Most likely the best news of 2012

This may or may not be as exciting for you as it is for me, but I have found a new reason to shower. (Or rather, an old reason masquerading as a new reason- the little minx). Ladies and gentlemen, Mom and Maude, I re-present you with the shower beer. That's right folks, I have rediscovered the joys of drinking a beer and taking a shower, but let's back up a bit.

You might not know that I hate to shower.*(It's true. I'm not quite sure on the reason, but I used to blame it on being from Colorado. Then again, I'm pretty sure Coloradans shower...) Megro used to joke that I should break up with people more often to take more showers.**** Clifford (Clifton, Cleburne?) used to make me go out and play frequently in the rain as the equivalent to a shower. I don't remember the other ways I have been persuaded to bath, I only remember that stepping into the watery pit and drowning myself has been a struggle for years. Until now.

About a week back I wanted a beer, I needed a shower, and suddenly saw the most perfect use of the window ledge outside of the shower stall. I had my first shower beer it what seems like years. And now I can't stop. You'll never believe it- but I am showering daily! Ain't nothin like getting bored of shaving your legs and stopping to enjoy the tapped Rockies. Plus, there is always a good excuse for a shower beer:

Hard day? Shake it off with a shower beer...

Awesome day? Celebrate it with a shower beer...

Big date? Calm the nerves with a shower beer...

Night out? Pregame with a shower beer!

Also, I am proud of my shower beers, as I feel like I am going green. It is a personal goal to finish the beer before the mountains change from blue back to grey. You're welcome, Mother Earth!

Anywho- I now have auditions at 5 of my 8 top choice schools, and waiting to hear back from the other 3. I'm looking forward to trips to San Fran, NYC, and Houston among others- all while being incredibly clean due to this new found habit of mine (showering).

Now I leave you with this inspirational video, which I have been watching daily instead of posting to this silly blog. I have been growing a bunch of crap in the garden of my mind. 



*If you do know it is for one of two reasons: I have told you as much, or you have smelled and surmised.**

**If you have smelled me and not told me I was smelly- stop reading my blog and stop being my friend!!! Friends tell friends when it's time to shower.***

***Okay, seriously though, Rosietoes used to tell me when it was time to shower. After she left the cross was Megro's to bear. (I am only just now realizing as I type this how weird it is for a grown woman to let other grown women be responsible for her own cleansing).

****This stems from a non-breakup breakup in college where I was so upset that I sat on the floor of my shower and cried while listening to the most depressing Ingrid Michaelson song (Keep Breathing) on repeat. Also I was fully clothed. Also it may have been a bit dramatic. Also that's not new news.

The one thing in life I can't live without

I had an upsetting experience on Halloween night at my favorite restaurant. In response I wrote an email, but then I was concerned it was a tad bit mellow dramatic (something I have never been accused of before). I sent it to my sister to ask her thoughts, and she in turn sent it to all of our friends. They agreed it was on par with my feelings and should be sent. It went a little something like this:

Original Comment:

Dear Chipotle,

I have been a loyal burrito lover for 15 years now. Growing up in Denver, I remember walking down Evans from Chipotle to the ice cream shop with my father from a young age. Later I remember kissing my high school sweetheart for a free meal on Valentine's day, and covering myself in tin foil for All Hallow's Eve. After that, I rejoiced when I lived in Oklahoma City, and a Chipotle was finally opened in Edmond, OK in 2008.

Last night, in a state of nostalgia, my sister and I dressed in tin foil and headed to our local Duke Chipotle for our delicious holiday tradition. (Yes it was cold, yes it was late, and yes Chipotle was 25 minutes away...but we thought it was worth it).

Upon our arrival we saw a whole host of costumes, but none of them true Chipotle lovers, as none of them were burritos. I went through the classic assembly line that has changed little throughout the years, and created my perfect chicken burrito. My sister in front, lands at the register and is charged full price. She inquired about the $2 burrito (a change from the days of old, but still a deal), only to have the woman at the register reject her foil as a costume. The same to me. Is a burrito no longer an acceptable costume in the house of burritos? What mad state has the world come to?

