I just got asked to send ANOTHER bio off for an upcoming gig, for their program. I hate writing bios. I wasn't in the mood to do it. But, I did it anyway, and here's how it turned out;
XXXXXXXX, mezzo-soprano, managed to escape her hardscrabble hometown of XXXXXXXX in plenty of time (fifteen years early, as a matter of fact) to make her mainstage debut in the miniscule but important role (at least, that's what they told HER) of "Third Orphan" in San Francisco Opera's most recent production of "Der Rosenkavalier". She has also performed as a soloist many times with the San Francisco Symphony Chorus, Cantabile, City Concert Opera Orchestra, Redwood Symphony, and Peninsula Cantare. Among her operatic roles are Augusta Tabor (Ballad of Baby Doe), Disinganno (Il Trionfo Del Tempo E Del Disinganno), Bradamante (Alcina), Fricka and Flosshilde (Rheingold), and Larina and Filipyevna (Eugene Onegin). When pressed, however, she really would prefer walking her dog on the beach to singing. She hates writing bios.
*****
Do you think maybe it's time I went into accounting??
RM
Monday, January 28, 2008
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Calgon...etc. etc.
So, to fill you in on the events of the past week....
The emails and phone calls began to fly late Saturday, like they do every year about this time, like popcorn--one or two, then a flurry; the extra choristers checking in with each other as the offer letters land in peoples' mailboxes. What did you get? I got two. Kathy, Mark, Michael, and Nicole got three. Paul, Keith, and Delia got two each--yeah, the same ones: Boccanegra and Boris (Gudonov). Corey and Tiffany got no-thank-you letters--can you believe it? I Know--and such good voices, too! You'd think... Did Eileen and Chris get hired back? Yup--and Kevin, too. --But I thought he wasn't auditioning! Yeah, me too, but I guess he did. Did Rachelle finally decide whether to come back or not? Yup--she needs the medical benefits, since her husband doesn't have insurance. Who got Boheme? I dunno--they only ever hire one extra from each section for that anyway--so who got it?--and so on.
I'd already found out--the day before, the chorus administrator had sent me an advance email (it's a courtesy to the regulars on tenure-track or who are about to be hired tenure-track), telling me what my status was.
The GOOD news is, I'm hired back full-time.
The BAD news is, I'm 'leave replacement' only.
What this means is, I'm no longer on track for tenure, with all the medical benefits, etc., that ascribe therefrom--I'm merely filling in for a tenured colleague, with no guarantee of full-time work, or ANY work, for that matter, next year. It's not all bad--there's every chance I could get hired back on tenure-track next year, and at least he hired me full-time; it's not unheard-of for someone to be knocked back to extra chorus (only one or two shows) after being tenure-track. At least I'll have the income, if not the bennies.
I must admit, though, it knocked me back a bit, undermining my confidence as a singer--what? You mean I'm no longer THE ONE?--but once I sat in the corner and sucked my thumb a bit, so to speak, I realized it didn't have a whole lot to do with my talent overall (or the lack thereof!) and everything to do with the fact that I sang while sick--and was arrogant enough to think that that would be enough to maintain my position over those who were perfectly well. Silly me. So, let this be a lesson to you whippersnappers who will go through an audition because you think you HAVE to, no matter your condition--take it from Auntie RM; if you're not feeling well, DON'T SING. It doesn't matter what your history is with a company or a conductor--all they seem to care about is how you sound THAT DAY. It's the only way to ensure a level playing field, I guess--but it IS frustrating that a conductor who's known me, my voice, and my work ethic, for ten years now wouldn't take any of it into consideration when hiring long-term. 'sigh'... Oh well....
And yes, the very next day, my sweetie and I called a time-out in our relationship, so we could both get our poop in a group, so to speak. I don't believe that this is the end; both of us have stated that we want to have the other in our lives, and I believe that we fit too well together for it to end so precipitously (what? Denial? Why, of COURSE I know what that is--it's a river in Egypt, right, mister Twain?). We're supposed to check back in with each other in a couple of weeks; I'll keep you posted.
Surprisingly, I'm not destroyed by the events of the past few days (cue: Elton John, "I'm Still Standing"--no, on second thought, don't. That song annoys the piss out of me.)--I must be the cosmic Weeble--I wobble but don't fall down (ah, those toys from my childhood--who knew they'd have such a strong psychological impact?).
So, kids, keep your chin up. If I can do it, anybody can (OK, OK, with a good therapist and great friends in my corner--but STILL).....
xo
RM
The emails and phone calls began to fly late Saturday, like they do every year about this time, like popcorn--one or two, then a flurry; the extra choristers checking in with each other as the offer letters land in peoples' mailboxes. What did you get? I got two. Kathy, Mark, Michael, and Nicole got three. Paul, Keith, and Delia got two each--yeah, the same ones: Boccanegra and Boris (Gudonov). Corey and Tiffany got no-thank-you letters--can you believe it? I Know--and such good voices, too! You'd think... Did Eileen and Chris get hired back? Yup--and Kevin, too. --But I thought he wasn't auditioning! Yeah, me too, but I guess he did. Did Rachelle finally decide whether to come back or not? Yup--she needs the medical benefits, since her husband doesn't have insurance. Who got Boheme? I dunno--they only ever hire one extra from each section for that anyway--so who got it?--and so on.
I'd already found out--the day before, the chorus administrator had sent me an advance email (it's a courtesy to the regulars on tenure-track or who are about to be hired tenure-track), telling me what my status was.
The GOOD news is, I'm hired back full-time.
The BAD news is, I'm 'leave replacement' only.
