiful silk dress because of the heating system (plus 65 degrees outside, ridiculous), sing one aria, HEAR them talk about how they're running late and really don't have time to hear another. Ugh. And a large tree bug fell down my back. Removed tree bug from self without much hysteria, still sang well. On the way back to the interstate, had a freak fashion encounter with a store window displaying the most perfect mallard blue wrap dress. Hold the phone, because they have it in eggplant too. What's that, the last two in the store? Yes, I'll take them both.

Score: shiksa - 1, hamster wheel - 1 (because of the tree bug and the disorganization)

Sunday - sing two services, teach voice lesson, apply makeup in church bathroom, go to subway. This has never happened to me - I wait for the train, and THREE D trains go by before a single B train. Then we stand by just before BU central. Then I go to the wrong building (dear young artist administrator - when you say 'center for fine arts,' that's not the same as the opera center. Figure your shit out before you send out emails and all of your singers show up panting because they have run from the other building, where there is NO ROOM 210!) for my audition, hoof it to the right building, just as they are saying, "oh great, you're next." Oh great. I'm next. Pull off coat, put on shoes, just as the door is opening. Sure. I'll start with Queen of the Night. Why not. Maybe there's a little defiance in my delivery, but I'm working it (in my eggplant dress). Husby comes with the car, get to south station and manage to standby for an earlier bus. Arrive in NYC three hours earlier than originally planned, eat eggplant on the way.

Score: shiksa - 3 (for the early bus and nailing the Queen despite circumstances), hamster wheel - 2 (for the wrong building)

Monday - up early-ish to prepare for Italian coaching. Panic and get on the bus ridiculously early. Find out this is a blessing as cannot seem to find the entrance to the Juilliard school. Find room same time coach shows up. My Italian does not suck as bad as I think it does. Great. Lovely lovely lunch with wonderful friend, get dressed while singing Funny Girl, walk up the street and audition for the Germans from major house, tempo on Fire not great but Queen nailed it again. Purple dress luck. Feeling good. More Scharffen Berger chocolate, yum. Coffee with girlfriend, quiet evening with little sister. Monkey wrench - no place to stay for month of January during gig in NYC. Oh shite.

Score: shiksa - 4, hamster wheel - 4 (for the subway going express between 96th and 137th and housing catastrophe)

Tuesday - raining. Gross. Make it to audition, pianist is there, all set and ready. Sing both Handel and kick ass, great feedback and then lunch with wonderful friend. Coaching on upper west for upcoming role. This is where it gets wonky. I'm covering, but everything this guy says amounts to how much he thinks of my singing. How I'm a world-class Queen. How I need to find someone to help me work Konstanze into my rep because I would OWN her. How he loves my musicality. Head spinning. Must find a way to make this work. Thinking far too much for my own good. Contemplating going straight into academia. Contemplating going into working at Bloomingdales at the Shu Uemura lash bar. Make it stop! And then, I show up at the NY sports club, where none other than my fellow blogger the VeganDiva is there to take my bag and help me kick my own ass as we run through Central Park. Five miles later, I have clarity. Oh praise the Lord with the timbrel and dance, FINALLY I have clarity.

score: shiksa - 7 (for killer audition, rocking my coaching, and making 5 miles on a hilly course after not running in far too long), hamster wheel - 6 (for the general head-fuckery that comes from too much thinking)

What does this mean? This means that

a. I need to stick to a training plan for races. Chasing away the crazy on my own could be a full-time job and require a personal assistant, or I could just run.

b. I need to follow the path that leads to more opera singing, not the path that seems the least complicated because I'm feeling a little unsure. Everything else can be worked out.

c. I need to go into every audition and do my job because I'm damn good at my job.

I rock. You rock. We all rock. And we will live to kick the shit out of the hamster wheel another day.