Tonight is the last super moon of 2016. The last of 3 in the last quarter of this year, which is apparently significant. It's also Tom Miller Day ... today would have been my grandpa's 84th birthday. He was arguably one of the most important and influential men in my life, even though he passed the year I turned 11. For those of you keeping track, this was quite some time ago. I have been without him nearly two and a half times the time I was with him, yet I have always felt mystically connected to him. And the moon. Which is probably totally unrelated, yet it doesn't feel that way tonight.
Tom Miller was fun and ornery and full of life. He was brilliant, despite his 8th grade education, and could fix literally anything. He and my grandma met when she began writing letters to him while he was deployed with the Army during the Korean War. Eventually they bought a farm - the farm where I would spend weeks at a time while I was growing up. Together they built many things there ... cars, tractors, lives, the list is immeasurable I suppose. He loved to stir the proverbial pot... He would order pizza and send my grandma to pick it up even though they lived miles from town, and promised to make popcorn in the brand new popcorn maker while she loudly protested. He taught me how to feed the baby calves that were brought to the barn each winter, how to make maple syrup in the Sugar Shanty, and how to ice skate on the pond on the farm. He was the most fun.
I have always felt a rather peculiar ownership of him - he was *my* grandpa. I remember feeling a tinge of sadness last summer when I was talking to my next youngest cousin and learning that she really didn't remember him at all.
Dates are a funny thing for me. I can recall the date of every major {and generally minor} event in my life since I was a teenager. Some before that. I have no idea what my affinity for dates is or how it began, I only know that it's a rather strange thing. December 13. I always think of him today. Actually ... I always call Diane today. And so naturally I did and we talked about how he said he would live to be 100 and, of course, we believed him because he always did everything he said he would. And because I have a love affair with the moon I feel like, somehow, the two events are related if only for me.
So I wish you a Happy Tom Miller Day. I hope you celebrate well.
Tuesday, December 13, 2016
Sunday, July 3, 2016
on finding beauty
Two summers ago I was living in a darling townhouse in Greensboro, North Carolina ... one of my favorite places that I've ever lived. A cute 1920s-ish duplex with original hardwood floors, really lovely scallop-detail on the staircase, and FOUR closets. Four. Giant. Closets. Oh how I weep when I think of leaving those closets. Not to mention the price tag. I was living there in 800 square feet of bliss for less than half of what I'm paying for my glamorous New York apartment. Le sigh ...
That summer was the beginning of a lot of change for me. I was still recovering from the epic car crash and death of Lucy the Escape {god rest her soul}, I was preparing for a big move to New York, and I was coming to terms with the end of a longterm relationship. There was this one night though in the midst of all of the chaos that I found one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen or have seen since.
There was a fence that ran along the west side of the townhouse and it was covered in this giant grapevine. And it was FULL of fireflies. Literally full. I would sit outside on the porch and watch it for hours until I had to go inside from exhaustion. Each night that summer at dusk, I witnessed the most spectacular light show I think I've ever seen in my life. It was positively magical.
Living in the city can be really hard. So many people, so much dirt, it's so hot and sweaty and expensive. But it's also a really magnificent place. This city is full of energy and beauty and history. I'm constantly intrigued and inspired by the centuries full of people who have walked on the very same streets I do every day, past the very same buildings ... What were their stories and where did they go? Who did they love? What were they passionate about? It sounds really strange, but I feel connected to them and this glorious city.
One of the things I try to do in my life everyday is to look for beauty. Something unexpected or away from the ordinary. Like the little boy who turned his brother into a super hero last July 4th, or the gorgeous tulip tree around the corner from my first NY apartment, or the way the sun sets perfectly over the Hudson as I leave my yoga studio. Beauty is all around us, if we just take the time to look.
The last six months have been positively chaotic. Wonderful but chaotic. And sometimes I forget to stop and look. Or I get busy ... but these last two nights, I've found myself on my fire escape as the sun sets. It's been an unusually cool summer {I'm so not complaining} and the breeze is almost chilly even in early July. And as the day gives way to night, the sky turns magnificent shades of blue and pink and red. And it's the most beautiful thing. It leaves me feeling alive and in awe.
So this is a reminder to myself that I need to stop every now and then and find beauty because my life is so much better when I do.
That summer was the beginning of a lot of change for me. I was still recovering from the epic car crash and death of Lucy the Escape {god rest her soul}, I was preparing for a big move to New York, and I was coming to terms with the end of a longterm relationship. There was this one night though in the midst of all of the chaos that I found one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen or have seen since.
There was a fence that ran along the west side of the townhouse and it was covered in this giant grapevine. And it was FULL of fireflies. Literally full. I would sit outside on the porch and watch it for hours until I had to go inside from exhaustion. Each night that summer at dusk, I witnessed the most spectacular light show I think I've ever seen in my life. It was positively magical.
Living in the city can be really hard. So many people, so much dirt, it's so hot and sweaty and expensive. But it's also a really magnificent place. This city is full of energy and beauty and history. I'm constantly intrigued and inspired by the centuries full of people who have walked on the very same streets I do every day, past the very same buildings ... What were their stories and where did they go? Who did they love? What were they passionate about? It sounds really strange, but I feel connected to them and this glorious city.
One of the things I try to do in my life everyday is to look for beauty. Something unexpected or away from the ordinary. Like the little boy who turned his brother into a super hero last July 4th, or the gorgeous tulip tree around the corner from my first NY apartment, or the way the sun sets perfectly over the Hudson as I leave my yoga studio. Beauty is all around us, if we just take the time to look.
The last six months have been positively chaotic. Wonderful but chaotic. And sometimes I forget to stop and look. Or I get busy ... but these last two nights, I've found myself on my fire escape as the sun sets. It's been an unusually cool summer {I'm so not complaining} and the breeze is almost chilly even in early July. And as the day gives way to night, the sky turns magnificent shades of blue and pink and red. And it's the most beautiful thing. It leaves me feeling alive and in awe.
So this is a reminder to myself that I need to stop every now and then and find beauty because my life is so much better when I do.
Tuesday, January 19, 2016
on kissing frogs
When I was a little girl there were very few people that The Oracle would leave me with because, well, I just didn't really like people. Seriously. There were just not many people that I liked outside of my mom ... and my Uncle Doug.
When I was very little, there was a woman who befriended my family. A couple really. Donna Anderson was a witch. She told us so from the very first time she met us. I, of course, was very skeptical being the realist I was as a child. Her husband, Virgil, worked on the railroad with my dad. They were wonderful. She was full of whimsy and magic, and Virgil was a crotchety old man who loved her. He would always sort of wave his hand and dismiss her silliness. And I will never, ever forget ... There was a portrait of her when she was young that hung in their living room. So glamorous. All sepia tone with red lipstick and perfectly waved hair and the perfect just barely off the shoulder neckline ... She was a vision. The kind of woman I hoped beyond hope I would become.
I got to spend a lot of time with Donna and Virgil when I was little. They became sort of surrogate grandparents to me and Michael. They, much to my chagrin, stayed with me while my parents went to the hospital so Sarah could be born. I felt totally offput - I was the only one home when my mom surprisingly went into labor. I helped her pack and do all of the things. Yet, I had to stay home like a child when she went to the hospital. My nine-year-old heart was crushed. I was clearly more grownup than they realized.
Donna constantly tried to convince me that she was a witch. I didn't believe her for a minute. Magic wasn't real, and I was far too grown up {even at the wise age of 4} to realize this. Until one day ...
