This actually happened July 29--but in the spirit of catching up, as well as puking on your shoes with a heck of a good story, here 'tis, straight from the pages of my journal;
*****
I went back to sing at the church where I was the alto section leader for the first time since I left at Easter. I must say that I enjoyed my return to church--once i actually GOT there (more in a moment): I sat and soaked up the sense of peace and spirit that permeated the place like a warm bath, felt refreshed and fulfilled after.
I was feeling a bit worn out--it had been a rough night, with a pair of brutal Macbeth rehearsals and coming home to find my poor dog had been sick all over the dining room floor, so I gave myself the gift of a lie-in and a bit of extra driving time which, I figured, would put me at church about fifteen minutes early.
Boy, was I wrong. As I crested the hill of Divisadero at 14th, traffic suddenly stopped dead. Figuring there had been an accident, I turned around and went up Duboce, thinking I'd drop down Masonic--but found a roadblock manned by a policeman. He informed me that I had managed to arrive at the exact wrong time--the San Francisco Marathon was coming through, and the ONLY way to get to the north end of the city was at Divisadero (unless I wished to somehow make my way all the way up to 19th Avenue, which would have taken half an hour or more). So, I crept back to the line of cars on Divisadero and waited. And waited. And waited. It took me (I'm NOT exaggerating) FORTY-FIVE MINUTES to go the block-and-a-half it took to get across Haight street.
And then, things went from 'severely fucked up' to 'downright surreal'.
I'd gotten to the point where I was about to have a meltdown--how could they block off the ENTIRE FUCKING CITY for a godddamn race?? A LEISURE ACTIVITY??!?!!? I was going to be LATE for WORK so a bunch of pretentious yuppie adrenaline junkies could show off their legs???? This was unbelievable!!! OUTRAGEOUS! WHO do I complain to about this???--when I crept abreast of two DPT officers, posted to keep people from driving where they shouldn't (as if any of us could move?). I rolled down the window and spoke to the nearest, an African-American woman with short blond hair, asking her how long it might take to cross Haight. She replied that it all depended: the police officers were only letting cars through in increments, in gaps in the runners--in other words, it could be two minutes or ten hours.....
Near to tears, I pleaded with her; "But I'm late for work! I have to get to church!"
She suddenly lit up, all smiles, and beamed at me sympathetically:
"Oh, THAT's Okay, honey! GOD knows where you are!"
(-!?-)
She leaned in and said, "Come on, we can just praise Jesus right here in your car!"
"I don't think you understand--"
"What's your favorite hymn, honey? We can sing it together! Come on now!" --and right there in the street, with the other officer singing harmony, they broke into a song of praise, while I (and, I'm sure, many others) looked on in open-mouthed disbelief. Oh evil meter maid (I'm sure they were thinking), are you MOCKING us????
The kicker was, they were GOOD. Really. Effing. GOOD. They sang on pitch, in perfect harmony and rhythm. Part of me wanted to scream at them,
"Don't you two have anything better to do--like go eat some of your YOUNG, maybe?"
--and part of me wanted to send them on ahead, in the little go-carts, to church--they'd surely make it before I did...
Eventually, the line moved, and I waved goodbye to the San Francisco Marathon Tabernacle Youth-Eating Choir, and the race, and zipped up Divisadero to where the Swedenborgians waited for me--only half an hour late. Fortunately, I survived the lack of rehearsal just fine, and had a great story to tell the other section leaders to boot.
See? It all worked out.
RM
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Another Tidbit--Magic Flappomattox Hell
In Appomattox, I told you a story about how I had to wear a pregnancy pad, with a full skirt, on a set that the crew affectionately called 'Deathtrap'--metal platforms laid across each other, with holes in between that opened straight down to the concrete one floor below (and the stage managers had the nerve to chirpily tell us "watch your step!")
Well, the pregnancy pad wasn't so bad, but the bra they gave me was filled with BIRDSEED to emulate the look of a pregnant woman ('cause, you know, I am not neccessarily gifted enough with the breasticles to pass on my own), and, ladies and gentlemen, that sucker was HEAVY. My poor boobs felt like they'd been squished flat by the end of each performance (and trust me when I say that I am old enough to not need any help with sagging and flattening, thankyouverymuch). Between that, nearly falling to my doom on-stage, and being dripped on by blood-soaked horse carcasses hanging from the ceiling ('cause, you know, that IS what the Civil War was all about....right?), among too many other REAL annoyances and indignities to list during staging (did you know Philip Glass actually was adding music up until the week of opening?? And that he actually changed some of the music AFTER opening night?!? Did you know that the director was added after the first one precipitously quit? With six months' time to learn the entire show--that hadn't even been composed in entirety yet? AND THAT HE'D NEVER WORKED IN OPERA, MUCH LESS WITH MORE THAN SIX OR EIGHT PEOPLE ONSTAGE, BEFORE???--OK, OK, I'll stop), I can tell you that NONE of us were sorry to see it go.
We had enough in the chorus to say Grace over, as my friend Kathy puts it, what with Magic Flute, Tannhauser, Madama Butterfly, Macbeth, La Rondine, Magic Flute for Families (think 'Magic Flute Lite'--in English. Go ahead, learn the same opera in two different languages simultaneously and NOT go insane. I dare you.), and Rake's Progress, all either up and running or about to open, at the same time. So, what with frayed nerves and tattered nubs of sanity, it was only natural that we would come up with things to amuse each other and make the time pass--sort of like soldiers do in the trenches, I'm thinking.....
My brother, after listening to my ranting about Crappomattox (Problemattox? SlapAMuskOx? CrappyButtox? AppleMaalox?), gave me an utterly brilliant idea for the final performance. I only wish I'd had the stones to pull it off, but alas, I am not tenured, and even if I was, this would still be the kind of stunt that would have security escorting me out of the house after collecting my I.D....which is why I share it with you, so that it may live on in cyberspace if not in infamy....
He said, "You should get the biggest frozen turkey you can find, and shove it up under your dress. Then, in the final scene, you oughta straddle one of the traps, make a few moaning and screaming noises, and let'er rip!"
I could just see it...
MIZ SCARLETT, MIZ SCARLETT, I DUNNO NUFFIN 'BOUT BIRTHIN' NO BABIES!!!!
BLAMMO!
And, as it hit the concrete, it would have been interesting to know what the exact sound between 'shatter' and 'splat' sounded like....
At the final performance, we DID have 'un peu' bit o'fun at the opera's expense...in the 'flight from Richmond' scene, I have to push a rickety baby carriage onstage. I got in line to pick up the carriage...to find one of the props guys had stuck a disembodied hand into it, fingers pointing straight up, looking like something out of 'Rosemary's Baby' or the final scene in 'Carrie'.
Of course, I went on with it.
We had a pickup football game in the dressing room with the pregnancy pad.