To make the matter worse, after I sat down to my over-priced-yet-nectar-of-the-

gods meal, the register woman tracked me down claiming my card had been declined. I knew this to be impossible, but unwillingly gave her my card as not to cause a scene. As expected, I arrived home to check that my card has been charged for not one, but two burritos. (When I had expected to give $2).

What would you do if you were me, Chipotle? You've been there for me throughout the years, and I have a hard time leaving you. We shared prom nights, first kisses (cilantro-ful and amazing) and drunken snacks together. You've been with me through two-a days in high school, spending hours driving from Oklahoma City to Dallas just to get my burrito fix 2006/07 before Edmond Chipotle existed. I've seen you in New York, Boston, and Chicago on all of my business trips. And yet, you've changed. And I'm not sure I can continue this one sided love. You are no longer the restaurant of free student drinks, human interest pieces on the cups, and a burrito in celebration of love. You are a place of judgment and double charging. I am hurt and rejected, miffed, and out an additional $6.89. So I ask again, what would you do if you were me?

Please help me and give me some advice, I'm not sure we can be together in the future- but I'm not sure I can live without you.

Yours,
Molly  

Too much? Apparently not because I just received the following reply. (On a Sunday no less!) 

Molly,

Thank you for taking the time to write us. It's a real pleasure to hear some of your storied history with us, and I'm very sorry about the way you were served by our team at the Duke Medical location. We should not have been overly discriminating about the costumes for this offer. We wanted this to be a fun, festive occasion to honor our fans and give back to the community, and we're disappointed that it was anything less than this for you. I will bring this to the immediate attention of the folks who oversee the restaurant so they can make sure their team is treating our guests with respect during events like this.

Again, we really appreciate your taking us seriously enough to express these concerns in writing. I'd also like to offer you a bunch of free-burrito cards (good for any menu item) as a way to say thanks for your support and we will do better. If you can write back with your postal address, I'll mail the cards out shortly. Thanks for keeping us informed, and I look forward to your reply.

Sincerely,

James

My relationship with this place is like a battered woman. I finally think I've had enough, and then he does one sweet thing to bring me back again. How long will it be until the next injustice? 

It's a two chopsticks kind of day.

When I was in 6th grade I showed up to school dressed to the hilt as Mary Katherine Gallagher (Molly Shannon's epic SNL character). I had the knee socks, the giant glasses (before hipsters made them cool), the fourth grade headband, the post-Spice World pleated flannel skirt, and the giant ruffled sleeved blouse. As it turns out, it wasn't Celebrity Day of spirit week- that was to be the following Monday.* It was a normal Monday in a cruel middle school world, and I was the girl dressed like this: 

 Ever since that fateful un-superstarish day, I have known deep down inside that I am a huge dork. (Call the whambulance, right?) 

I'm not popular, nor have I ever been. I mean, I'm popular in the craziest teacher/friend, fearless leader of the drama club, besties with little old church lady-popular... but we all know how much that means. Due to this lack swag, I am surprised by how many people have commented on my absence of blogging as of late. I mean, if you've noticed I haven't posted then you are reading my blog- and if you are reading my blog, does that make me popular? Probably not,  but enough people have bothered me that I decided to share the excitement of my misadventures in the past few weeks. (Maybe after you read this you will realize that, although nutty, my life has been anything but blog worthy).**