I was 7 years old. And Donna and Virgil came to pick me up because something was wrong with one of the cars I think? I'm not entirely sure. The 'rents had a Pacer and a Chevette because, we were just cool like that. My god, that Chevette went on forever. I carved my name into the back of it with a rusty piece of metal because it was clearly my car ... but I digress.
Donna and I decided we wanted to go to Wendy's because, duh ... it's Wendy's. What midwestern girl doesn't love fries and a frosty? But Virgil was being his crotchety self and didn't want to go. So Donna in her infinite wisdom asked 7-year-old Stacy what she thought she should do...
... this was a big moment. One not easily spent on frivolity. And 7-year-old Stacy was a very serious child. I thought about this for a good amount of time. And then I decided. She should turn him into a frog. So he could learn his lesson, naturally.
Never in a million years did I ever think that Donna would ACTUALLY turn Virgil into a frog. I mean, how absolutely absurd is that. So you can imagine my shock when later that day, Donna came to our house. She had her hands cupped over her belly, one on top of the other, as if she was concealing something. And she called for me to come see her.
It was a hot summer day and I had been playing outside. So I met her on the pathway next to the shed in my parents' yard. Donna said to me "I have something to show you" and as she pointed to her cupped hands, my eyes got wide ...
There inside her hand was a FROG!! I was stunned. "VIRGIL???" I asked in a half whisper, half scream. And she looked into my eyes and nodded affirmatively. I gasped. And I felt horrible. What had I done??? She said to me "What do you think I should do?" And without missing a beat I told her "turn him back!!!"
Donna came by later that day I think to assure me that Virgil was no longer a frog. I was incredibly relieved. And I believe she was the first person who ever introduced me to magic. She was an amazing woman. And I am incredibly lucky to have had her and her crotchety husband in my life.
When I was very little, there was a woman who befriended my family. A couple really. Donna Anderson was a witch. She told us so from the very first time she met us. I, of course, was very skeptical being the realist I was as a child. Her husband, Virgil, worked on the railroad with my dad. They were wonderful. She was full of whimsy and magic, and Virgil was a crotchety old man who loved her. He would always sort of wave his hand and dismiss her silliness. And I will never, ever forget ... There was a portrait of her when she was young that hung in their living room. So glamorous. All sepia tone with red lipstick and perfectly waved hair and the perfect just barely off the shoulder neckline ... She was a vision. The kind of woman I hoped beyond hope I would become.
I got to spend a lot of time with Donna and Virgil when I was little. They became sort of surrogate grandparents to me and Michael. They, much to my chagrin, stayed with me while my parents went to the hospital so Sarah could be born. I felt totally offput - I was the only one home when my mom surprisingly went into labor. I helped her pack and do all of the things. Yet, I had to stay home like a child when she went to the hospital. My nine-year-old heart was crushed. I was clearly more grownup than they realized.
Donna constantly tried to convince me that she was a witch. I didn't believe her for a minute. Magic wasn't real, and I was far too grown up {even at the wise age of 4} to realize this. Until one day ...
I was 7 years old. And Donna and Virgil came to pick me up because something was wrong with one of the cars I think? I'm not entirely sure. The 'rents had a Pacer and a Chevette because, we were just cool like that. My god, that Chevette went on forever. I carved my name into the back of it with a rusty piece of metal because it was clearly my car ... but I digress.
Donna and I decided we wanted to go to Wendy's because, duh ... it's Wendy's. What midwestern girl doesn't love fries and a frosty? But Virgil was being his crotchety self and didn't want to go. So Donna in her infinite wisdom asked 7-year-old Stacy what she thought she should do...
... this was a big moment. One not easily spent on frivolity. And 7-year-old Stacy was a very serious child. I thought about this for a good amount of time. And then I decided. She should turn him into a frog. So he could learn his lesson, naturally.
Never in a million years did I ever think that Donna would ACTUALLY turn Virgil into a frog. I mean, how absolutely absurd is that. So you can imagine my shock when later that day, Donna came to our house. She had her hands cupped over her belly, one on top of the other, as if she was concealing something. And she called for me to come see her.
It was a hot summer day and I had been playing outside. So I met her on the pathway next to the shed in my parents' yard. Donna said to me "I have something to show you" and as she pointed to her cupped hands, my eyes got wide ...
There inside her hand was a FROG!! I was stunned. "VIRGIL???" I asked in a half whisper, half scream. And she looked into my eyes and nodded affirmatively. I gasped. And I felt horrible. What had I done??? She said to me "What do you think I should do?" And without missing a beat I told her "turn him back!!!"
Donna came by later that day I think to assure me that Virgil was no longer a frog. I was incredibly relieved. And I believe she was the first person who ever introduced me to magic. She was an amazing woman. And I am incredibly lucky to have had her and her crotchety husband in my life.
Monday, January 4, 2016
we are the men we wanted to marry ...
When I was 18, marriage was the furthest thing from my mind. Seriously. I've never had all of those "a man is going to come and rescue you and fix all of the things" fantasies. In fact when I was 15 and dating my first "real" boyfriend {whatever that means} my mom asked me if I thought I would marry him, to which I replied "no!" and I promptly broke up with him. The next day {sorry Greg}.
I had dreams of being a singer, or a conductor {the female badasses of the music world}, or some kind of academic. I was sure I would grow up to be some kind of musical genius because *duh* I was a Dove {every Dove on the planet somehow magically knows exactly what that means. My god, we're an arrogant lot}. Honestly, at 18 I had no earthly idea what I wanted to be ... I just was never the marriage girl. That is, until I went to college with Jesus.
Now don't misunderstand me ~ I have no quarrels with Jesus. He's totally cool. But when you go to college with Him, there's this narrative that I had no idea existed. About how *this* is where you're going to find the man/woman/alien/zygote that "god has intended for you" ... the one who was made "to finish your duet" {Enchanted anyone??}. It's basically your life's work to find him/her/it. whatever. *shakeitoff*
So there I was 19 and 500 miles away from my family and within two years, I'd found myself a husband. *shudder* A man who, even at that time, I would have told you was not the love of my life. He was supposed to be a good guy at least ... And thus ensued several years of horror that we do not need to discuss here. At least not now.
I say all of that to say this ... We're living in the 21st century. And I was raised, I believe, by an accidental feminist who was herself raised {again} by an accidental feminist. Both of these women had very traditional designs on life. Children. Family. Religion. But there's an undertone of strength and individuality in both of their lives. Very, very strong. They're full of awesome, that Henrietta & Diane.
When I was still living in NC, there wasa darling an old man *blesshisheart* who sang in the choir where I had my church job. {What is it about older southern men that makes them think they can say whatever they want to you? Or at least to me ...} He would often ask me "when are you going to find a man to take care of you?" To which I would reply "now, why on earth would I want to do that?"
Here's the thing ... I never could have fathomed what my life would become. And the things I would be capable of. I am a business owner? an entrepreneur? I suppose that's a word I'm more comfortable with right now. Pursuing 2 careers with equal passion. *becauseican* Believing that both of them will work. *beacausetheyare* And the women in my life ... they're doing the same things. And while I find myself increasingly receptive to the idea of romance ... I still can't help but wonder why it is in the 21st century there is still an undertone that there must be a man in your life to make you successful as a woman?