And, although no turkeys were harmed in the making of this opera, I DID have a sin, a la Tannhauser, in honor of the composer, scrawled across my chest in red;
MINIMALISM.
And many many cocktails were consumed after the final show.
Hallelujah, Amen.
Well, the pregnancy pad wasn't so bad, but the bra they gave me was filled with BIRDSEED to emulate the look of a pregnant woman ('cause, you know, I am not neccessarily gifted enough with the breasticles to pass on my own), and, ladies and gentlemen, that sucker was HEAVY. My poor boobs felt like they'd been squished flat by the end of each performance (and trust me when I say that I am old enough to not need any help with sagging and flattening, thankyouverymuch). Between that, nearly falling to my doom on-stage, and being dripped on by blood-soaked horse carcasses hanging from the ceiling ('cause, you know, that IS what the Civil War was all about....right?), among too many other REAL annoyances and indignities to list during staging (did you know Philip Glass actually was adding music up until the week of opening?? And that he actually changed some of the music AFTER opening night?!? Did you know that the director was added after the first one precipitously quit? With six months' time to learn the entire show--that hadn't even been composed in entirety yet? AND THAT HE'D NEVER WORKED IN OPERA, MUCH LESS WITH MORE THAN SIX OR EIGHT PEOPLE ONSTAGE, BEFORE???--OK, OK, I'll stop), I can tell you that NONE of us were sorry to see it go.
We had enough in the chorus to say Grace over, as my friend Kathy puts it, what with Magic Flute, Tannhauser, Madama Butterfly, Macbeth, La Rondine, Magic Flute for Families (think 'Magic Flute Lite'--in English. Go ahead, learn the same opera in two different languages simultaneously and NOT go insane. I dare you.), and Rake's Progress, all either up and running or about to open, at the same time. So, what with frayed nerves and tattered nubs of sanity, it was only natural that we would come up with things to amuse each other and make the time pass--sort of like soldiers do in the trenches, I'm thinking.....
My brother, after listening to my ranting about Crappomattox (Problemattox? SlapAMuskOx? CrappyButtox? AppleMaalox?), gave me an utterly brilliant idea for the final performance. I only wish I'd had the stones to pull it off, but alas, I am not tenured, and even if I was, this would still be the kind of stunt that would have security escorting me out of the house after collecting my I.D....which is why I share it with you, so that it may live on in cyberspace if not in infamy....
He said, "You should get the biggest frozen turkey you can find, and shove it up under your dress. Then, in the final scene, you oughta straddle one of the traps, make a few moaning and screaming noises, and let'er rip!"
I could just see it...
MIZ SCARLETT, MIZ SCARLETT, I DUNNO NUFFIN 'BOUT BIRTHIN' NO BABIES!!!!
BLAMMO!
And, as it hit the concrete, it would have been interesting to know what the exact sound between 'shatter' and 'splat' sounded like....
At the final performance, we DID have 'un peu' bit o'fun at the opera's expense...in the 'flight from Richmond' scene, I have to push a rickety baby carriage onstage. I got in line to pick up the carriage...to find one of the props guys had stuck a disembodied hand into it, fingers pointing straight up, looking like something out of 'Rosemary's Baby' or the final scene in 'Carrie'.
Of course, I went on with it.
We had a pickup football game in the dressing room with the pregnancy pad.
And, although no turkeys were harmed in the making of this opera, I DID have a sin, a la Tannhauser, in honor of the composer, scrawled across my chest in red;
MINIMALISM.
And many many cocktails were consumed after the final show.
Hallelujah, Amen.
Skidding Sideways Into the Holidays...
...and landing with a soft 'thud' against the new year, legs splayed, eyes glazed, wondering 'what..the...HELL?'...
Oh dear. When I last wrote, I had all good intentions of keeping you apprised of all my doings (or as many as might make for good anecdotes), but I had no idea that my life was about to go into hyperdrive with a turbo boost and an everclear chaser...three and a half months straight of six-day weeks of two-call days, a death and two pregnancies in my family, a nasty cold, dramas galore, and--surprise surprise!--a new relationship--have all conspired to keep me busier than a bulldyke in a hardware store. This week is, honestly, the first chance I've had to catch my breath since, oh...August?
But I didn't come here to complain, yet again, about how I don't have time to write. I came to give you a couple of juicy tidbits and a promise of more (hey, I'm not doing anything else this week except walking the dog and waiting for my man to come home from the East Coast...) in the next week or so.
First, some highlights;
So, in Tannhauser...the men in the Pilgrim's Chorus had to walk, stumble, and crawl across stage bare-chested, with their 'sins' scrawled on their chests in (fake) blood....in English. (In a German opera, mind you.) Thoughtful of them to try and close-caption the men's chorus, but rather wasted effort, as, with the lighting and staging, they couldn't be read from the stage anyway.
The men were also less than thrilled with the blood as it basically had the same consistency as the decorating gels you buy to write 'happy birthday' on baked goods--and the men had to put shirts on OVER the blood, then rip the shirts off for the next costume change after the blood had dried, taking bits of dried corn syrup and manly chest hair along with it. Strangely, though, when they complained to us women about having to rip out great hunks of excess body hair, they weren't getting as much sympathy as they had expected....I wonder why...(as my sainted father actually and in all seriousness said to me once, "You want sympathy?? It's in the dictionary....between 'shit' and 'syphilis'!" Gee, thanks, Dad, I feel better already...)
And, as if the men weren't happy enough about having to be half-naked for their art, they had to cross over to the stage right side of the opera house to go onstage....right past the women's dressing rooms. Don't THINK we weren't there to cheer them on.
Oh my yes, we were. Right there. Of course we were.
With scorecards.
(WHAT? I don't know what they were bitching about---the numbers were all eights, nines, and tens. Well, OK, except MAYBE one or two of them. And we only used those cards once or twice. For guys who reallllly deserved it. YOU know who you are.)
Oh dear. When I last wrote, I had all good intentions of keeping you apprised of all my doings (or as many as might make for good anecdotes), but I had no idea that my life was about to go into hyperdrive with a turbo boost and an everclear chaser...three and a half months straight of six-day weeks of two-call days, a death and two pregnancies in my family, a nasty cold, dramas galore, and--surprise surprise!--a new relationship--have all conspired to keep me busier than a bulldyke in a hardware store. This week is, honestly, the first chance I've had to catch my breath since, oh...August?
But I didn't come here to complain, yet again, about how I don't have time to write. I came to give you a couple of juicy tidbits and a promise of more (hey, I'm not doing anything else this week except walking the dog and waiting for my man to come home from the East Coast...) in the next week or so.
First, some highlights;
So, in Tannhauser...the men in the Pilgrim's Chorus had to walk, stumble, and crawl across stage bare-chested, with their 'sins' scrawled on their chests in (fake) blood....in English. (In a German opera, mind you.) Thoughtful of them to try and close-caption the men's chorus, but rather wasted effort, as, with the lighting and staging, they couldn't be read from the stage anyway.
