Broadway baby

I have a confession to make. I've been having a little flirtation with Broadway. It's harmless, really, nothing to be worried about—I'm just rediscovering that little piece of my heart I left with musical theater oh so many years ago.

It started because I've been studying Sweeney Todd, listening to a recording whenever I'm out and about (some of the more intense passages end up causing me to walk extremely fast). Amazingly enough, I still have most of the show memorized from my musical theater nerd days. Then I went to watch a bit of Evita rehearsal and ended up staying for hours (and I'm going back tonight) just because it was such fun, and such a change from what I usually do. Then I saw Once on Sunday, and now I'm hooked. I've been listening to various cast recordings (turns out I have FOURTEEN musicals on my computer—maybe my Broadway nerd days are not as far behind me as I thought). I'm scanning Broadway listings daily, and I'm wishing I had brought dance shoes to New York so I could take a class. I have traveled to the tourist-infested hell that is Times Square ON PURPOSE more in the past week than I usually do in the course of two months. I don't know what's going on.

Feeling Broadway-obsessed yourself? May I recommend the following:

Show Business:  The Road to Broadway follows four shows that opened in the 2003–4 season, from rehearsals all the way through the Tony Awards.




Every Little Step is about A Chorus Line, both the original production and the audition process for the 2006 revival. It's completely fascinating.




And though tomorrow night I'll go back to my true love (in the form of my 14th Don Giovanni performance of the season), tonight I'll travel to Times Square once again to be a tourist in a Broadway theater.

I guess you never forget your first love.

Phantasie

So pretty much since I got here I've been spending all my time either sleeping or batting my eyelashes at my fiancé, and honestly it's more of the former, since CM has a job to go to and all. It's just like this post, except there's no cooking involved. In my few waking hours, I'm just reveling in being here, in Vienna, finally in the same place as my sweet cat and my sweeter fiancé. It's been 4 months since we were last all together, and people, let me tell you, that is TOO DAMN LONG.

I'm also spending a fair amount of energy fighting these nesting impulses that are coming on something fierce. There's something about Vienna that makes me long to find, furnish, and decorate our dream apartment, despite already living in a gorgeous, fully furnished Wohnung.

There's this apartment directly across the street 1 floor down from us. They've got beautiful cats that sit on the windowsills and an incredible floor plan with a kitchen that opens onto their giant living room, and what looks to be 2 bedrooms down the hall. We've enjoyed spying on them since we moved in, and we've been coveting their square footage, and their high ceilings, and their hardwood floors. Well, yesterday there were moving trucks parked outside of their building, and men hoisting boxes and mattresses out the 2nd story window down to the trucks below. They're moving out! Tonight I watched as they cleaned their empty apartment and their cats wandered around freaking out.

Which is all to say that those nesting impulses have now taken on a very specific shape, and I'm fervently hatching a plan to move across the street. Only problem is, I can't find the apartment listed anywhere online, and I have no idea how to find out the price or whether it's even available. How is this done in a city where I've never seen a posted FOR RENT sign? Any ideas?

For now, I'm just going to keep spying, and mentally decorating the place with our own stuff. One thing I KNOW we would add:

Curtains.

The kind of thing that keeps me up at night

What do people who smoke crack say when food is so good it's addictive? They can't possibly say it's "like crack," right? Because that would be ridiculous?

"OMG, have you had the peanut butter filled pretzels from Trader Joe's? I can't stop eating them—they're like crack."

"Seriously?!? And you can get that sh*t at a GROCERY STORE? How do you smoke it? In a pipe? Or do you do that thing with the spoon and the lighter?"

"No, no, I guess I wasn't clear. I just meant they're really good. Eating them makes me want to eat more. Other than that, they actually have nothing in common with crack. They're just pretzels, for God's sake."

"..."


I'm thinking my first novel is probably going to be about drug addicts, given my affinity for their speech rhythms and slang.

Dreaming

Last night I had the craziest dream.

I dreamed I was eating escargots and moules frites and drinking red wine in a romantic bistro at the foot of the Eiffel Tower. I was sitting by the window and I could look out and see the lights of the Tower itself. In my dream, I took an elevator to the top and took pictures of the view from every angle I could find, and then I had dessert: mousse au chocolat and pots de crème and raspberries.

I dreamed I was sitting in a café in the Piazza San Marco. In the distance I could hear a gondolier singing as he paddled his boat along the canal. Street performers walked right by me as I munched on caprese and pizza con salsiccia. After lunch I walked along streets filled with designer boutiques and got lost on purpose.