So several weeks ago? Months ago? I found this ... {can we take a moment and thank the baby Beyoncé for Pinterest?}
And sent it to a friend. One of my people. She's full of awesome. And we are building businesses. Being entrepreneurial badasses. Making art. Creating beauty.
And while I never really cared whether I got married or not, it resonated with me. Because we have become that thing. The prize was always finding a man who could "support you in the lifestyle to which you'd like to become accustomed." But in an age when women can be successful and celebrated because they're awesome ... well, here we are.
Here's to a year of being the men they wanted us to marry.
I had dreams of being a singer, or a conductor {the female badasses of the music world}, or some kind of academic. I was sure I would grow up to be some kind of musical genius because *duh* I was a Dove {every Dove on the planet somehow magically knows exactly what that means. My god, we're an arrogant lot}. Honestly, at 18 I had no earthly idea what I wanted to be ... I just was never the marriage girl. That is, until I went to college with Jesus.
Now don't misunderstand me ~ I have no quarrels with Jesus. He's totally cool. But when you go to college with Him, there's this narrative that I had no idea existed. About how *this* is where you're going to find the man/woman/alien/zygote that "god has intended for you" ... the one who was made "to finish your duet" {Enchanted anyone??}. It's basically your life's work to find him/her/it. whatever. *shakeitoff*
So there I was 19 and 500 miles away from my family and within two years, I'd found myself a husband. *shudder* A man who, even at that time, I would have told you was not the love of my life. He was supposed to be a good guy at least ... And thus ensued several years of horror that we do not need to discuss here. At least not now.
I say all of that to say this ... We're living in the 21st century. And I was raised, I believe, by an accidental feminist who was herself raised {again} by an accidental feminist. Both of these women had very traditional designs on life. Children. Family. Religion. But there's an undertone of strength and individuality in both of their lives. Very, very strong. They're full of awesome, that Henrietta & Diane.
When I was still living in NC, there was
Here's the thing ... I never could have fathomed what my life would become. And the things I would be capable of. I am a
So several weeks ago? Months ago? I found this ... {can we take a moment and thank the baby Beyoncé for Pinterest?}
And sent it to a friend. One of my people. She's full of awesome. And we are building businesses. Being entrepreneurial badasses. Making art. Creating beauty.
And while I never really cared whether I got married or not, it resonated with me. Because we have become that thing. The prize was always finding a man who could "support you in the lifestyle to which you'd like to become accustomed." But in an age when women can be successful and celebrated because they're awesome ... well, here we are.
Here's to a year of being the men they wanted us to marry.
Thursday, December 31, 2015
on finding magic ...
The time between mid-November and the end of the calendar year is arguably my favorite time of year. Autumn has set in and cool air inevitably turns to crisp, biting breezes. The earth seems to calm, bringing with it a kind of serenity. The sparkle of lights and glittering things is everywhere you look. And I find that humanity is generally kinder to one another.
The holidays can be wonderful ~ full of laughter and reflection. We find how rich we really are, not in material things but in love and light. Families gather together ... both the families we were born into, and the families we create for ourselves. Even if we haven't seen each other the rest of the year, we take time to celebrate the love that has come into our lives. It's a beautiful thing. And sometimes it's very hard.
I learned so many things about myself this holiday season. First, that I'm not responsible for how others feel. About each other, about themselves, about their life situation. That no matter how much I may want a thing for someone I love, I have absolutely no ability to make it happen. And that is in no way a reflection of me. And that's ok. The second thing I've learned is that it's ok to not be in control of everything all the time. In fact sometimes when things are completely out of your control, that's the place where magic begins.
I have always been a peacemaker. I crave harmony. It stems from the very core of who I am, and has for my entire life. Too much discord actually makes me physically ill. I tend to empathize with my tribe, internalizing their pain as my own. There have been times in my life that I didn't make waves simply to avoid creating chaos {those days are long since gone}. I long for a place where we are kind to each other. Where we can talk about our issues and differences without attacking each other. And a place where we can be our true, authentic selves.
But in the course of it all, I've learned that this isn't my responsibility. I cannot be responsible for the feelings and actions of others. I can't make them harmonious or respectful or kind. All I can do is love my people. I am only accountable for me.
While 2014 may have been the year of falling, 2015 has been a year of release. Release from negativity. Release into authenticity. Release from responsibility for things over which I have no control. And surrendering to the magic that is increasingly following me. It really is everywhere. Have you seen it? And I've found the more I surrender, the more I simply release into who I am, the brighter the magic glows. It's beautiful and terrifying and wonderful.
So this will be the theme of 2016. Seeking magical things and people and places. Allowing life to shimmer a bit more. And basking in the glow of the beauty around me.
The holidays can be wonderful ~ full of laughter and reflection. We find how rich we really are, not in material things but in love and light. Families gather together ... both the families we were born into, and the families we create for ourselves. Even if we haven't seen each other the rest of the year, we take time to celebrate the love that has come into our lives. It's a beautiful thing. And sometimes it's very hard.
I learned so many things about myself this holiday season. First, that I'm not responsible for how others feel. About each other, about themselves, about their life situation. That no matter how much I may want a thing for someone I love, I have absolutely no ability to make it happen. And that is in no way a reflection of me. And that's ok. The second thing I've learned is that it's ok to not be in control of everything all the time. In fact sometimes when things are completely out of your control, that's the place where magic begins.
I have always been a peacemaker. I crave harmony. It stems from the very core of who I am, and has for my entire life. Too much discord actually makes me physically ill. I tend to empathize with my tribe, internalizing their pain as my own. There have been times in my life that I didn't make waves simply to avoid creating chaos {those days are long since gone}. I long for a place where we are kind to each other. Where we can talk about our issues and differences without attacking each other. And a place where we can be our true, authentic selves.
But in the course of it all, I've learned that this isn't my responsibility. I cannot be responsible for the feelings and actions of others. I can't make them harmonious or respectful or kind. All I can do is love my people. I am only accountable for me.
While 2014 may have been the year of falling, 2015 has been a year of release. Release from negativity. Release into authenticity. Release from responsibility for things over which I have no control. And surrendering to the magic that is increasingly following me. It really is everywhere. Have you seen it? And I've found the more I surrender, the more I simply release into who I am, the brighter the magic glows. It's beautiful and terrifying and wonderful.
So this will be the theme of 2016. Seeking magical things and people and places. Allowing life to shimmer a bit more. And basking in the glow of the beauty around me.
Monday, August 3, 2015
what's on the other side of fear?
It's 2:30 am and I'm not sleeping. This isn't terribly surprising ... I've never been a good sleeper much to my chagrin. I love sleep, probably because it often seems like something unattainable. I turn into a horrible, cranky, weepy person without it and no one really needs to experience that. On the upside ~ I do my part to keep the coffee people in business so there's that. You're welcome, Starbucks.
It often means that my brain is mulling something over. And over and over. And won't stop until I've overthought it to death and can no longer remember what I was even obsessing about. Either that or my brain knows this is the only time that I allow myself to binge on trashy TV so it waits until the wee hours of the morning to bother me so we can catch up on episodes of The Good Wife or Scandal or the latest serial killer series with which I've become obsessed.
It's been a fantastic summer. Quite unlike last summer which we've taken to calling "The Summer of Crying." I mean it wasn't all bad. Wine = check! Cake = check! What, more wine? Yes!! But seriously lacking in fun and adventure. So far this summer, I've finished my first Bikram Yoga 30-Day Challenge. I've gone on countless adventures in this amazing, terrifying, fabulous city I now call home {just this past week I met a heroin addict named Mohammed on the way home from the DMV! probs best not to tell Diane about that}. And I'm making amazing memories with the best people in the entire world. Seriously y'all, I have the best people. You should be jealous.
