the year of falling...

2014 will forever be known as The Year of Falling. {alternate titles: how the gingerbread people took their revenge; the year I eviscerated my life and broke my face}. The year I left everything I know, got a job in New York, and moved to the big city to chase my dream of singing. And fabulousness. It's all very romantic really. {cue Stacy's entrance...}

I have a confession to make ... I am a faller. I have always been a faller. It's really rather ridiculous. When I was 3 years old, my mother put me in ballet classes because I couldn't walk across the kitchen floor without falling down. Clearly nothing has changed. Except I fall with a bit more grace. I'm the Ginger Rogers of falling.

You see it all began with a roommate Xmas party. We decided we were going to build a gingerbread house and watch movies. And then we decided that since our version of the gingerbread house was not going to look like Martha Stewart's {how do people get them to look so effing perfect?}, perhaps it needed to have a crime scene. So I bit off a gingerbread man's arm and the rest, as they say, is history.

someone call Criminal Minds!

Perfection. One gingerbread house, three Xmas movies, and hours of girl talk later I decided that I was going to create a crime scene of my very own ... and then THERE WAS A UNICORN STAMPEDE AND I WAS TRAMPLED. I know. Living in the city is very, very dangerous. Unicorn herds at every turn ~ especially this time of the year. They *love* the holidays ... effing tourist unicorns, amiright? ... or rather Smurfs broke into our apartment and tried to take me down Gulliver style. I put up a very valiant fight! I did not, no matter what you may have heard, slip on absolutely nothing in the very flat, very safe hallway in my apartment and fall on my face. A hallway where the walls are so close together I could use them as motherfucking handrails. At least the other two times I fell this year, there were stairs involved and I could blame them. That's right, I said two. Stop your judging and move along to the next paragraph.

And let me just say, when I fall I go all. the. way. Blood everywhere. {not unlike our gingerbread house. did someone say "foreshadowing?"} ... and everywhere includes pooling in my hands as I crawled into the bathtub. I don't know why. My sainted roommates called an Uber {seriously ~ they should be sainted by Pope Benedict Cumberbatch} and rode with me to the hospital. And yelled at people to give me pain meds and stitches and not be jerks in general. And stayed with me literally all night and morning until, finally, I went home. cried because I wanted to go home. started looking for hot doctors. was admitted to the hospital because my jaw was broken in two places and I needed emergency surgery. 

the hospital clearly understands my need to accessorize!
I'm thinking this should be a permanent addition given recent events.

And then Matt and I made a deal. I was going to go into surgery, and he was going to find us doctor dates. So I went with the anesthesiologist {I was, apparently, very charming ~ he loved my unicorn story.}, and Matt went to the waiting room. Sounds like a great plan, no? He clearly had the easier task. After all, I was going to have my face sliced into pieces and he was going to choose from the multitude of beautiful men at the hospital. *you had one job.* But I digress. He did, however, give me his chapstick when I asked for some in my anesthesia-induced stupor following surgery even though my face was again covered in my own blood. {I'm seeing a pattern here that I don't really care for...}

So here we are ... one week before Christmas and some of the best food of the entire year, and I'm on a liquid diet for the next 4 weeks. If someone figures out a way to give me a cheeseburger that isn't completely and totally disgusting, I'm all ears. Because the idea of liquified meat is just ... ew. Also pizza.

Luckily, Dr. McDreamy didn't, in fact, need to wire my jaw shut. He did insert 2 titanium plates in my face so now I'm basically the bionic woman. I am the only person I know who is so adept at the falling that I can break my own jaw with no obstacles. And I'm really, really hoping this is a trend that ends with the year 2014. After all, it started with a bang. I could really use an entire year without potentially life-altering injuries or feeling like I'm in some kind of real-life version of "Final Destination."

{end note ~ I'm going to be fine and the doctor says I should be singing again in no time. I may, however, want to consider training wheels. Something tells me those don't come factory installed on Manolos...}

egg babies

I've attempted to write this blog no less than four times. And each time, it's just not quite right. So I throw it away and begin again. But I've felt an incredible pull to put these words, or a variation of them, out into the universe for the last several weeks. For what purpose I have no idea, but I trust my gut enough to believe that the universe is talking to me and I should listen. So we'll see if this one makes the cut.