The men were also less than thrilled with the blood as it basically had the same consistency as the decorating gels you buy to write 'happy birthday' on baked goods--and the men had to put shirts on OVER the blood, then rip the shirts off for the next costume change after the blood had dried, taking bits of dried corn syrup and manly chest hair along with it. Strangely, though, when they complained to us women about having to rip out great hunks of excess body hair, they weren't getting as much sympathy as they had expected....I wonder why...(as my sainted father actually and in all seriousness said to me once, "You want sympathy?? It's in the dictionary....between 'shit' and 'syphilis'!" Gee, thanks, Dad, I feel better already...)
And, as if the men weren't happy enough about having to be half-naked for their art, they had to cross over to the stage right side of the opera house to go onstage....right past the women's dressing rooms. Don't THINK we weren't there to cheer them on.
Oh my yes, we were. Right there. Of course we were.
With scorecards.
(WHAT? I don't know what they were bitching about---the numbers were all eights, nines, and tens. Well, OK, except MAYBE one or two of them. And we only used those cards once or twice. For guys who reallllly deserved it. YOU know who you are.)
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
BI-cycle, BI-cycle, I want to ride my BI-cycle....
First, apologies for not having written in so long. Much has happened these past six weeks and I must admit I am a wee bit pixilated right now, between the demands of work and personal life. I thought I should at least check in so you wouldn't think I'd gone completely off the deep end. Also, I'm not quite ready for the deeper emotional stuff, so you get comedy relief--for now.
I went to my parents' house yesterday, on my precious day off (they have been few and far between of late, let me tell you), to celebrate my father's birthday, which was last week, and also to take possession of a new (or nearly-new) bicycle that belonged to my mother. He'd bought it for her on one of his bulldozer impulses--he thought it would be good for them to take rides together--without bothering to consult HER as to whether she actually WANTED a bicycle...a little while later, she fell at home and seriously injured her knee, which put an end to THAT ambition. So, the bike has been gathering dust in their garage for lo, these past twelve years, until I happened to mention in a phone conversation that I was thinking about buying a bike as a commute vehicle for work. Suddenly, I was summoned to receive said bicycle, complete with all pomp, circumstance, accessories and equipment below:
1 bike helmet
2 locks; a kryptonite and a coil (with stern instructions to use BOTH. at once.)
FOUR (count'em; he did!) blinking lights, two with VARIABLE speeds, to clip to self and bike for night riding
The owners' manual, hermetically sealed in a zip-loc bag along with--get this--
The RECEIPT. (Does ANYONE keep EVERY receipt he's EVER gotten? My dad does. No joke.)
TWO pumps--an enormous heavy old steel foot-pump (Gee, thanks, dad--I don't need to actually RIDE the bike--I can just use the foot pump to get my exercise!!) and a compressor that plugs into my car's lighter jack (in case I should get a flat while riding away from my car...)
A pants cuff-holder (so I don't have the same sort of hem issues I had in Rosenkavalier)
etc. (as in, I can't remember it all...)
As I was strapping on the helmet and cuff strap (I didn't care if I looked like a dork; I haven't been on a bike in fifteen years and my skills are more than a little rusty) and preparing to mount, my dad tried to fill my head with a steady stream of detailed information on the bike, its gears, and so on, but forgetting that he'd never bothered to give me so much as a rudimentary education in mechanics, and since I've not been bothered to obtain one since (it's on my to-do list, right up there with 'Improve spatial relationship visualization'...), most of his explanation about how one side of the handlebars, which has three gears on the grip, was the 'engine' and the other, with seven, was the 'drive', went right over my head. So, too, the warnings about registering the bike (with the paperwork that he'd included with the manual, mais oui), and making sure I parked right in front of my house to unload the bike and that nobody was watching me while I did, in case they might bop me on the head and steal it from me, and "Shift like this, no, don't do that--Jesus, you're as bad as your mom, no, like THAT, that's better, oh don't forget to get one of those tire pressure gauges, a good one'll set you back about ten bucks, and DON'T go cheap, you'll regret it, the brake pad's touching the front wheel see if you can get that fixed or else you'll ruin the tire--you can ask them about it when you take it in to get a tune-up..". My mother, as I was leaving later on, also grabbed my arm and whispered in my ear;
"PLEASE promise me you won't ride through the Mission District at night!"
Between my mother's over-protectiveness and fear-mongering, and my father's overwhelming anal-retentiveness and refusal to give me any time to actually retain any of the information he was throwing at me with the speed of a drill sergeant...sometimes, I quite frankly find myself amazed that I am able to function as an adult at all.
I had an odd sense of lateral deja vu, though, as I watched my dad adjust the seat for me: I remembered that as a kid of about 5 or 6, I had taken my older brother Jesse's old, seatless bike from the side of the house where dad had put it to throw away with next week's garbage, and taught myself to ride it. Probably fearing the hideous infection and scarring possible from impaling myself on top of the rusted-out seatpost in a crash landing (not to mention the embarrassment of having to explain to a doctor exactly WHY I needed tetanus shots in such a delicate region of my anatomy), my mom insisted that my dad buy a new seat and GIVE me the bicycle, so he did--a bright, sparkly purple banana seat. Now, thirty-odd years later, here he was again, adjusting the seat to give me a bicycle that another family member no longer wanted.
....which is why, in spite of all the frustration and therapy bills, I still love my parents and would do just about anything for them, including giving up my one day off to go through all this.
And now, if you'll excuse me, I am off...in search of a bicycle bell and a big, sparkly, purple banana seat. ;-)
RM
I went to my parents' house yesterday, on my precious day off (they have been few and far between of late, let me tell you), to celebrate my father's birthday, which was last week, and also to take possession of a new (or nearly-new) bicycle that belonged to my mother. He'd bought it for her on one of his bulldozer impulses--he thought it would be good for them to take rides together--without bothering to consult HER as to whether she actually WANTED a bicycle...a little while later, she fell at home and seriously injured her knee, which put an end to THAT ambition. So, the bike has been gathering dust in their garage for lo, these past twelve years, until I happened to mention in a phone conversation that I was thinking about buying a bike as a commute vehicle for work. Suddenly, I was summoned to receive said bicycle, complete with all pomp, circumstance, accessories and equipment below:
1 bike helmet
2 locks; a kryptonite and a coil (with stern instructions to use BOTH. at once.)
FOUR (count'em; he did!) blinking lights, two with VARIABLE speeds, to clip to self and bike for night riding
The owners' manual, hermetically sealed in a zip-loc bag along with--get this--
The RECEIPT. (Does ANYONE keep EVERY receipt he's EVER gotten? My dad does. No joke.)