I dreamed I skipped the rope line at an exclusive nightclub and was ushered right in, where a man in black stamped the inside of my wrist. A guy with an earpiece took my drink order, and a pretty waitress in a skimpy dress brought my drink right away. The music was loud and the lights were dim, so I couldn't tell for sure, but I'm guessing there were probably movie stars in the corner booth.

I dreamed I was in a casino, and someone gave me $100 in free credits for slot machines. In my dream I played it all, in $1 machines and 5¢ machines and 1¢ machines, and then I won $207.

I dreamed I sat at the edge of the water and watched dolphins leaping. I saw a baby dolphin swimming next to its mother, and I looked through a window under the water to see them swimming. I dreamed I wandered through a forest and saw white lions playing, and leopards snuggling, and 5 tiger cubs napping and bathing each other.

Then this morning I woke up, and I was in Vegas, and it was all true.

I could get used to this.

The ruling out of backup careers

Last night, I decided to play bartender. We have a strange assortment of alcohol, including airplane bottles from opening night gifts, random fifths brought to parties we've hosted, and quite a bit left for us when singer friends left town. Unfortunately, very few of our ingredients on hand actually seem to go together, so I was forced to get creative. This site is great for drink recipes, because you just enter all the ingredients you have and it tells you what cocktails you could make. I ended up making an "Erin's Sweater" for CameraMan, consisting of blue curacao and white chocolate liqueur. I renamed it "Smurf's Blood" (make one and you'll see why) and added a maraschino cherry for good measure. I followed that up with a chocolate orange martini, and then CM decided he was in need of another round of Smurf's Blood. I didn't drink much (because the drinks were gross, obvs), but poor CM woke up this morning with a headache and has now forbidden me from mixing cocktails.

I will probably never be a bartender.

***

I've been in an ongoing battle with AT&T for the past 10 days, trying to get them to set up DSL internet, convincing them to let me use a modem I already have, wriggling out of the shipping costs when they sent their modem anyway, and then (when they finally located my account and discovered that absolutely nothing had been done to set up service) finally giving up and canceling the whole thing. I have spoken to at least 15 people at AT&T, not including the completely infuriating fake person who doesn't understand the simple request "I want to speak to a person." I have called at least 6 different phone numbers, all of which led me to the exact same Customer Support line. I have heard Indian accents, Texan accents, and one excruciating Boston accent. I have been on hold for more than an hour, all told, listening to an ironic recording telling me over and over that most of my questions can be answered online. The many people I have spoken with have all been very calm (especially the fake one). I have not.

I will probably never be a customer support specialist.

***

I like to come fashionably late to trends as well as parties, so it took me a while to break down and buy the workout DVD that every other blogger was gushing about. The workout is 20 minutes long, and you're supposed to do it 30 days in a row, gradually moving through the 3 levels. I figured I could do just about anything for 20 minutes. I figured wrong. I made it exactly 8 days before giving up entirely. It's not that it was too difficult. Oh, it's difficult, but by Day 6 I could do all the push-ups (girl-style, of course), and I had graduated from 2-lb weights to 5-pounders for most of the Level 1 exercises. I just couldn't get motivated to do it. It didn't help that I was canceling out any benefit of exercise by eating whatever I wanted. Honestly, I have no excuse, except that I didn't want to do it anymore so I stopped. As the trainer at my gym who gave me my fitness assessment told me, "You are casual. You will never see results if you are casual." I'm sure he was right. And I think I will go back to casually treadmilling while watching episodes of Gossip Girl.

I will probably never be a workout guru.

Every cloud

Whenever possible, I like to pick the brains of directors who are having or have had careers I admire. Today I had lunch with a very wise woman who gave me incredibly helpful advice about the challenges of being female in our field, making the difficult transition from assisting to directing, the various personalities I'll encounter at my next gig, and the benefits of working for almost no money. I walked away from lunch feeling excited. Well, excited and scared.

Putting myself forward isn't second nature for me yet. I still have to push myself to ask for opportunities, to tell people that I'm qualified, to toot my own horn. It doesn't come naturally. And even though almost every opportunity I've had thus far has come as a result of me asking for exactly what I want and pushing to get it, I still keep hoping that the next step will just happen for me, just fall in my lap. It hasn't yet, and it won't, and I need to come to terms with that. Because for every story I hear about someone whose career seems to come easy, the reality is that they have worked hard for every "break" they've had.