But if I'm being honest, and I'm generally blatantly so, I've been in a bit of a funk since ... well I'm not entirely sure. Sometime around the beginning of the summer? Perhaps earlier. It doesn't really matter I suppose, except I haven't quite been able to put my finger on why and I think that's why I'm awake tonight. I'm singing better than I ever have in my life, and I'll be working more this fall than ever. I have a magical freelance business that lets me spend time pursuing my dream and having brunch with my people and traveling to Timbuktu for a few weeks for funzies if I so choose. And I honestly feel like the sky is about to open up and all kinds of glitter and shit is going to spill out. I have no idea what, but it feels like something is coming. And that probably sounds completely and totally crazy, but I'm pretty comfortable with that at this point.
... And then it hit me.
I realize that I've been afraid of making music all summer. It's absolutely ridiculous. Music is the one thing I've been chasing with all of my soul for the past 7 years. I mean ~ all in. I have worked harder at this one thing during those years than I ever have at anything in my life. It brings me peace and joy and beauty and when I do it well, it's absolutely transcendent. And even though I feel like I'm doing it better than I ever have, opening a score this summer has been one of the hardest things for me.
And I think it has something to do with fear. It's not so much a fear of not being good enough, or talented, or allowed to call myself a musician {things I've honestly struggled with many, many times over the course of these past years}. I think it's a fear of success. Fear that I might actually get what I want. Fear that if I keep going the way I am, only beautiful things lie ahead.
Sounds terrifying and horrible, right? But failure can become like your favorite pair of jeans. It's easy. It's comfortable. And I know it pretty well. I've struggled with audition anxiety and feelings of inadequacy and wondering when someone was going to realize that I just shouldn't even be here. But success ... that's another thing entirely.
It often means that my brain is mulling something over. And over and over. And won't stop until I've overthought it to death and can no longer remember what I was even obsessing about. Either that or my brain knows this is the only time that I allow myself to binge on trashy TV so it waits until the wee hours of the morning to bother me so we can catch up on episodes of The Good Wife or Scandal or the latest serial killer series with which I've become obsessed.
It's been a fantastic summer. Quite unlike last summer which we've taken to calling "The Summer of Crying." I mean it wasn't all bad. Wine = check! Cake = check! What, more wine? Yes!! But seriously lacking in fun and adventure. So far this summer, I've finished my first Bikram Yoga 30-Day Challenge. I've gone on countless adventures in this amazing, terrifying, fabulous city I now call home {just this past week I met a heroin addict named Mohammed on the way home from the DMV! probs best not to tell Diane about that}. And I'm making amazing memories with the best people in the entire world. Seriously y'all, I have the best people. You should be jealous.
But if I'm being honest, and I'm generally blatantly so, I've been in a bit of a funk since ... well I'm not entirely sure. Sometime around the beginning of the summer? Perhaps earlier. It doesn't really matter I suppose, except I haven't quite been able to put my finger on why and I think that's why I'm awake tonight. I'm singing better than I ever have in my life, and I'll be working more this fall than ever. I have a magical freelance business that lets me spend time pursuing my dream and having brunch with my people and traveling to Timbuktu for a few weeks for funzies if I so choose. And I honestly feel like the sky is about to open up and all kinds of glitter and shit is going to spill out. I have no idea what, but it feels like something is coming. And that probably sounds completely and totally crazy, but I'm pretty comfortable with that at this point.
... And then it hit me.
I realize that I've been afraid of making music all summer. It's absolutely ridiculous. Music is the one thing I've been chasing with all of my soul for the past 7 years. I mean ~ all in. I have worked harder at this one thing during those years than I ever have at anything in my life. It brings me peace and joy and beauty and when I do it well, it's absolutely transcendent. And even though I feel like I'm doing it better than I ever have, opening a score this summer has been one of the hardest things for me.
And I think it has something to do with fear. It's not so much a fear of not being good enough, or talented, or allowed to call myself a musician {things I've honestly struggled with many, many times over the course of these past years}. I think it's a fear of success. Fear that I might actually get what I want. Fear that if I keep going the way I am, only beautiful things lie ahead.
Sounds terrifying and horrible, right? But failure can become like your favorite pair of jeans. It's easy. It's comfortable. And I know it pretty well. I've struggled with audition anxiety and feelings of inadequacy and wondering when someone was going to realize that I just shouldn't even be here. But success ... that's another thing entirely.
So I'm letting go of fear {because I believe that saying things to the universe actually has power}. And we're going to see what's on the other side. I do love a good adventure.
{sorry for all of the run-on sentences. it's now 4:15, what do you expect?}
Tuesday, December 16, 2014
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.
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, Iwent 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.
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...}
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! |
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
 |
| the hospital clearly understands my need to accessorize! I'm thinking this should be a permanent addition given recent events. |
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...}
Thursday, March 27, 2014
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 4, 2014
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.
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."
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} |
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 ;).
Saturday, January 18, 2014
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!
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!
Monday, December 31, 2012
auld lang syne ... a year in review
This year has been a year of extremes. Extreme highs and extreme lows ... full of pursuing dreams and being completely broke. I mean seriously broke - I'm pretty sure I had more money when I was in college not working at all than I've had this year. Being broke suques {sound it out} hard core and it's really cramping my shoe habbit. And my audition habbit. We're working to change all of that.
So what have I done with myself this year?
I gave up the home I love and left my wonderful family of friends in Greensboro to follow my dream. Cramming your life into a 10x5 storage unit has a way of bringing everything into perspective. I left 3 semi-cushy jobs and 60 hour work weeks {certainly don't miss those}. Leaving Greensboro was truly one of the hardest things this year has brought ... When you have such a close-knit group of wonderful people who share your passions well, that's not something that happens often. And I miss them all terribly.
I made debuts with Nashville Opera, Opera Roanoke, and Opera Carolina ~ all as part of young artist programs. I feel so fortunate to be able to do what I love every day and that I've been able to find people who not only pay me to sing {as if I could possibly want more}, but also encourage me every day. I have met some of the most ah.mazing people this year and formed life-long friendships {you know who you are ;)}.
I spent six wrenching weeks in the hospital with my brother, Michael, wondering if he was going to live. {I'm not exaggerating even a little bit} It was awful. No one slept. We all wept and sat in a hazy, empty existance for those weeks. I drank way too much alcohol and ate too much junk {and had about an extra 15lbs to show for it... which has finally left my body *thankgod*} He's made an amazing, full recovery that no one ever thought would be possible. I.never.want.to.do.that.again.
I moved home. I started seriously running and ran my first *ever* 5-mile race with my fabulous sister, Sarah. {We ran the Columbus Turkey Trot on Thanksgiving Day and I was so proud of myself. I think it's kind of a big deal.} I got to spend more time with my family this year than I think I have in the last decade combined. It's been wonderful and terrible. Living with your parents is completely glamorous, btw.
I reconnected with one of my heroes, Lynn Roseberry. Soprano, teacher, beautiful human, breast cancer survivor. She is kind of my second mother. I first met Lynn when I was 14, when I auditioned for voice lessons. She's had more influence on my life than almost any other person I've known.