TWO pumps--an enormous heavy old steel foot-pump (Gee, thanks, dad--I don't need to actually RIDE the bike--I can just use the foot pump to get my exercise!!) and a compressor that plugs into my car's lighter jack (in case I should get a flat while riding away from my car...)
A pants cuff-holder (so I don't have the same sort of hem issues I had in Rosenkavalier)
etc. (as in, I can't remember it all...)
As I was strapping on the helmet and cuff strap (I didn't care if I looked like a dork; I haven't been on a bike in fifteen years and my skills are more than a little rusty) and preparing to mount, my dad tried to fill my head with a steady stream of detailed information on the bike, its gears, and so on, but forgetting that he'd never bothered to give me so much as a rudimentary education in mechanics, and since I've not been bothered to obtain one since (it's on my to-do list, right up there with 'Improve spatial relationship visualization'...), most of his explanation about how one side of the handlebars, which has three gears on the grip, was the 'engine' and the other, with seven, was the 'drive', went right over my head. So, too, the warnings about registering the bike (with the paperwork that he'd included with the manual, mais oui), and making sure I parked right in front of my house to unload the bike and that nobody was watching me while I did, in case they might bop me on the head and steal it from me, and "Shift like this, no, don't do that--Jesus, you're as bad as your mom, no, like THAT, that's better, oh don't forget to get one of those tire pressure gauges, a good one'll set you back about ten bucks, and DON'T go cheap, you'll regret it, the brake pad's touching the front wheel see if you can get that fixed or else you'll ruin the tire--you can ask them about it when you take it in to get a tune-up..". My mother, as I was leaving later on, also grabbed my arm and whispered in my ear;
"PLEASE promise me you won't ride through the Mission District at night!"
Between my mother's over-protectiveness and fear-mongering, and my father's overwhelming anal-retentiveness and refusal to give me any time to actually retain any of the information he was throwing at me with the speed of a drill sergeant...sometimes, I quite frankly find myself amazed that I am able to function as an adult at all.
I had an odd sense of lateral deja vu, though, as I watched my dad adjust the seat for me: I remembered that as a kid of about 5 or 6, I had taken my older brother Jesse's old, seatless bike from the side of the house where dad had put it to throw away with next week's garbage, and taught myself to ride it. Probably fearing the hideous infection and scarring possible from impaling myself on top of the rusted-out seatpost in a crash landing (not to mention the embarrassment of having to explain to a doctor exactly WHY I needed tetanus shots in such a delicate region of my anatomy), my mom insisted that my dad buy a new seat and GIVE me the bicycle, so he did--a bright, sparkly purple banana seat. Now, thirty-odd years later, here he was again, adjusting the seat to give me a bicycle that another family member no longer wanted.
....which is why, in spite of all the frustration and therapy bills, I still love my parents and would do just about anything for them, including giving up my one day off to go through all this.
And now, if you'll excuse me, I am off...in search of a bicycle bell and a big, sparkly, purple banana seat. ;-)
RM
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Backstage humor
I was standing backstage with some of the props staff tonight during the first staging rehearsal for Appomattox (for my opinion on the piece, look no further than the title formed by adding the letters "CR" to it. No, go on. Take your time. I'll wait. You're welcome.), which is pretty much how I spent most of the three hours...that, and standing around ONstage pretending to be pregnant (I'm not sure why, but someone in Costumes seems to find a way to make sure that the women who have NEVER had a child are invariably the ones who get the pregnancy bag hung around their necks) and pushing a baby carriage...with, not a baby, as one might, naturally, assume would be in a baby carriage, but a barrel in it. Of gunpowder or rum, it looks like, either of which might have been a higher priority, I suppose, than schlepping the actual BABY out of Richmond, VA (oh, did I mention that the scene we're staging is the flight from...?)...
But I digress.
So, we're standing around backstage pissing and moaning about standing around backstage, when I grumble that the set looks NOTHING like a scene from the Civil War--more like the Love Boat from Hell, actually, with a long gangplank coming down from one side, nasty-looking metal girders at odd angles, bright lights coming directly into our eyes from the sides, and many different levels all over the place for people to trip over--the kind of set, in short, that gives modernist set designers geekgasms and stage managers heart attacks.
"Or from 'Death of Kliinghoffer', maybe, my props friend mused, then added, "You know, we used to have a cocktail in those days called the Klinghoffer, when we (he and his buds on the crew) would hang out at Kimball's...."
"Really?" I said, taking the bait. "What was it?"
He grinned.
"Two shots and a splash."
We're here all week, folks....tip the buffet, eat the waitresses....
RM
But I digress.
So, we're standing around backstage pissing and moaning about standing around backstage, when I grumble that the set looks NOTHING like a scene from the Civil War--more like the Love Boat from Hell, actually, with a long gangplank coming down from one side, nasty-looking metal girders at odd angles, bright lights coming directly into our eyes from the sides, and many different levels all over the place for people to trip over--the kind of set, in short, that gives modernist set designers geekgasms and stage managers heart attacks.
"Or from 'Death of Kliinghoffer', maybe, my props friend mused, then added, "You know, we used to have a cocktail in those days called the Klinghoffer, when we (he and his buds on the crew) would hang out at Kimball's...."
"Really?" I said, taking the bait. "What was it?"
He grinned.
"Two shots and a splash."
We're here all week, folks....tip the buffet, eat the waitresses....
RM
Friday, June 29, 2007
One strange day
I wonder if I shouldn't have stayed in bed....the day began and ended with power outages (rather uncommon in the summer); that should have been a clue that the moon was in weird. Instead, I cluelessly sallied forth, and my day happened as follows....
1) I managed to dent my bumper (badly) when, as I was pulling into a parking space near my house coming home after walking the dog, I smacked right into the brick surround a neighbor had put around his street tree (exactly to avoid damage from idiots like me, I'm sure). Flustered and angry at myself (I'm not the best parallel-parker at the best of times, but I usually don't run into anything), I grabbed dog, hoodie, keys, cell phone, wallet, and self and got us all up the stairs and into the house without further incident.
2) I'd gone home between the afternoon rehearsal and evening's performance. As I was driving back to work, I did something I've NEVER done before in my life, and it rattled me pretty badly; I ran a red light. I'd stopped and waited, as usual, and when the car in front of me made a (perfectly legal) right turn, I simply trundled right through the intersection after him as if the light had changed, only realizing my mistake after I'd cleared it and the bright red color of the light registered in my foggy little brain. I am incredibly grateful that I didn't hurt anyone. I am ALSO incredibly grateful that I didn't get busted for it, because I would have been in deep Kim Chee--
3) When I went to lock up my cell phone, wallet, and keys before going onstage, I discovered my wallet was missing. That's right--if I'd been pulled over, I would not have had my drivers' license to show Mr/Ms. Police Officer. What fun!