As I prepare to enter the crazy world that is music school grad auditions, I am spending my weekends bunkered in like Osama in hills. Occasionally I will step out for a brunch with friends, or more likely some take-out while in my pjs. Take a couple of weekends ago, both my sis and crazy K-Ho were out of town, and I spent the entire weekend in pajama jeans and a poncho. (This amazing combination meant that I didn't have to put anything on when I took the dogs out, and was comfortable enough to go back to bed whenever I saw fit. The world needs more ponchos). I did step out for Thai takeout.  I called in my order, drove to the little restaurant, paid for my order, and turned bright pink when they asked if two sets of chopsticks would be enough. Apparently they thought that two appetizers, and two entrees called for two sets of chopsticks. (I just saw it as planning for the future, why go out for takeout tomorrow when you just have to crawl to the fridge?) I agreed to the second set, justifying that Maude likes tofu and it would be weird to feed her with my utensils. Slightly less weird than a dog who prefers tofu to chicken, but maybe that's why she's miraculously still alive. Maybe Maude is the healthiest out of all of us. Scratch that- besides the constant need for a diaper (don't ask), her psychological issues, the blindness and the inability to hear out of her right ear, Maude is the healthiest of us all. 

And you wonder why I haven't posted. 

It's probably time for me to go back to the real world****, but I promise I shall post again soon. I am in the attempt to create world peace, starting with customer service workers... I'll let you know how that goes. 

*And even if it was Celebrity Day, the snot-nosed suburbanites of Falcon Creek Middle School had yet to be clued into the awesomeness of SNL. 

**Unless you want this to become one of those blogs that stay at home moms write about their children's sayings and their latest craft projects. If you want one of those blogs, check out pintrest or facebook, or some other social media where a blond in jeans and a plaid button up has pictures of a bearded/spectacled husband holding her infant and toddler while she tells you about how difficult yet full of meaning their life is. This is not that kind of blog.***

*** My life is rather simple, and devoid of any meaning. 

****Read: A cup of tea and my practice room. 

Nothing says controversial like Hank Williams

A few nights ago our fearless leader, T. Laoshi, and his wife invited us over to their apartment for dinner. By dinner they meant Peking Duck, from the same recipe (and cook) as you'll find here. Honestly, I don't think I'll ever go to another dinner party that isn't at the home of an international super star with a gourmet meal (that was featured on tv) made by his wonderful wife... I've had a taste of the high life and I will never go back!

Apart from the floor to ceiling posters from the Met (featuring T. Laoshi with some other people your might have heard of*), and the copious amounts of whiskey being thrust upon us**, it was truly like any other evening with a group of singers.***

I'm honestly not writing this post to brag about my fabulous life in China, or to tell jokes. (Although both seem easy to do at this moment). I want to retell a story that Fearless Leader told us.

More than 30 some years ago, this type of cultural exchange between Eastern musicians and Western musicians would have been impossible. Fearless Leader told us that the first song in English he ever sang, he learned by listening to an illegal radio station and jotting down the chord structure and what sounds he made out of the words. Back then he was not the operatic sensation we know him as, but an indie guitar player. He performed the English song he learned on the radio and got into a great deal of trouble with the police. You might be thinking, was it Bob Dylan? John Lennon? Nope. It was Hank Williams "Jambayla on the Bayou".

I think about this story and am amazed to see how different life in China is now. I had a rather stinted view before I came here, which I think is part of the reason for the program. A few nights after hearing T. Laoshi's story, I went in search of more evidence that things had changed. I found a card for a music store on the internet, which sounds like the beginning of every great adventure! After taking a picture of it with my cell phone and showing that to the cab driver I ended up on a street with music shops abundant. (I'm not sure how I made it, but I did). Some store sold only brass instruments, there were 5 or 6 dedicated solely to violins. Some stores had ukuleles and guitars on one side and erhus and gu zhongs on the other. It was amazing. I'll share more on this adventure later, but I will leave you with some pictures.

The Chinese made ukulele I just had to buy... the company's name is Mo Li (my Chinese name, as well we the title of the song I sing in the Gala concert. It's meant to be. I also bought a metro tuner, mostly just for the name

This has nothing to do with the story above, I just needed to show my only option for bacon in this country.

Again, this does not go with today's blog. But I am sick and my fabulous room mate bought me flowers 

and put them in this ghettofied vase she made with an old water bottle. Love it.