So what will the new year bring? I'm heading back to Charlotte later this week to begin the second leg of my contract with Opera Carolina and I'll be there through the end of March. I get to help my sister plan her wedding with her amazing fiance, Jarod {they're adorable and completely perfect for each other. they even build forts in their living room}. And I'm really, truly starting to do some freelance work to help pay the bills and give me more freedom to do what I love. It's gonna be a good year.
So what have I done with myself this year?
I gave up the home I love and left my wonderful family of friends in Greensboro to follow my dream. Cramming your life into a 10x5 storage unit has a way of bringing everything into perspective. I left 3 semi-cushy jobs and 60 hour work weeks {certainly don't miss those}. Leaving Greensboro was truly one of the hardest things this year has brought ... When you have such a close-knit group of wonderful people who share your passions well, that's not something that happens often. And I miss them all terribly.
I made debuts with Nashville Opera, Opera Roanoke, and Opera Carolina ~ all as part of young artist programs. I feel so fortunate to be able to do what I love every day and that I've been able to find people who not only pay me to sing {as if I could possibly want more}, but also encourage me every day. I have met some of the most ah.mazing people this year and formed life-long friendships {you know who you are ;)}.
I spent six wrenching weeks in the hospital with my brother, Michael, wondering if he was going to live. {I'm not exaggerating even a little bit} It was awful. No one slept. We all wept and sat in a hazy, empty existance for those weeks. I drank way too much alcohol and ate too much junk {and had about an extra 15lbs to show for it... which has finally left my body *thankgod*} He's made an amazing, full recovery that no one ever thought would be possible. I.never.want.to.do.that.again.
I moved home. I started seriously running and ran my first *ever* 5-mile race with my fabulous sister, Sarah. {We ran the Columbus Turkey Trot on Thanksgiving Day and I was so proud of myself. I think it's kind of a big deal.} I got to spend more time with my family this year than I think I have in the last decade combined. It's been wonderful and terrible. Living with your parents is completely glamorous, btw.
I reconnected with one of my heroes, Lynn Roseberry. Soprano, teacher, beautiful human, breast cancer survivor. She is kind of my second mother. I first met Lynn when I was 14, when I auditioned for voice lessons. She's had more influence on my life than almost any other person I've known.
So what will the new year bring? I'm heading back to Charlotte later this week to begin the second leg of my contract with Opera Carolina and I'll be there through the end of March. I get to help my sister plan her wedding with her amazing fiance, Jarod {they're adorable and completely perfect for each other. they even build forts in their living room}. And I'm really, truly starting to do some freelance work to help pay the bills and give me more freedom to do what I love. It's gonna be a good year.
Monday, June 4, 2012
the people of the waiting room {just like the people of walmart, only classier}
**Disclaimer ~ this isn't my usual upbeat, irreverent run-of-the-mill blog post. It's kinda heavy so be forewarned.**
Day 8. Meaning I've spent most of the last 8 days in the Critical Care Unit of the ICU at my friendly neighborhood hospital. A good time has been had by all, natch.
What is it about hospital waiting rooms that brings out the worst of humanity? I mean it's bad enough that we have to spend time there ... And not to be irreverent, but Michael has been such poor company this week. I think he's mad ~ he won't even play rock, paper, scissors with me. It's kinda like watching paint dry and expecting it to interact with you. Totally productive.
Some of my most difficult days as of late have been accompanied with my *already raw as hell* nerves being further taunted by *The People of the Waiting Room*. You know who they are. The People of WalMart transported from your favorite horrifying discount store to your local hospital. I've become accustomed to walking through the hospital with my sunglasses on so no one will try to speak to me. It's really better for all of us.
They're like the Clampetts in spandex. And not one of them has all of his teeth. They take over the entire place and loudly debate politics {you know Obama is clearly a socialist} and which section 8 housing they're moving into next, all whilst dragging their catheter bags on the floor {I only wish I were kidding}. They bring their children and let them run rampant allthelivelongday ~ rearranging furniture while you try to sleep and generally being children in a place where children simply do not belong. The ICU is not a place you go for a paper cut or a nose job, so why, why, why are they here? Especially if you won't reel them in. Oh M. Jesus {pronounced hey-zeus for those unfamiliar with such advanced terminology} what have I done in my life to warrant this? I can honestly tell you that murder has crossed my mind more times this week than it has in the past decade.
And I don't understand why they always have to be there. All I want is a little peace. And the chance to look at babies because they remind me of the good things happening in the hospital. Which you cannot do, btw. There's no happy nursery full of shiny, new babies waiting to fulfill their destinies anymore. All of the babies are in their own rooms with their mothers. Don't they realize that I have needs!?! I briefly proposed that we COULD go into one of the new mother's rooms and demand to see her newborn baby because we needed a brief happy place, but *apparently* that's frowned upon. I also decided that being arrested would probably not benefit my week. And I wouldn't do well in prison.
So now every time I step onto on the elevator, I pray that they're not there. But that also means that maybe their week has been more painful than it should have been, and I wouldn't wish that for them. Bad teeth and all. But I do so wish they'd find another floor to taunt. I've had more than my share.
Day 8. Meaning I've spent most of the last 8 days in the Critical Care Unit of the ICU at my friendly neighborhood hospital. A good time has been had by all, natch.
What is it about hospital waiting rooms that brings out the worst of humanity? I mean it's bad enough that we have to spend time there ... And not to be irreverent, but Michael has been such poor company this week. I think he's mad ~ he won't even play rock, paper, scissors with me. It's kinda like watching paint dry and expecting it to interact with you. Totally productive.
Some of my most difficult days as of late have been accompanied with my *already raw as hell* nerves being further taunted by *The People of the Waiting Room*. You know who they are. The People of WalMart transported from your favorite horrifying discount store to your local hospital. I've become accustomed to walking through the hospital with my sunglasses on so no one will try to speak to me. It's really better for all of us.
They're like the Clampetts in spandex. And not one of them has all of his teeth. They take over the entire place and loudly debate politics {you know Obama is clearly a socialist} and which section 8 housing they're moving into next, all whilst dragging their catheter bags on the floor {I only wish I were kidding}. They bring their children and let them run rampant allthelivelongday ~ rearranging furniture while you try to sleep and generally being children in a place where children simply do not belong. The ICU is not a place you go for a paper cut or a nose job, so why, why, why are they here? Especially if you won't reel them in. Oh M. Jesus {pronounced hey-zeus for those unfamiliar with such advanced terminology} what have I done in my life to warrant this? I can honestly tell you that murder has crossed my mind more times this week than it has in the past decade.
And I don't understand why they always have to be there. All I want is a little peace. And the chance to look at babies because they remind me of the good things happening in the hospital. Which you cannot do, btw. There's no happy nursery full of shiny, new babies waiting to fulfill their destinies anymore. All of the babies are in their own rooms with their mothers. Don't they realize that I have needs!?! I briefly proposed that we COULD go into one of the new mother's rooms and demand to see her newborn baby because we needed a brief happy place, but *apparently* that's frowned upon. I also decided that being arrested would probably not benefit my week. And I wouldn't do well in prison.
So now every time I step onto on the elevator, I pray that they're not there. But that also means that maybe their week has been more painful than it should have been, and I wouldn't wish that for them. Bad teeth and all. But I do so wish they'd find another floor to taunt. I've had more than my share.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
please come to Boston for the springtime
If it's not one fiasco, it's another it seems. Traveling to Boston this past week was a bit of a ... we'll call it a learning experience. Growing up in the midwest, I have pretty strong "I can do it myself" sensibilities. I figured that since I can brave public transportation in New York or Chicago by myself, then Boston would be a piece of cake, right? Well ... not exactly.