But, all's well that ends well...I was able to get through the performance without letting the day's events throw me, I got home safely, and sure enough, my wallet was sitting in the pocket of my dog-walking hoodie--right where I'd thoughtlessly shoved it when I got home this morning. And there was a beautiful full moon accompanying me on my way down 101, playing hide and seek with the fog and reminding me that whatever had happened--whether I'd actually lost my wallet or not, whether I'd been cited or not, whether my car was messed up or not--it was going to be OK, that it was really a small blip in the grand scheme of things.
Now, if I could just get my 'check engine' light to turn off before I drive up north to visit my family tomorrow....
RM
1) I managed to dent my bumper (badly) when, as I was pulling into a parking space near my house coming home after walking the dog, I smacked right into the brick surround a neighbor had put around his street tree (exactly to avoid damage from idiots like me, I'm sure). Flustered and angry at myself (I'm not the best parallel-parker at the best of times, but I usually don't run into anything), I grabbed dog, hoodie, keys, cell phone, wallet, and self and got us all up the stairs and into the house without further incident.
2) I'd gone home between the afternoon rehearsal and evening's performance. As I was driving back to work, I did something I've NEVER done before in my life, and it rattled me pretty badly; I ran a red light. I'd stopped and waited, as usual, and when the car in front of me made a (perfectly legal) right turn, I simply trundled right through the intersection after him as if the light had changed, only realizing my mistake after I'd cleared it and the bright red color of the light registered in my foggy little brain. I am incredibly grateful that I didn't hurt anyone. I am ALSO incredibly grateful that I didn't get busted for it, because I would have been in deep Kim Chee--
3) When I went to lock up my cell phone, wallet, and keys before going onstage, I discovered my wallet was missing. That's right--if I'd been pulled over, I would not have had my drivers' license to show Mr/Ms. Police Officer. What fun!
But, all's well that ends well...I was able to get through the performance without letting the day's events throw me, I got home safely, and sure enough, my wallet was sitting in the pocket of my dog-walking hoodie--right where I'd thoughtlessly shoved it when I got home this morning. And there was a beautiful full moon accompanying me on my way down 101, playing hide and seek with the fog and reminding me that whatever had happened--whether I'd actually lost my wallet or not, whether I'd been cited or not, whether my car was messed up or not--it was going to be OK, that it was really a small blip in the grand scheme of things.
Now, if I could just get my 'check engine' light to turn off before I drive up north to visit my family tomorrow....
RM
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Moi, Je suis un Flaneurette...
This morning, it being that glorious warm sunny day so supposedly rare in this city, and me in desperate need of some sort of exercise, I wandered off towards the valley of Noe to deliver a note and a couple of dollars to a person from whom I had purchased a bistro set the previous day (many thanks to you, J.N., and happy trails in Santa Cruz!). Being the navel-gazer I am, I have learned that I am definitely meant to move at a slower speed than many of my demographic; I've tried jogging (yes, smartass...more than once) but found it only served to reinforce my contention that if God had MEANT for us to be runners...he'd have made better predators. (Just sayin'.)
I have also long held that one cannot truly KNOW a place until one has travelled it on foot. For instance, there are a few antique stores on Church street I hadn't known were there, even after living close to them for 13 years--I was too busy zipping along in my sealed environment, concentrating on my driving, to notice them before. I also get to take in small architectural and botanical details on foot that I cannot possibly absorb in a car--the way someone put a stepping-stone next to their Abutilon just so a neighborhood tabby would have the perfect spot to sun herself, or a tiny stained-glass window above someone's door catching late-morning sunlight, or that a local cafe is owned by a very sweet-faced Greek man who waves and shouts "HI!" at me as I go by.
I'm currently reading Rebecca Solnit's book of essays entitled Wanderlust; A History of Walking, which is actually much more interesting than it sounds from the title alone. I'm on a chapter that speaks about a character that appeared in Paris sometime in the early 19th century, called a Flaneur:
"What exactly a flaneur IS has never been satisfactorily defined, but among all the versions of the flaneur as everything from a primeval slacker to a silent poet, one thing remains constant: the image of a solitary (man) strolling about Paris."
(Wanderlust, pg 198.)
"The flaneur, visually consuming...while resisting the speed of industrialization and the pressure to produce, is an ambiguous figure, both resistant to and seduced by the new commercial culture." (p 199.)
I kinda like that idea...especially having an 'ambiguous figure' myself (t'hee.)...it speaks to me of a person who chooses to ignore the relentless call of the consumer culture, who takes their pleasure in truly savoring, experiencing the world, at their own speed and in their own way.
Of course, the thing about being out and about on foot is that it DOES mean occasionally interacting with other people.
Mostly, this is not a traumatic experience, but at one point in my perambulation I found myself cornered (literally--it was the corner of Sanchez and 29th!) by an earnest group of six or seven well-dressed evangelicals (I THINK they were JWs, as those are the ones I usually see working the streets--but as I am not religious, I can't spot them on sight, and I didn't talk to them long enough to get a positive ID, so...) trying to save the collective soul of Noe Valley, and even if I didn't live there myself, by gum, I was still in need of savin', and I was gonna GET some, whether I liked it or not. One of them, a chunky dark-haired lady of about 50, stepped in front of me and held up a bible, saying:
"Good morning ma'am! Have YOU found JESUS?"
For a moment, I was taken aback--but fortunately, my tongue seems to be permanently implanted in my cheek, and with the sweetest, calmest tone I could muster, I said;
"Yes. Yes, I DID find Jesus. But my mommy taught me never to take anything that didn't belong to me, and so I put him right back where I found him."
(Father forgive me, for I have sinned. I am an incurable smartass. )
Well, it could have been worse--I didn't swear, and I didn't yell. And it worked...the tailwind from their open mouths caught my sails, and soon enough, I found myself safe and sound back home, where I belonged.
I love a happy ending, don't you? :-)
I know, I know--I promised Iphigenie, and gave you JWs. I'll try to be better next time.
RM
I have also long held that one cannot truly KNOW a place until one has travelled it on foot. For instance, there are a few antique stores on Church street I hadn't known were there, even after living close to them for 13 years--I was too busy zipping along in my sealed environment, concentrating on my driving, to notice them before. I also get to take in small architectural and botanical details on foot that I cannot possibly absorb in a car--the way someone put a stepping-stone next to their Abutilon just so a neighborhood tabby would have the perfect spot to sun herself, or a tiny stained-glass window above someone's door catching late-morning sunlight, or that a local cafe is owned by a very sweet-faced Greek man who waves and shouts "HI!" at me as I go by.