These meetings always result in a flurry of résumé-sending and name-dropping, and today was no exception. I've got a two-pronged approach going: looking for assisting jobs at the top houses in the country, and looking for directing jobs...well...just about anywhere. It finally feels like the right time to make that transition, and I think the next couple of years are going to be important ones.

My lunch companion tells me that this is a good time to be starting a directing career. Why? Because the economy is in the toilet, companies have less money than usual, and they need directors they can hire on the cheap.

How's that for a silver lining?

Desperately seeking sweaters

Winter's coming, and though we have to use quotation marks around it when talking about "winter" in Houston, the winter in Manhattan is very real. It won't be my first, of course. I spent the first 11 years of my life in New England, and 4 years of college in Wisconsin. However, I've spent the past 3 winters in H-town, and the 2 before that in North Carolina, so as I survey the contents of my closet I have come to the realization that I need an entirely new wardrobe to work at the Met.

The winters in Wisconsin were brutal. I remember piling on extra layers to walk the short distance from the dorm to class, and then immediately peeling them off the minute I got inside the overheated classrooms. I remember being too lazy to use a blow dryer and winding up with frozen solid hair. I remember snow drifts much taller than me that didn't melt until May. You would think I'd have a whole winter wardrobe from that time, just sitting in storage waiting for me to need it again. This, unfortunately, is not the case. I do have a fair number of sweatshirts, which I seem to remember pairing with pajama pants to go to morning classes (*cringe*). Also scarves—I was a singer, don't forget. But most of my cold-weather wardrobe has been given away, either because it was too big or too unfashionable or both, so I need to start from scratch.

I'm thinking lined wool pants, high-heeled boots, button-up shirts, and soft v-neck sweaters. But you probably know better than I do...what are the NYC ladies wearing these days?

My new backup career

Papa Bossy plays the oboe in his local concert band, as well as designing the posters, serving on the board, and various other volunteer duties. The band is getting ready for their annual holiday concert, for which they're importing a soprano with local roots who now lives in Vienna. Along with some holiday favorites, she's also singing 3 arias from Bohème, so Papa Bossy emailed me to get some "dramaturgical notes or context" for the arias. Here's what I sent back today:

"Si, mi chiamano" is Mimi's first aria. She has AIDS, and she has just dropped her drug stash at Rodolfo's house, and she sings this so he will light her candle....oh, wait, that's not right, that's Rent. Let me start over. Mimi is Rodolfo's neighbor, and she comes because her candle has blown out. She ends up dropping her key, and he picks it up and doesn't tell her. Then he sings all about himself and her cold hand, and asks her to tell him about herself. The aria is her doing that. Turns out Mimi is an alias, and her real name is Lucia. No one knows why, including her. She embroiders flowers for a living, but she has the soul of poet. Coincidentally, so does Rodolfo, mostly because he is a poet, so obviously they live happily after.

Except they don't. She sings "Donde lieta" in the third act, after she finds out by accident that she is very sick and dying. Basically, she is saying goodbye to Rodolfo. Quite a bit of the aria is taken up with practical matters, like how she's going to get all her crap out of his apartment (these things are always so awkward), and where she left her pink bonnet (on his pillow, inexplicably), but the overwhelming theme of the aria (made clear by lots of repetition) is "Addio, senza rancor." I think you know what that means.

"Quando men vo" is, of course, sung by a completely different character, Musetta. She is in an on again, off again romance with Rodolfo's BFF Marcello. This aria is sung during one of the off times, Act II. She has brought her sugar daddy with her to Marcello's favorite restaurant to make Marcello jealous. When it doesn't work she sings this aria, all about how beautiful she is and how everyone wants her. This does the trick, and right after the aria is done she and Marcello get back together. This, of course, lasts only until the end of Act III.

If the whole directing thing doesn't work out, I think I definitely have a future as a dramaturg, don't you?

Conjunction Junction

If this was an anonymous blog, I would fill this space with hilarious work stories, tales of my love life, and overindulgements of my numerous neuroses.
But it's not, so I won't.

If I was traveling, I would have lots to write about, and pictures for every story.
But I'm not, so I don't.

If I wasn't such a snob, I might write long posts waxing poetic about my cat, who gets more adorable every day.
But I am, so I won't.

If I knew what I was doing this summer, I could fill you in on all the details, at great length and with frequent parenthetical qualifiers (as you've come to expect from me).
But I don't, so I can't.

If a certain contract had arrived in the mail, I would share some good news with you.
But it hasn't, so I shouldn't.