I arrived in Boston early Thursday morning and had about 12 hours to kill before my audition. Trying to be as frugal as possible, I bought my handy dandy Charlie Card, armed myself with my HopStop app and headed out into the world. My hotel was a bit north of downtown, but HopStop assured me I could get there on my own. I take the train to the indicated station and find the bus stop. I have to switch buses a couple of times to get to my hotel, but that's no big deal right?
What. have. I. done. Well, either I'm not tall enough for bus drivers to see me, or I look like someone they should pass by for sport because the first two buses I was to catch simply drove by without thinking about acknowledging my presence. No worries ~ HopStop to the rescue! It tells me to get another bus. He stops! And then he doesn't let me out at the right stop so I have to walk 2 blocks to catch my next bus in 10 minutes, which coincidentally takes me past a local fire station. I'm clearly out of place ~ carrying my overnight bag. *Look at the cute little white girl running through the street with her scarf and skinny jeans, carrying a pink bag.*
I run as three {that's right} more buses pass me by as I'm trying to catch them. All to the amusement of the firemen across the street. I don't even know where I am and I'm in *godknowswhereBoston* sure that someone is going to stab me because my mother has made me a paranoid adult. I'm exhausted. I've been trying to catch buses for over an hour at this point and I've been up since 4:30 am. Finally I wave the white flag of defeat and find a cab parked nearby {thank you, gods}. He takes me to my hotel in mere minutes where I promptly book a rental car.
Now I really want to explore Boston, but I'm super tired. And on the verge of a meltdown. So I opt to stay in my hotel room and find inner peace. Only to find a giant knot that's growing on the back of my trick hip {the one that popped out of place when I was 16 during dance, and now doesn't want to move at the beginning of every day}. *le sigh* Oh well. Getting ready for my audition, I'm on the verge of tears. I don't want to do this. *pullyourselftogetherstacy* *youareagrownup*
Thankfully, navigating Boston via car isn't as terrifying as it could have been ~ Bostoners are super friendly and don't want to kill you like New York drivers. The harbor is *gorgeous* and I find my audition location without incident. So I warm up and wait because I am, of course, ridiculously early.
The audition is wonderful. Really wonderful. I sing really well. I'm engaged. When I finish my second aria, the pianist and auditioner {who is so fabulous, I can't even begin to talk about it} giggles and says "that was fun!" Take that, universe!
The universe chuckles menacingly. When I get back to my hotel, the lobby is filled with high school students who are also staying in my hotel. I actually say "you've got to be kidding me" as I walk through the lobby in amazement. I fill the bucket in my room with ice, take some melatonin and crawl into bed feeling great about the only really important part of my day, and wondering how painful walking will be in the morning.
Ah, morning. Some of my karma seems to have turned around, but not all of it. I get a cab to the airport after returning my rental car, and it's cash only. Lucky for me the sweetest cab driver on the planet is driving and when I tell him I only have $10 cash for a $13 fare {blasted toll bridges took all of my cash!} he says "no problem, I'll do it for $10." I buy overpriced Aleve at the airport giftshop because of the pain. So much pain. My god why is my body falling apart? And then ... every. baby. in. Boston. is waiting to board my plane. Seriously, I've never seen so many babies on one plane before. Amazing. Just take me home.
So I guess we've learned a couple of lessons here. First ~ when it comes to public transportation trains and subways are a win. Avoid buses at all costs. Second ~ sometimes terrible trips make for great auditions. And flawless trips make for pretty boring blogs.
I arrived in Boston early Thursday morning and had about 12 hours to kill before my audition. Trying to be as frugal as possible, I bought my handy dandy Charlie Card, armed myself with my HopStop app and headed out into the world. My hotel was a bit north of downtown, but HopStop assured me I could get there on my own. I take the train to the indicated station and find the bus stop. I have to switch buses a couple of times to get to my hotel, but that's no big deal right?
What. have. I. done. Well, either I'm not tall enough for bus drivers to see me, or I look like someone they should pass by for sport because the first two buses I was to catch simply drove by without thinking about acknowledging my presence. No worries ~ HopStop to the rescue! It tells me to get another bus. He stops! And then he doesn't let me out at the right stop so I have to walk 2 blocks to catch my next bus in 10 minutes, which coincidentally takes me past a local fire station. I'm clearly out of place ~ carrying my overnight bag. *Look at the cute little white girl running through the street with her scarf and skinny jeans, carrying a pink bag.*
I run as three {that's right} more buses pass me by as I'm trying to catch them. All to the amusement of the firemen across the street. I don't even know where I am and I'm in *godknowswhereBoston* sure that someone is going to stab me because my mother has made me a paranoid adult. I'm exhausted. I've been trying to catch buses for over an hour at this point and I've been up since 4:30 am. Finally I wave the white flag of defeat and find a cab parked nearby {thank you, gods}. He takes me to my hotel in mere minutes where I promptly book a rental car.
Now I really want to explore Boston, but I'm super tired. And on the verge of a meltdown. So I opt to stay in my hotel room and find inner peace. Only to find a giant knot that's growing on the back of my trick hip {the one that popped out of place when I was 16 during dance, and now doesn't want to move at the beginning of every day}. *le sigh* Oh well. Getting ready for my audition, I'm on the verge of tears. I don't want to do this. *pullyourselftogetherstacy* *youareagrownup*
Thankfully, navigating Boston via car isn't as terrifying as it could have been ~ Bostoners are super friendly and don't want to kill you like New York drivers. The harbor is *gorgeous* and I find my audition location without incident. So I warm up and wait because I am, of course, ridiculously early.
The audition is wonderful. Really wonderful. I sing really well. I'm engaged. When I finish my second aria, the pianist and auditioner {who is so fabulous, I can't even begin to talk about it} giggles and says "that was fun!" Take that, universe!
The universe chuckles menacingly. When I get back to my hotel, the lobby is filled with high school students who are also staying in my hotel. I actually say "you've got to be kidding me" as I walk through the lobby in amazement. I fill the bucket in my room with ice, take some melatonin and crawl into bed feeling great about the only really important part of my day, and wondering how painful walking will be in the morning.
Ah, morning. Some of my karma seems to have turned around, but not all of it. I get a cab to the airport after returning my rental car, and it's cash only. Lucky for me the sweetest cab driver on the planet is driving and when I tell him I only have $10 cash for a $13 fare {blasted toll bridges took all of my cash!} he says "no problem, I'll do it for $10." I buy overpriced Aleve at the airport giftshop because of the pain. So much pain. My god why is my body falling apart? And then ... every. baby. in. Boston. is waiting to board my plane. Seriously, I've never seen so many babies on one plane before. Amazing. Just take me home.
So I guess we've learned a couple of lessons here. First ~ when it comes to public transportation trains and subways are a win. Avoid buses at all costs. Second ~ sometimes terrible trips make for great auditions. And flawless trips make for pretty boring blogs.