Several years ago I made the decision to become an egg donor. It wasn't a decision I made lightly, but it was a relatively easy decision to make. And before you ask, it really had nothing to do with money. Yes I was compensated. But it was totally not worth it. The process you put your body through is simultaneously painful and fascinating. And a bit terrifying. Twice daily injections of obscene amounts of hormones, daily blood work, and nearly daily ultrasounds so you can peer into your body that's now an over-sized petri dish so you can see the wonder of science push your body to its limit. No exercise, no heavy lifting {the guys I bartended with at the time did so much of my work ~ thanks guys!}, no sex for fear that you're going to fertilize all of the tiny eggs growing in your body at once and, well ... that just wouldn't be pretty. And then finally the day comes when you get to go in for a "simple procedure" in which they put you under, puncture dozens of tiny holes in your body to retrieve said growing eggs, and send you home with an order to rest and to take nothing stronger than Tylenol {which we all know doesn't do shit for pain}.

So then why endure the pain? Well ... it seems that the people in my life who wanted to be parents more than anyone else, were the ones who couldn't. THEY were the ones who really, really should though. I also remember my own mom's struggle with infertility when I was a little girl. Her greatest desire had always been to be a wife and a mother, yet she had multiple miscarriages that caused her to be broken and consumed with pain. There is amazing pain in the desire to have something like this that you cannot have. Then as an adult, I have watched in my own brokenness as family and friends have endured this same pain. It's really terrible. And ... apparently I have good eggs ~ who knew?! I figured since I wasn't using them, someone else might as well.

I have never had a desire to have children of my own. Now before you tell me that I'll change my mind when I'm older or I just haven't met the right guy or I really don't know what I'm talking about, let me assure you ... I'm older than you think I am. And it has nothing to do with a man, or being at a particular stage in my life ... or my own hatred of children. I think children are amazing, fascinating, wonderful humans. I just didn't get the mommy gene. And that doesn't make me weird or horrible {trust me, there are plenty of things that fulfill both of those criteria}. It just means I'm self-actualized enough to know what I want.

I went through the process twice. And it recently occurred to me that these tiny humans with whom I took a very, very short journey and who have my DNA, would be five this year. And I'm not sure why, but it's made me think of them a lot. And of their parents who I will never know, but I do know wanted them so very much that they solicited eggs from a complete stranger to help make that dream come true. It's something that I was a part of for a very brief moment in time. And my way of giving something very small {literally microscopic} back to the universe.

sometimes you just need to have a dance party

So if you've been paying any attention to my whining this past week, you know I was in a car accident exactly one week ago. Every day since last Tuesday, I've been painfully aware {quite literally} of every breath I've taken. There's nothing quite like getting sucker punched in the chest by an airbag directly following a {combined} impact of 70mph. And a seat belt. And the dashboard of Lucy the Escape {god rest her soul}. And I've missed a lot of things this past week. Singing. Yoga. Comfortable sleep. Painless breathing. Today was the first day that my first thought upon awakening wasn't "fuuuuuuuuck." *whydoesithurtsomuchtobreathe* That's a good sign right?

If you're reading this, you probably also know that I'm a crier. *ihatethat* Now ... I've never been one of those girls who can turn on the tears whenever it's convenient in order to achieve an end goal. *God* I've always envied them, but I just can't fake my emotions in the moment. I mean, it's almost impossible. So I cry ... When I'm angry. When I'm sad. When I'm frustrated. When I'm happy. Trust me ~ it's far more frustrating for me than it is for you. I feel like it's a sign of weekness. Or vulnerability. And I'm generally uncomfortable with both of these things.

I hate crying. And my god have I cried this week. In the ambulance on the way to the hospital. In the Emergency Room. When I saw my car the next day. Laying on the floor of the yoga room because that's just about all I can do {actually, both times I set foot in the hot room this week the waterworks went crazy}. On my sofa. After I talked to the insurance guy yesterday who told me that my airbag probably saved my life. It's like I'm 12 all over again! Can we just stop already?!?!?