If I had been working incredibly long hours and overexerting myself all in the name of opera, I would have a good excuse for not writing more often.
But I haven't, so I don't.

If I was more creative, I would have thought of a more interesting post than this.
But I'm not, so I didn't.

If I lived in Southern California…

Part of an ongoing series.

• …I would wear sunscreen. I promise. Especially if I was planning on going to an opening night wearing a strapless dress in a few days. Ahem.


• …I just might invest in a Vita-mix and convert to the green drink lifestyle. Much as I hate to admit it, I'm feeling pretty healthy after a week of daily green drinks.


• …I would feel more connected to my family. 1 grandmother, 2 uncles, 2 aunts, and 6 cousins (1 removed) all nearby would ensure that.


• …I would go on a hike every day, because I would have no excuse not to.


• …I would feel like a square, what with all the talk of Burning Man, etc.


• …I would need to earn a lot more money than I do now in order to have a roof over my head.


• …I would probably give into peer pressure and end up more enlightened. Everyone's doing it.


• …you would have to tear me away from the beach. Where I would be wearing sunscreen. Did I mention that?


• …I would take pictures of the landscape all the time, juggling my camera in one hand while I pinched myself with the other to make myself believe that I lived in this gorgeous place.


• …I wouldn't be quite so excited to go back to Houston as I am right now.

Goodbye, California. I'm heading home.

California dreaming

We're driving north up the Pacific Coast Highway, craning our necks to the left to watch the heavy orange sun sink into the ocean. The cotton candy clouds are tinted the same pink as my sunburned chest and shoulders, and the entire sky looks as if it's being illuminated by some very theatrical stage lighting. There's a companionable silence in the car, because really, what is there to say beyond the occasional Wow or Would you look at that?

We pull into town, driving along the beach on a street lined with tall palm trees. Beach volleyball is being played to our left and soccer to our right, the players soaking up every last drop of daylight before they call it a night. We park and get out of the car. It's 66° outside with a cool breeze rustling through the palm fronds. We're greeted by the salty smell of the sea and the sound of the waves before we even see the water in the fading light. The sand is built up in piles from the recent storm, and there are a couple small kids climbing on the piles.

It's all so picturesque, with the palm trees and the sand and the crashing waves, that for a moment, just for a moment, I'm overwhelmed with the desire to move here, suddenly sure that everything would be better if this idyllic spot felt like home, if this paradise was my reality.

But then I remember the frequent earthquakes. And the outrageous housing prices. And my refusal to wear Uggs when it's over 60°.

I guess we can't all be California girls.

I have goals, you know

Tonight's my last night in H-town. Tomorrow evening I'm off on a 16-day trip to Chicago and Southern California (a nightmare of a trip to pack for if there ever was one). I had a Bon Voyage get-together of sorts with some friends. Margaritas were guzzled, chips with various dips were devoured, and other generally carousing went on. It was great to party, but I have to remember that although the next couple weeks are a vacation, I can't completely slack off. I have goals, you know.

For example:

• Not freeze my a** off while in Chi-town. The Best Friend said to me on the phone today, "You're lucky. When you get here it'll be in the 20's." I have a feeling I won't be feeling so lucky come tomorrow evening.
• Catch up with friends. I talk to the Best Friend a couple times a week on the phone, but nothing helps best friend bonding like hanging out on the couch while watching reruns of Law & Order.
• Learn La Bohème. I did some translation work this afternoon, and there are surprisingly few strippers with HIV in it. And I thought I knew this show.
• Go to a convention of Little Ms. Bossy fans. Otherwise known as Grandma's house.
• Rest. Wait, what have I been doing for the past 2 weeks? Never mind.
• Spend some time outside. I'm hoping the majority of this will take place during the Cali part of my trip. Have I mentioned how cold I will be in Chicago?
• Be healthy. Again, I'll have better luck with this in California.
• Take a lot of pictures. I've been neglectful of my camera lately, mainly because I'm too busy drooling over CameraMan's DSLR. I need to get over it and learn to use the camera I have.
• Meditate until an amazing summer job magically drops in my lap. And what better place for meditation than Southern California? Seriously.
• Write. On my Europe trip I did a lot of creative writing outside of my blog, and I really enjoyed it. I've been neglecting it since getting back, but on vacation I have no excuse.

Or is that too much? Maybe I need to forget all the goals and just focus on enjoying my totally klutch vacation.

Yeah, right. I might as well list completely change personality as a goal.