I'm currently reading Rebecca Solnit's book of essays entitled Wanderlust; A History of Walking, which is actually much more interesting than it sounds from the title alone. I'm on a chapter that speaks about a character that appeared in Paris sometime in the early 19th century, called a Flaneur:
"What exactly a flaneur IS has never been satisfactorily defined, but among all the versions of the flaneur as everything from a primeval slacker to a silent poet, one thing remains constant: the image of a solitary (man) strolling about Paris."
(Wanderlust, pg 198.)
"The flaneur, visually consuming...while resisting the speed of industrialization and the pressure to produce, is an ambiguous figure, both resistant to and seduced by the new commercial culture." (p 199.)
I kinda like that idea...especially having an 'ambiguous figure' myself (t'hee.)...it speaks to me of a person who chooses to ignore the relentless call of the consumer culture, who takes their pleasure in truly savoring, experiencing the world, at their own speed and in their own way.
Of course, the thing about being out and about on foot is that it DOES mean occasionally interacting with other people.
Mostly, this is not a traumatic experience, but at one point in my perambulation I found myself cornered (literally--it was the corner of Sanchez and 29th!) by an earnest group of six or seven well-dressed evangelicals (I THINK they were JWs, as those are the ones I usually see working the streets--but as I am not religious, I can't spot them on sight, and I didn't talk to them long enough to get a positive ID, so...) trying to save the collective soul of Noe Valley, and even if I didn't live there myself, by gum, I was still in need of savin', and I was gonna GET some, whether I liked it or not. One of them, a chunky dark-haired lady of about 50, stepped in front of me and held up a bible, saying:
"Good morning ma'am! Have YOU found JESUS?"
For a moment, I was taken aback--but fortunately, my tongue seems to be permanently implanted in my cheek, and with the sweetest, calmest tone I could muster, I said;
"Yes. Yes, I DID find Jesus. But my mommy taught me never to take anything that didn't belong to me, and so I put him right back where I found him."
(Father forgive me, for I have sinned. I am an incurable smartass. )
Well, it could have been worse--I didn't swear, and I didn't yell. And it worked...the tailwind from their open mouths caught my sails, and soon enough, I found myself safe and sound back home, where I belonged.
I love a happy ending, don't you? :-)
I know, I know--I promised Iphigenie, and gave you JWs. I'll try to be better next time.
RM
Thursday, June 14, 2007
I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. De Mille....
...so, I made my 'mainstage debut' last week, in Der Rosenkavalier, as one of the three Noble Orphans (the one on the right...and straight on till morning...). Strangely, I wasn't as nervous as I thought I would be, in spite of it being my first solo, as it wasn't really a solo--after all, there would have to be TWO orphans for me to be the third, right? ;-)....ironically enough, I found myself comforting one of the other orphans, who had had an anxiety dream about being fired by Shane Gasbarra (artistic administrator at SFO) and was paranoid about her performance....I told her, "Just don't go to any artists' receptions, and you'll be fine!!"* Bear in mind, this was a soprano (and stop that snickering, you there in the cheap seats--'soprano' is NOT necessarily Italian for 'high maintenance') who has done many solos at SFO in the past and has a GLORIOUS voice--no good reason for her to be worried. Still...I guess there is an awful lot of pressure in doing a solo. I dunno...I guess my attitude was (at least subconsciously), "If I ain't doing Octavian....what have I got to worry about?"
As for how I did? Well...I actually felt pretty good about it, vocally, although I DID have a bit of a 'wardrobe malfunction'. We are costumed in gorgeous dark navy blue (almost black) gowns with a train, and during our final bit of singing, we have to curtsey, back up a few paces, curtsey, back up a few paces, then curtsey once more before vanishing into the wings. Not being the girliest girl on the block (yes, I play in the hetero sandbox, but I also throw, bat, and climb trees....sort of like Eddie Izzard's 'executive transvestite' but with REAL tits), I don't have all that much experience with big skirty things, so when I began to back up, sure enough, my heel landed on the hem of my dress, and I began to pull myself backwards with each step as I walked up the back of the dress. So it went something like...
"Gluck und SEGen, aller WEGen....."
(UH-oh.)
"Euer GNADen hohen sinn...."
(fuck. fuck fuckfuckfuckfuckFUCKFUCKFUCKohshitFUCKFUCKFUCKKK!!!!!!!...)
"Ein geGRABen steht er HABen...."
(OK, I'm looking at the ceiling; this isn't good.)
"Er in unserm HERZ-EN----DRIN!"
(AH-HA! I'm FREE!)
WHEW!
A couple of hours later, Ian (the chorus director) sidles up to me backstage and slyly says, grinning, "I hear you stepped on your dress...."
(@%$&#$!)
In case you haven't noticed, word gets around, around here.
Sorry I haven't been very good about posting; I'll try and do a little better. Next up; Iphigenie! Whee fun!
RM
*In case you don't keep up on opera dirt, there was a HUGE kerfuffle a couple weeks ago around here when a soprano, Hope Briggs, was unceremoniously fired from Don Giovanni AFTER the dress rehearsal (Not done. Ever. Well, hardly ever). From what I've heard (I'm not in the show, so I wasn't there for the fireworks), she wasn't right for the role in the first place; but the WAY in which she was fired--she was pulled out of an artists' reception (hence my joke) after the dress rehearsal, with no warning (at least according to her), to receive the bad news--was pretty declasse, especially for a director who prides himself (and actually is generally known for) being artist-friendly.
As for how I did? Well...I actually felt pretty good about it, vocally, although I DID have a bit of a 'wardrobe malfunction'. We are costumed in gorgeous dark navy blue (almost black) gowns with a train, and during our final bit of singing, we have to curtsey, back up a few paces, curtsey, back up a few paces, then curtsey once more before vanishing into the wings. Not being the girliest girl on the block (yes, I play in the hetero sandbox, but I also throw, bat, and climb trees....sort of like Eddie Izzard's 'executive transvestite' but with REAL tits), I don't have all that much experience with big skirty things, so when I began to back up, sure enough, my heel landed on the hem of my dress, and I began to pull myself backwards with each step as I walked up the back of the dress. So it went something like...
"Gluck und SEGen, aller WEGen....."
(UH-oh.)
"Euer GNADen hohen sinn...."
(fuck. fuck fuckfuckfuckfuckFUCKFUCKFUCKohshitFUCKFUCKFUCKKK!!!!!!!...)
"Ein geGRABen steht er HABen...."
(OK, I'm looking at the ceiling; this isn't good.)
"Er in unserm HERZ-EN----DRIN!"
(AH-HA! I'm FREE!)
WHEW!
A couple of hours later, Ian (the chorus director) sidles up to me backstage and slyly says, grinning, "I hear you stepped on your dress...."
(@%$&#$!)
In case you haven't noticed, word gets around, around here.
Sorry I haven't been very good about posting; I'll try and do a little better. Next up; Iphigenie! Whee fun!