What this means is, I'm no longer on track for tenure, with all the medical benefits, etc., that ascribe therefrom--I'm merely filling in for a tenured colleague, with no guarantee of full-time work, or ANY work, for that matter, next year. It's not all bad--there's every chance I could get hired back on tenure-track next year, and at least he hired me full-time; it's not unheard-of for someone to be knocked back to extra chorus (only one or two shows) after being tenure-track. At least I'll have the income, if not the bennies.
I must admit, though, it knocked me back a bit, undermining my confidence as a singer--what? You mean I'm no longer THE ONE?--but once I sat in the corner and sucked my thumb a bit, so to speak, I realized it didn't have a whole lot to do with my talent overall (or the lack thereof!) and everything to do with the fact that I sang while sick--and was arrogant enough to think that that would be enough to maintain my position over those who were perfectly well. Silly me. So, let this be a lesson to you whippersnappers who will go through an audition because you think you HAVE to, no matter your condition--take it from Auntie RM; if you're not feeling well, DON'T SING. It doesn't matter what your history is with a company or a conductor--all they seem to care about is how you sound THAT DAY. It's the only way to ensure a level playing field, I guess--but it IS frustrating that a conductor who's known me, my voice, and my work ethic, for ten years now wouldn't take any of it into consideration when hiring long-term. 'sigh'... Oh well....
And yes, the very next day, my sweetie and I called a time-out in our relationship, so we could both get our poop in a group, so to speak. I don't believe that this is the end; both of us have stated that we want to have the other in our lives, and I believe that we fit too well together for it to end so precipitously (what? Denial? Why, of COURSE I know what that is--it's a river in Egypt, right, mister Twain?). We're supposed to check back in with each other in a couple of weeks; I'll keep you posted.
Surprisingly, I'm not destroyed by the events of the past few days (cue: Elton John, "I'm Still Standing"--no, on second thought, don't. That song annoys the piss out of me.)--I must be the cosmic Weeble--I wobble but don't fall down (ah, those toys from my childhood--who knew they'd have such a strong psychological impact?).
So, kids, keep your chin up. If I can do it, anybody can (OK, OK, with a good therapist and great friends in my corner--but STILL).....
xo
RM
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Thank you, Ethan Ponedel...
I don't mind telling you that I'm in a grunk* tonight. I'm at a bit of a crossroads, personally and professionally...my nascent relationship is foundering on that perverse little fulcrum known as bad timing (i.e., I'm ready to move forward, he isn't), and I'm on tenterhooks waiting to hear whether I'm hired back full-time (with all its attendant benefits) or will be bumped back to Extra chorus. Right now, it feels like everything is in limbo; will we work out our issues? Will I have a job? Is it time for me to move on, pursue the solo career more aggressively, go back to school, move to NYC, throw caution to the wind and go live the Boho life in Europe and make ceramic neti pots (OK, maybe not that last one)?
It's funny how odd memories can pop up when least expected. I was reminded of something that happened when I was in college. I had an obnoxious skater-punk type named Ethan Ponedel (funny how I can remember his name so clearly when half the time I forget my OWN name, eh?) in my poetry class. At the end of the semester, we each had to turn in a booklet containing all the poems we'd written for class, and in addition to the grade we received from the teacher, we were critiqued by, and got to critique in return, all our classmates. I remember none of my other classmates, none of their critiques (all of which, I'm sure, were very kind, very well-intentioned, and absolutely useless to me as a writer or as a person), except for his, because, at the time, it puzzled and annoyed me: instead of a written critique, he'd drawn a crude pastel of a swimmer in choppy waters with a red arrow pointing to it and a single sentence written below, without even the benefit of punctuation--
You can't go fast if you're afraid to wobble
--I dismissed it (and him) in disgust at the time: What a pretentious little jerk! I thought. Couldn't even be bothered to read my poetry, to give me an actual criticism I can USE? What! An! ASSHOLE!!!
But now I see that he HAD read my work, had gotten it--and me--in a way nobody else did, and had had the courage to tell me the truth, in a way I only now, twenty years later, can really appreciate...
You can't go fast if you're afraid to wobble
It's taken me all these years of living with the brakes on to see just how true his words are...so no matter what happens I'll just have to keep swimming, won't I....
RM
*Grunk=grumpy funk, i.e. cranky AND depressed
It's funny how odd memories can pop up when least expected. I was reminded of something that happened when I was in college. I had an obnoxious skater-punk type named Ethan Ponedel (funny how I can remember his name so clearly when half the time I forget my OWN name, eh?) in my poetry class. At the end of the semester, we each had to turn in a booklet containing all the poems we'd written for class, and in addition to the grade we received from the teacher, we were critiqued by, and got to critique in return, all our classmates. I remember none of my other classmates, none of their critiques (all of which, I'm sure, were very kind, very well-intentioned, and absolutely useless to me as a writer or as a person), except for his, because, at the time, it puzzled and annoyed me: instead of a written critique, he'd drawn a crude pastel of a swimmer in choppy waters with a red arrow pointing to it and a single sentence written below, without even the benefit of punctuation--
You can't go fast if you're afraid to wobble
--I dismissed it (and him) in disgust at the time: What a pretentious little jerk! I thought. Couldn't even be bothered to read my poetry, to give me an actual criticism I can USE? What! An! ASSHOLE!!!
But now I see that he HAD read my work, had gotten it--and me--in a way nobody else did, and had had the courage to tell me the truth, in a way I only now, twenty years later, can really appreciate...
You can't go fast if you're afraid to wobble
It's taken me all these years of living with the brakes on to see just how true his words are...so no matter what happens I'll just have to keep swimming, won't I....
RM
*Grunk=grumpy funk, i.e. cranky AND depressed
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Somebody say Amen.
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
*****
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
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
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