Until next time, when I blog by candlelight from a freezing cold garret, wearing those awesome fingerless gloves and stickin' it to the man. Too bad I'm all digital; otherwise I could burn my blog posts to keep warm.

You're not hardcore unless you live hardcore

I'm coming up on a 3-week break between productions. I'm looking forward to travel, time with friends and family, intensive La Bohème study, and plenty of rest, but the voice of my new obsession is saying, What?!? 3 weeks without a treadmill? I've gotten pretty comfortable running indoors, reading a magazine or watching episodes of Gossip Girl and How to Look Good Naked on my iPod. I decided today was the day to get back to nature in order to prepare for a treadmill-less existence.

It was highly discouraging. Despite my super-cute new workout clothes, handy new iPod armband and perfect weather, running outdoors felt horrible. Turns out, it's much easier to just stop when the ground isn't moving underneath you. It didn't help that I forgot my watch and that for some reason I couldn't get my iPod loud enough (if you know how to solve this problem, please enlighten me). It also didn't help that numerous wizened old men passed me with ease, chatting to each other comfortably as I wheezed and panted my way through the slowest/shortest run ever. Ugh.

Luckily, my confidence cannot be shaken that easily, especially after the rockin' get-together we had after the show last night. We're all getting kind of sad, because The New Oregonian is leaving for her Oregon home tomorrow, and it's going to be a while before we see her next. CaliBoy brought over Guitar Hero: Rocks the '80's. The coffee table was cleared to the side, wine was poured (yes, we are indeed hardcore rockers who love nothing more than a glass of slightly spicy red wine), and we did…rock the '80's, I mean.

I came into the game a little cocky, I'm not going to lie. See, the first time I ever played the game was at a video game party (don't judge) about a year ago. I hate to toot my own horn, but I…well, I won a Guitar Hero tournament at this party. At the time, nobody else had played it much, either, which made the playing field (so to speak) pretty level. So when CaliBoy suggested bringing the game to our place, I have to admit that I had smug visions of strumming my heart out to "Freebird" while my friends oohed and aahed in the background.

Of course, what I failed to take into consideration is that the things that made me good at the game right away, like musical background and pretty good innate rhythm? Yeah, all my friends have those things, too, in spades. Before too long, we were all being told YOU ROCK! by the rockers on the screen (definitely preferable to the alternative, Song Failed). CaliBoy held back, letting everyone else have a couple turns before he took the stage (and by "stage" I of course mean "living room floor"). After quietly setting the level to Hard, he schooled us with a mean rendition of "Turning Japanese" by The Vapors. It was insanely good. All side conversations ended abruptly as we stared mesmerized at the screen as the notes streamed by.

I was almost inspired enough by his performance to spend all my time indoors "strumming" the white bar on a plastic guitar improving upon my natural rocker tendencies. Instead, Monday morning I'll be heading outside for a run again, determined to have a better time than I did today.

Maybe it will help if I download "Turning Japanese" onto my iPod. And figure out how to blast it loud enough that it drowns out the voice in my head saying, "Why don't you just stop. It will be so much easier. You don't need to run. Walking is a workout, too. Just stop."

If I lived in New York...

• ...I would have amazing legs. Despite my erratic gym and ballet class tendencies, the amount of walking I would do would undoubtedly give me strong, gorgeous gams. In fact, after only 4 days of NYC trekking, I think I can see some new muscle definition in my legs. Although I might not be totally reliable on the subject, since I usually think I have a tan after an hour in the sun, and anyone who knows me can tell you that's not true (even if they weren't there).


• ...I would need to wear very small miniskirts at all times in hopes that my shapely legs would distract from how unkempt the rest of me was. The combination of wind, rain, and long stretches of walking in both are hell on the hair and makeup. Those Manhattan girls who look perfect all the time? They must be cabbing it all over town. Which doesn't explain why their legs are so good. Hmmm.


•  ...I would lead an extremely glamorous life, what with all the operas, concerts, movies, openings, and restaurants to go to. More glamorous than my life in Houston? Hard to imagine, I know.


• ...I would have friends outside of work. Just this week I met up with people from high school, college, grad school, and Wolf Trap, all of whom now live in New York. The variety of friends would contribute to aforementioned glamorous life, too.


• ...I would have NO money! And I would notice it more, too. (Put this in the con list.)


• ...I would take lots more pictures than I did this week, but here are some of my favorites (there are more on my Flickr page):

Foliage in Central Park

Takes one to know one

The view from La Québécoise's window

Taken from Top o' the Rock

Cars on the Brooklyn Bridge