RM
*In case you don't keep up on opera dirt, there was a HUGE kerfuffle a couple weeks ago around here when a soprano, Hope Briggs, was unceremoniously fired from Don Giovanni AFTER the dress rehearsal (Not done. Ever. Well, hardly ever). From what I've heard (I'm not in the show, so I wasn't there for the fireworks), she wasn't right for the role in the first place; but the WAY in which she was fired--she was pulled out of an artists' reception (hence my joke) after the dress rehearsal, with no warning (at least according to her), to receive the bad news--was pretty declasse, especially for a director who prides himself (and actually is generally known for) being artist-friendly.
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
Duck and Cover
I had a very odd experience at work tonight....the two women who sit on either side of me (one straight, one transgendered) both asked me for the name and number of a good MFT for couples' counseling. (-!-)
I'm a little alarmed. It seems that we in the chorus are going through a period of relationship issues (hence the title), as several other long-term relationships seem to be foundering as well as my friends'. I say 'we' merely as a way of grouping...I would LIKE to have relationship issues, but that requires being in a RELATIONSHIP, doesn't it? Oh. Wait. No, it doesn't--the fact that I'm not IN a relationship seems to be its own issue (but I won't bore you outright with my neuroses, shall I? I'll merely allude to them from time to time, and you can find out the real depth of my fucked-uppedness when you read about my spectacular--yet utterly amusing and fascinating, of course--psychotic break in the papers some random evening)...never mind that men seem to not be exactly throwing themselves at me of late*--in fact, one might say they're throwing themselves AWAY from me...
At any rate, I find it utterly amusing (in a laugh-until-you-cry sort of manner, mais oui) that my colleagues seem to think of me as some sort of wise elder--ah, she's been through this before, let's ask HER for references!--then again, it may just be that my delusions of grandeur are at it again, and they're just asking me because--ah, she's fucked up, I'll bet she knows lots of therapists!
OR, maybe it's that celestial aura I give off, that sense of "Ah...she's managed to come to a place of zen oneness with the Universe, as well as being over thirty and unmarried (always suspect if one is a woman, even in this so-called advanced day and age), and doesn't NEED a man in her life to find wholeness, and therefore, she's much more knowledgeable about relationships in general...."
Really, people. Has it occurred to any of you that I just CAN'T get laid to save my life, and am a complete disaster in relationships? And if you want a therapist, for fuck's sake, look one up in the Yellow Pages.
After all, that's what I did.
OK, now I'm depressed....I'm going to have a drink.
Meh.
*'of late'??? Who am I kidding? Try since Duran Duran ruled the airwaves...oh wait. Never mind--they didn't go after me then either...
I'm a little alarmed. It seems that we in the chorus are going through a period of relationship issues (hence the title), as several other long-term relationships seem to be foundering as well as my friends'. I say 'we' merely as a way of grouping...I would LIKE to have relationship issues, but that requires being in a RELATIONSHIP, doesn't it? Oh. Wait. No, it doesn't--the fact that I'm not IN a relationship seems to be its own issue (but I won't bore you outright with my neuroses, shall I? I'll merely allude to them from time to time, and you can find out the real depth of my fucked-uppedness when you read about my spectacular--yet utterly amusing and fascinating, of course--psychotic break in the papers some random evening)...never mind that men seem to not be exactly throwing themselves at me of late*--in fact, one might say they're throwing themselves AWAY from me...
At any rate, I find it utterly amusing (in a laugh-until-you-cry sort of manner, mais oui) that my colleagues seem to think of me as some sort of wise elder--ah, she's been through this before, let's ask HER for references!--then again, it may just be that my delusions of grandeur are at it again, and they're just asking me because--ah, she's fucked up, I'll bet she knows lots of therapists!
OR, maybe it's that celestial aura I give off, that sense of "Ah...she's managed to come to a place of zen oneness with the Universe, as well as being over thirty and unmarried (always suspect if one is a woman, even in this so-called advanced day and age), and doesn't NEED a man in her life to find wholeness, and therefore, she's much more knowledgeable about relationships in general...."
Really, people. Has it occurred to any of you that I just CAN'T get laid to save my life, and am a complete disaster in relationships? And if you want a therapist, for fuck's sake, look one up in the Yellow Pages.
After all, that's what I did.
OK, now I'm depressed....I'm going to have a drink.
Meh.
*'of late'??? Who am I kidding? Try since Duran Duran ruled the airwaves...oh wait. Never mind--they didn't go after me then either...
Monday, April 16, 2007
...and when she raised her head to look around, a month had passed...
Going into my fifth week as a professional chorister (no, really....hold your applause.) and only just now is it registering that it's been a month since work began. In the weeks leading up to that first week and during the week itself, I believed it would be no problem to make the adjustment from Extra to Regular chorus--after all, I'd already BEEN there eight years; it would be exactly the same, only more so.....right?
Well....yes and no.
Walking into the opera house, going to the fifth floor--as comfortable as putting on an old pair of jeans (and NO, not the fancy-schmancy $300 pair that makes your butt look as if it's been molded by Michelangelo--as my John Waters-loving college friend used to say, along with the requisite eye-roll, "Puh-LEEZE, Francine!"). It's lovely to get the recognition from my colleagues that comes along with being welcomed as a fully-fledged full-timer, although I know damn well it doesn't have much to do with talent as much as sheer dumb luck that there was an opening in the mezzo section, and that the extras, as often as not, can sing circles around their regular counterparts--but that's a rant for a later screed...so, in that sense, yes, it's the same (but with a much much MUCH better paycheck, she said sweetly, with a batting of lashes and dimpled grin).
I've noticed a distinct difference in how I'm treated by the other regulars. I wish I could clearly tell you what the finer points of those differences are (and maybe someday soon, if I figure it out myself, I will), but it's more a sense, a vibe--as I mentioned to some of my friends, the picture I keep getting is of the scene from the old cult classic movie 'Freaks' where the circus freaks are gathered to welcome a new member of their tribe, banging on the table chanting "One of us...one of us...one of us!!!" I am on their level now. I haven't changed, but my status among the pack has. I am one of the freaks. (Trust me. If you knew some of these people--and if you've ever seen 'In the Shadow of the Stars', think about the ones who DIDN'T make it into the documentary....and WHY...you'll get an idea of what I mean.)
As for the difficulties....mainly it comes from the fact that my free time has become non-existent. Now, one might think that it wouldn't be an imposition to work only six hours (two three-hour rehearsals) a freaking day, right? Ah, bon. BUT. Add in travel time (and I'm one of the lucky ones...I actually live here in the city), plus the dinner break (ninety minutes--just long enough to dash home, remind the dog of who I am, scarf something resembling nourishment, and dash back for the evening's rehearsal), the occasional fitting, voice lessons, coachings, and suddenly, the afternoon and evening are no longer mine. Not that I'm bitching. Please don't misunderstand....I am still immensely grateful for the job--seriously, folks; how many people get PAID--with BENEFITS, even--to SING??--but I will readily admit I was caught off-guard by my lack of preparedness for just HOW much of a time commitment it was. Too, I am not a hard-charger by nature--I don't function well for long periods of time at top speed without down time to recharge the batteries. (Read: I. am. LAZY.) I've spent the last week and a half in panic mode, feeling quite overwhelmed. I had the day off, and spent most of it cleaning--the dust bunnies had gotten so large they'd formed their own government and were threatening coup--and it felt WONDERFUL.