Monday, May 14, 2012
sabotage
You know those days when you wake up and you *know* it's going to be a great day? It's audition day and all of the stars have aligned in your favor. You feel good. You look great. You're not the least bit bothered by being violated by the government as you pass through airport security. Not even one flight was delayed. Even the flight attendant says "have a great day, hollywood" as you you deboard the plane.You land in a new city, hop in your rental car {which you scored for a mere $15} and think "I like this place!" You've found the perfect souvenir {I collect things from audition locations} in perhaps the most beautiful shopping "mall" you've ever seen in your life. It's going to be a great day!
You arrive at the audition location appropriately early, because that's how you roll. You warm up. Ahhh, the gods of singing have blessed you. Everything is in line and you sound great {if you do say so yourself}. You wait. They're running behind, but you don't mind. They're only hearing one aria, and you've already chosen which one to sing. The aria that always works. The one that everyone loves. It's your *thisistheariaIpulloutofmybackpocketbecauseIsingitwellevenwhenI'mnotsingingwell* aria.
When it's finally time, you walk into the room. The people you're singing for are friendly {thank you, gods!}. The music director says he loves the aria you're singing. You're wearing his favorite shade of blue. And he looks at your resume and says "what a great name!" *Yes* ... And then it happens. The pianist begins to play and it's clear that she's never seen the aria you're singing before in her life.
Now let me clarify - it's not like I'm singing some obscure piece of 20th century, atonal music that no one ever sings. And it's certainly not Stravinsky or some giant Straussian aria that audition pianists fear. It's "Steal Me, Sweet Thief." One of *the* most performed English arias for light lyric/lyric sopranos. We sing it all the time.
She really wants to play slowly so she can get *all* the notes. {why do audition pianists do this? don't they realize that this moment is not about how well they play?} No big deal, you think. Just stay with me and everything will be fine. Not to worry. Just keep up with me. But she doesn't. In fact, the more you try to push the tempo forward, the slower she insists on playing. So you have to take all of your emergency breaths ~ the ones you *never* take. And when you get to the glorious B in the middle of the aria she keeps slowing down until ... *motherfucker*
That didn't just happen. You did *not* make me breathe in the middle of a word. Never in my life have I ever had to breathe in the middle of a word in an audition. If I can't finish the aria well, I don't sing it in an audition. *whatjusthappenedwithmylife*
So you finish the aria. They thank you for singing and apologize that they're only hearing one aria today because they're running behind. You smile, say "of course. thank you for hearing me," and retrieve your binder from the pianist {who you wish you could kill with your laser-like vision, but instead you smile politely and again say "thank you."} But it's not over yet. There's a hole in the stage where your heel promptly becomes wedged and comes completely off of your foot. Mother.of.God. You retrieve your heel, laugh nervously and say "wow, there's a hole in the stage... hehe..." getmeoutofhere. And you can't slink out of the room fast enough.
Suddenly all of my mojo is gone. The line to return my rental car is miles long and I need to get back to the airport to catch a quick flight. Only to get there and find out it's delayed. And we won't even talk about the flock of giant basketball players who are on the last leg of my flight, sitting right next to me ... who start a fight with the guy in front of me. And continue to use their cell phones for the duration of the flight. Oh this plane is going to crash, I just know it. Sweetbabyjesusinamanger where did my fabulous day go?
So this leads to the question ... what can you do, if you can do anything, to recover from audition issues stemming from the accompanist they've selected for the audition? Is there, in fact, *anything* you can do without making yourself look like a total diva or excuse monger? Anyone?
You arrive at the audition location appropriately early, because that's how you roll. You warm up. Ahhh, the gods of singing have blessed you. Everything is in line and you sound great {if you do say so yourself}. You wait. They're running behind, but you don't mind. They're only hearing one aria, and you've already chosen which one to sing. The aria that always works. The one that everyone loves. It's your *thisistheariaIpulloutofmybackpocketbecauseIsingitwellevenwhenI'mnotsingingwell* aria.
When it's finally time, you walk into the room. The people you're singing for are friendly {thank you, gods!}. The music director says he loves the aria you're singing. You're wearing his favorite shade of blue. And he looks at your resume and says "what a great name!" *Yes* ... And then it happens. The pianist begins to play and it's clear that she's never seen the aria you're singing before in her life.
Now let me clarify - it's not like I'm singing some obscure piece of 20th century, atonal music that no one ever sings. And it's certainly not Stravinsky or some giant Straussian aria that audition pianists fear. It's "Steal Me, Sweet Thief." One of *the* most performed English arias for light lyric/lyric sopranos. We sing it all the time.
She really wants to play slowly so she can get *all* the notes. {why do audition pianists do this? don't they realize that this moment is not about how well they play?} No big deal, you think. Just stay with me and everything will be fine. Not to worry. Just keep up with me. But she doesn't. In fact, the more you try to push the tempo forward, the slower she insists on playing. So you have to take all of your emergency breaths ~ the ones you *never* take. And when you get to the glorious B in the middle of the aria she keeps slowing down until ... *motherfucker*
That didn't just happen. You did *not* make me breathe in the middle of a word. Never in my life have I ever had to breathe in the middle of a word in an audition. If I can't finish the aria well, I don't sing it in an audition. *whatjusthappenedwithmylife*
So you finish the aria. They thank you for singing and apologize that they're only hearing one aria today because they're running behind. You smile, say "of course. thank you for hearing me," and retrieve your binder from the pianist {who you wish you could kill with your laser-like vision, but instead you smile politely and again say "thank you."} But it's not over yet. There's a hole in the stage where your heel promptly becomes wedged and comes completely off of your foot. Mother.of.God. You retrieve your heel, laugh nervously and say "wow, there's a hole in the stage... hehe..." getmeoutofhere. And you can't slink out of the room fast enough.
Suddenly all of my mojo is gone. The line to return my rental car is miles long and I need to get back to the airport to catch a quick flight. Only to get there and find out it's delayed. And we won't even talk about the flock of giant basketball players who are on the last leg of my flight, sitting right next to me ... who start a fight with the guy in front of me. And continue to use their cell phones for the duration of the flight. Oh this plane is going to crash, I just know it. Sweetbabyjesusinamanger where did my fabulous day go?
So this leads to the question ... what can you do, if you can do anything, to recover from audition issues stemming from the accompanist they've selected for the audition? Is there, in fact, *anything* you can do without making yourself look like a total diva or excuse monger? Anyone?
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
near death experiences...
Let it be known that I do not like bugs {I know ... shocker}. Of any kind. Especially those who dare to enter the threshold of whatever dwelling I happen to be in at the time. I have been known to flip sofas over while attempting to kill those who have entered my domain. Not joking.
So during my last week in Nashville on a particularly quiet evening, I encountered an especially disgusting specimen while exiting the shower. It was terrifying and did not end well for said creature. Let's be honest ~ it really didn't end well for me either. Here is a real text conversation that happened between me and my friend, who we'll just call F.
Me: I WAS JUST ATTACKED BY A 10-FOOT BEAST IN MY BATHROOM!
F: It looks so small on the screen.
Me: It was giant. And it tried to kill me ... I almost DIED.
F: You are SO brave.
Me: I know. But it was terrifying.
F: I'm sure it was. How did you do it?
Me: I knocked in into the tub with a feta cheese container, turned on the shower, stabbed it with the lid and washed it down the drain. IT ATTACKED ME IN THE SHOWER.
F: It was only fighting back.
Me: Oh no ~ bitch started it. I just finished it ... After crying a little.
F: That is so funny! I can totally picture that.
Me: Which part? Being attacked by a giant robo-centipede is no laughing matter, sir.