I rarely let things get to me like this. I kind of pride myself on my ability to move past hardship and keep walking forward. But this week, it's been more than a little difficult to get it together. {Sassy Gay Friend, anyone?} Who has time for that ish? I mean, suck it up and stop being such a baby! You're a grown woman and you walked away from the accident with both of your legs working {albeit a little worse for the wear}. But even Diane informed me last night that I need to stop being so hard on myself. Note ~ if my badass mom tells me to give myself a break, I've definitely earned it.

So I did what any modern girl would do ... I turned to Pinterest. {And wine. Lots of wine.} And that's where I found this.

{via Pinterest}

That Liz Taylor. Full of the wisdom. {yes, I realize she probably didn't say this}. And then this morning I found this blog. {It's a beautiful blog full of inspiration and pretty things.} And you know ... she's absolutely right when she says "Being silly is a great shortcut for getting your emotions back in check."

So I took off my pants, put on some JT, and had my own little dance party {at which time I forgot to close my blinds, and promptly noticed my neighbor looking in. You know ... the one who has seen me in my underwear far more times than I care to admit because I keep forgetting that the blinds are open}. Because sometimes you just need to dance in your underwear. I'm off to find my lipstick ;).

getting out of my head

Audition season tends to turn me into a philosopher. For those of you who aren't familiar with the mindfuck that is auditioning, the voices in your head routinely question your decisions. Decisions about wardrobe and makeup and rep and how you greet your audition panel ... the list is endless. They can smell fear. And it's an awful lot like going on a blind date {ew}. With the queen. The queen who holds your future in her hands and can squash you like a bug if she doesn't like your lipstick. mygodwhatcoloroflipstickamigoingtowear. No pressure.

Every time I go into an audition, I hear the first scene from "A Chorus Line" in my head. And as I sit on my sofa this morning drinking coffee, lazily browsing blogs, and attempting to find my center, I've realized a few things ...

It's been a while since I embarked on a busy audition season {which is it seems is forming on the horizon}. I've spent the last year+ reworking technique, finding my vocal place, and making sure I was really singing the right rep with the right technique. My amazing teacher has put up with neurotic "hey look what I found" or "what's wrong with me" or "will I ever get this right" emails with the patience and excitement and grace a mother has for her child. And I feel a little out of practice. I've done a total of 8 auditions in the past 18 months {which is really something when I consider that I've had years with triple that number}. Two turned into jobs. A couple more were very promising experiences. And there were a handful for which I didn't quite show up. Blerg. I hate it when that happens.

It's been amazingly difficult to not audition my ass off during those months. I don't like to feel as if I'm sitting still. There's the voice inside my head that says "how old are you again?" She can be a strong intimidator. And then there's the type A, workaholic, perfection-is-never-good-enough side that likes to get involved. {and I hear my father say, as he did so many times growing up, "aren't you better than them? You're a Dove."} ... Between my perfectionist mother, my dad telling me I should be better than everyone, and my brother who was good at EVERYTHING he ever tried to do, while I was just a mess, {Seriously. Just ask him.} it's no wonder I have so many issues of adequacy. *loveyoumeanit* imonlykindofkidding.

... But I digress. The wonderful people the universe has brought into my life have assured me I've made the right decision. And I repeat that to the voices in my head when they bring it up. Sometimes they don't listen very well.

I remember very well a conversation I had with a friend and colleague when I was in Roanoke for Carmen. He talked about his wife {a fantastically successful soprano} and her philosophy on auditions. He said it's nothing more than a job for her. She knows what she's doing and she's trained for this moment. She does her thing and it's over. Sounds really easy, doesn't it?

I've spent a lot of time retraining the voices in my head over the past year. Sending out positive energy into the universe. Believing that we can create our own destinies and testing the waters. Claiming the things that I want. And remembering the wonderful people who have given me opportunities who continue to believe in me. I've been incredibly fortunate, and the universe has been wonderfully kind. Positivity begets positivity.

So this is me ... getting out of my head. Doing the job that I've been trained to do. Wheee!