It doesn't help that I'm preparing to sing on my first studio recital for my voice teacher next week--only one aria, but it's a killer ('Where Shall I Fly?' from Hercules, by Handel--whoopee, mad scene! Let the scenery-chewing commence!), plus 'Libiamo' from Triviata (yes, I MEANT to spell it that way--a glass of wine and a pair of cranky pants'll do that for a girl).
In addition to the professional fun and games, my personal life isn't going on all cylinders, either--I found out within the past two weeks that two of the most important (in terms of formative influence) women in my life are dying; my aunt Kathy from metastatized ovarian cancer, and my friend Ruth (who, along with her husband Steve, basically took over raising me after I moved out of my parents' house as I was not yet fully formed) from a combination of congestive heart failure and chronic obstructive pulmonary disease--which basically means, her heart ain't workin' right, and her lungs ain't workin' right.
....but, I've just looked out the window (conveniently ignoring, for the moment, the ruin that is my backyard--I can't call it a garden, as that would imply actual INVOLVEMENT--another project on my ever-growing list of to-dos that seem to recede further and further into the mists of time), and noticed that I've managed to catch the last tendrils of an intense pink on blue sunset, with a few seagulls silhouetted against the illumined sky...and I think, I'm sorry...what, exactly, was I bitching about, again?
More soon. Thanks for showing up.
RM
Well....yes and no.
Walking into the opera house, going to the fifth floor--as comfortable as putting on an old pair of jeans (and NO, not the fancy-schmancy $300 pair that makes your butt look as if it's been molded by Michelangelo--as my John Waters-loving college friend used to say, along with the requisite eye-roll, "Puh-LEEZE, Francine!"). It's lovely to get the recognition from my colleagues that comes along with being welcomed as a fully-fledged full-timer, although I know damn well it doesn't have much to do with talent as much as sheer dumb luck that there was an opening in the mezzo section, and that the extras, as often as not, can sing circles around their regular counterparts--but that's a rant for a later screed...so, in that sense, yes, it's the same (but with a much much MUCH better paycheck, she said sweetly, with a batting of lashes and dimpled grin).
I've noticed a distinct difference in how I'm treated by the other regulars. I wish I could clearly tell you what the finer points of those differences are (and maybe someday soon, if I figure it out myself, I will), but it's more a sense, a vibe--as I mentioned to some of my friends, the picture I keep getting is of the scene from the old cult classic movie 'Freaks' where the circus freaks are gathered to welcome a new member of their tribe, banging on the table chanting "One of us...one of us...one of us!!!" I am on their level now. I haven't changed, but my status among the pack has. I am one of the freaks. (Trust me. If you knew some of these people--and if you've ever seen 'In the Shadow of the Stars', think about the ones who DIDN'T make it into the documentary....and WHY...you'll get an idea of what I mean.)
As for the difficulties....mainly it comes from the fact that my free time has become non-existent. Now, one might think that it wouldn't be an imposition to work only six hours (two three-hour rehearsals) a freaking day, right? Ah, bon. BUT. Add in travel time (and I'm one of the lucky ones...I actually live here in the city), plus the dinner break (ninety minutes--just long enough to dash home, remind the dog of who I am, scarf something resembling nourishment, and dash back for the evening's rehearsal), the occasional fitting, voice lessons, coachings, and suddenly, the afternoon and evening are no longer mine. Not that I'm bitching. Please don't misunderstand....I am still immensely grateful for the job--seriously, folks; how many people get PAID--with BENEFITS, even--to SING??--but I will readily admit I was caught off-guard by my lack of preparedness for just HOW much of a time commitment it was. Too, I am not a hard-charger by nature--I don't function well for long periods of time at top speed without down time to recharge the batteries. (Read: I. am. LAZY.) I've spent the last week and a half in panic mode, feeling quite overwhelmed. I had the day off, and spent most of it cleaning--the dust bunnies had gotten so large they'd formed their own government and were threatening coup--and it felt WONDERFUL.
It doesn't help that I'm preparing to sing on my first studio recital for my voice teacher next week--only one aria, but it's a killer ('Where Shall I Fly?' from Hercules, by Handel--whoopee, mad scene! Let the scenery-chewing commence!), plus 'Libiamo' from Triviata (yes, I MEANT to spell it that way--a glass of wine and a pair of cranky pants'll do that for a girl).
In addition to the professional fun and games, my personal life isn't going on all cylinders, either--I found out within the past two weeks that two of the most important (in terms of formative influence) women in my life are dying; my aunt Kathy from metastatized ovarian cancer, and my friend Ruth (who, along with her husband Steve, basically took over raising me after I moved out of my parents' house as I was not yet fully formed) from a combination of congestive heart failure and chronic obstructive pulmonary disease--which basically means, her heart ain't workin' right, and her lungs ain't workin' right.
....but, I've just looked out the window (conveniently ignoring, for the moment, the ruin that is my backyard--I can't call it a garden, as that would imply actual INVOLVEMENT--another project on my ever-growing list of to-dos that seem to recede further and further into the mists of time), and noticed that I've managed to catch the last tendrils of an intense pink on blue sunset, with a few seagulls silhouetted against the illumined sky...and I think, I'm sorry...what, exactly, was I bitching about, again?
More soon. Thanks for showing up.
RM
Saturday, March 17, 2007
she peers out from behind the curtain...
Um. Hi.
'clears throat nervously'
TAP, TAP
Is this thing on?
Oh.
It is?
Sorry.
Ahem.
Well.
Um. Hi.
I'm rather new to this posty bloggy thing, so I'll keep this first one short and sweet. I'm an opera singer (for those of you who didn't pick that up already) but I reserve the right to post my inane opinions on other subjects as well. Why not? Everyone else does these days....just call me a little furry self-absorbed pop culture lemming. Go on. You know you wanna.
More soonly...
RM
'clears throat nervously'
TAP, TAP
Is this thing on?
Oh.
It is?
Sorry.
Ahem.
Well.
Um. Hi.
I'm rather new to this posty bloggy thing, so I'll keep this first one short and sweet. I'm an opera singer (for those of you who didn't pick that up already) but I reserve the right to post my inane opinions on other subjects as well. Why not? Everyone else does these days....just call me a little furry self-absorbed pop culture lemming. Go on. You know you wanna.
More soonly...
RM
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