F: Oh it so is.
Me: You're not my friend.
F: I am ... a laughing friend.
Me: Uh huh.
F: "after crying a little..." {snort}
Me: Why do you hate me? It had knives. And a grenade launcher.
F: But I love you. Wow ... artillery too.
Me: It was trying to maim me.
F: What was its move?
Me: It waited 'til I opened the shower curtain after showering. So I would be vulnerable.
F: Ambush ... it's clearly had sniper training.
Me: See! I need to go to bed. And to take a tranquilizer.
And this is why bugs shouldn't mess with me. It's not good for anyone's mental health.
So during my last week in Nashville on a particularly quiet evening, I encountered an especially disgusting specimen while exiting the shower. It was terrifying and did not end well for said creature. Let's be honest ~ it really didn't end well for me either. Here is a real text conversation that happened between me and my friend, who we'll just call F.
Me: I WAS JUST ATTACKED BY A 10-FOOT BEAST IN MY BATHROOM!
.JPG) |
| {the offending bastard} |
F: It looks so small on the screen.
Me: It was giant. And it tried to kill me ... I almost DIED.
F: You are SO brave.
Me: I know. But it was terrifying.
F: I'm sure it was. How did you do it?
Me: I knocked in into the tub with a feta cheese container, turned on the shower, stabbed it with the lid and washed it down the drain. IT ATTACKED ME IN THE SHOWER.
F: It was only fighting back.
Me: Oh no ~ bitch started it. I just finished it ... After crying a little.
F: That is so funny! I can totally picture that.
Me: Which part? Being attacked by a giant robo-centipede is no laughing matter, sir.
F: Oh it so is.
Me: You're not my friend.
F: I am ... a laughing friend.
Me: Uh huh.
F: "after crying a little..." {snort}
Me: Why do you hate me? It had knives. And a grenade launcher.
F: But I love you. Wow ... artillery too.
Me: It was trying to maim me.
F: What was its move?
Me: It waited 'til I opened the shower curtain after showering. So I would be vulnerable.
F: Ambush ... it's clearly had sniper training.
Me: See! I need to go to bed. And to take a tranquilizer.
And this is why bugs shouldn't mess with me. It's not good for anyone's mental health.
Monday, March 12, 2012
I'm lame ... and other meaningless excuses for not blogging
So you may have noticed that I completely suck at life when it comes to this blog. Because I published two posts and then ran away screaming. Or perhaps I've been extremely busy taking opera to the children of middle Tennessee for the past six weeks {which has been completely amazing and life-altering in so many ways}, including spending almost two entire weeks on. death's. door. Like forrealzies. I know ~ it's a lame excuse but it's my story and I'm sticking to it.
So today the Mezzo and I {all names have been changed to protect the innocent ... or maybe not so innocent} had a break in between performances. After trying to sleep and looking at a little Carmen {oh, Leontyne, why do you have to be so amazing}, I abandoned the notion that I would be actually napping. Instead we headed to our fav local establishment, Fido. Which is completely overrun by hipsters, but their Local Latte is amazing. You *must* try it.
We strolled down the street to this darling little ~ paper and things ~ shop, and that's where I found it. The most amazing book. Ever.
Contained within this book of whimsy, are hundreds of lists for, oh say Ukulele Songs Appropriate for a Funeral, Haikus About Duct Tape, Best Streets on which to attempt a Blindfolded Bike Ride, Dance Moves for Unsafe High Places, Working Titles for a Screenplay on George Washington's Space Adventures, or Places to Practice Invisibility. I could go on, but I'm far too enamored to spend much time away from my new book. Which is filled with merriment. And awesome.
Feel free to create entries for the above lists {or others I will most certainly post in the future} in the comments below. I can't wait to see what kind of wonder awaits.
So today the Mezzo and I {all names have been changed to protect the innocent ... or maybe not so innocent} had a break in between performances. After trying to sleep and looking at a little Carmen {oh, Leontyne, why do you have to be so amazing}, I abandoned the notion that I would be actually napping. Instead we headed to our fav local establishment, Fido. Which is completely overrun by hipsters, but their Local Latte is amazing. You *must* try it.
We strolled down the street to this darling little ~ paper and things ~ shop, and that's where I found it. The most amazing book. Ever.
 |
| {even the elephant on the cover thinks it's effing awesome} |
Contained within this book of whimsy, are hundreds of lists for, oh say Ukulele Songs Appropriate for a Funeral, Haikus About Duct Tape, Best Streets on which to attempt a Blindfolded Bike Ride, Dance Moves for Unsafe High Places, Working Titles for a Screenplay on George Washington's Space Adventures, or Places to Practice Invisibility. I could go on, but I'm far too enamored to spend much time away from my new book. Which is filled with merriment. And awesome.
Feel free to create entries for the above lists {or others I will most certainly post in the future} in the comments below. I can't wait to see what kind of wonder awaits.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Uncharted waters...
I've spent the last year an a half of my life managing the social media goings on of the largest furniture store in the world {which shall henceforth be referred to as The Palace}. This awakened many interests in me ~ interior design and furniture to be sure, but also blogging. There were some wonderful things about The Palace, but also a lot of trash. We won't talk about that now. But the point is, I found that I really kind of dig blogging so I've decided to keep it up. I decided that I would start a blog-journey as soon as my time at The Palace was up so ... Ta-da!
Tomorrow I will be packing my life into a 10'x5' box and leaving my cares behind ... at least that's what I'm telling myself. And while I really should be stuffing things into boxes with catchy labels on them, I'm sitting on my bed for one of the last times {which I shall bequeath to my fav New Yorker, Chelsea, until we can be reunited} writing a blog. The idea of leaving Greensboro has been a bitter-sweet experience {read terrifying and heart-wrenching}. I kind of used to hate Greensboro. But that all changed a few years ago. I have found the best group of friends in the entire universe, and I can't imagine my daily life without them. This has made me pretty philosophical the last few days. And weepy. I'm a bit of a crier. I'm sure we'll hear more about this later.
So where could I be going from the Promised Land that is Greensboro, NC? I'm heading to Nashville, the land of country music, to pursue the glamorous life of an opera singer with Nashville Opera. And while I'm there, I'll sing sophisticated compositions like Sid the Serpent Who Wanted to Sing {I shit you not}. But I also have the amazing opportunity to make beautiful music with some pretty cool peeps. I'll keep you posted.
Tomorrow I will be packing my life into a 10'x5' box and leaving my cares behind ... at least that's what I'm telling myself. And while I really should be stuffing things into boxes with catchy labels on them, I'm sitting on my bed for one of the last times {which I shall bequeath to my fav New Yorker, Chelsea, until we can be reunited} writing a blog. The idea of leaving Greensboro has been a bitter-sweet experience {read terrifying and heart-wrenching}. I kind of used to hate Greensboro. But that all changed a few years ago. I have found the best group of friends in the entire universe, and I can't imagine my daily life without them. This has made me pretty philosophical the last few days. And weepy. I'm a bit of a crier. I'm sure we'll hear more about this later.
So where could I be going from the Promised Land that is Greensboro, NC? I'm heading to Nashville, the land of country music, to pursue the glamorous life of an opera singer with Nashville Opera. And while I'm there, I'll sing sophisticated compositions like Sid the Serpent Who Wanted to Sing {I shit you not}. But I also have the amazing opportunity to make beautiful music with some pretty cool peeps. I'll keep you posted.
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