*Pavorotti, Borodina, shoot me now...

** I was offered a glass of whiskey, which I wisely turned down. T Laoshi  then asked if I just wanted to try it, and I chose to oblige him by saying just a taste. I ended up with three fingers.We were all bullied into booze in this fashion, not that any of us were/are complaining!

*** Which of course means we ended the night around the piano singing Elton John and Billy Joel... I only wish I were kidding. Top it off with more than one wine glass being shattered and you have yourself a party. Thank God nobody suggested beer pong, as Maestro was there (another legend), and I'm quite sure the table we might have played on is worth more than my car.

I don't want a sad ending, but I really don't want a happy one!

Yesterday I auditioned for the National Center for the Performing Arts. The ISB faculty arranged for all the singers to audition, and even gave offered us extra coachings on our repertoire. (Our fearless leader is such a mensch!) If introducing ourselves and our pieces in Mandarin wasn't intimidating enough, we were also informed that this would be the first group of Westerner auditions the panel would have ever heard. So... no pressure or anything... you're only representing the entire country with this!

To eradicate some of our extreme stress, a soprano* and I decided to spend a the night before getting a massage. After asking a Chinese singer for directions on a good place to go, we headed out. (I should have known not to trust said singer as he lives in Boulder, Colorado and actually enjoys it. Nobody likes Boulder except for rich aging hippies and freaks. And Jennifer Garner, I remember reading somewhere that she likes Boulder. For goodness sakes, this is the city that brought us Celestial Seasonings and Crocs- gross).

After a nice 20 minute walk we found said spa. We asked for a menu of services. We found this.

True or false: we hightailed it out of there?

True. (And I am judging all of the people who wouldn't have done the same, or even considered that I wouldn't have immediately left!)

Soprano and I walked down a little ways and found a spa that didn't have anything questionable on the menu. And although we were a bit apprehensive, we asked for two massages. The woman clarified our meaning by pointing to her feet, pointing to her back, and then moving her hands back and forth with a massaging horse gallop-esque motion- what else could that mean but a foot and back massage? I sighed and pitied the poor soul who must always fail at game night charades.

 We got into the provided shortie pajamas, ever flattering...

What started as a foot massage ended with some one walking on my back. Apparently the front desk woman wasn't horrible at miming, I just saw what I wanted to see. I'm not mad at it, but I definitely had a man do a rain dance on my back. I even considered accompanying him with a song while he sashayed along my shoulders to my tailbone, but hesitated as I wasn't quite clear on the protocol.

Though I think next time I go I will sing along, at least towards the end, so there is a pleasant ending!


*I know, I made friends with a soprano- I'm so proud of myself! I have made friends with a soprano since Rocitoes... and that girl is crazy.

I don't use the communal anything... except the communal blog!

The following is something I wrote for the I Sing Beijing blog. Each singer is taking a day and blogging it- is it any surprise that I wrote about food?


I SING BEIJING 2012: From the Rocky Mountains: Meet Mezzosporano Molly...: My day ended as all of our days in Beijing do… with some delicious Chinese food!!!  A blog from Molly..... When I saw l...

I don't know what's happening, but at least I can order a beer.

The first thing you should do when visiting any country is learn a few key phrases:

"Where are the bathrooms?" 

"Help! I'm on fire!" 

"I'd like a beer please"

I know how to order a beer in 7 languages, obviously something to be proud about. Unfortunately I need to keep working on my Mandarin because I have no idea how to ask for a pedicure, or even ask for my food to go*. Thankfully I have mastered the phrase "I am a singer!", which apparently means the same thing here as it does at home. (Crazy, happy, and interesting... and crazy).

With a rare few hours off from singing I decided to spend my afternoon with a peaceful pedicure at the shop near my apartment. I went in,  said my token hello and pointed at my toes, unsure of the word for pedicure. They seem to get the message as I was ushered to a comfortable chair and had my shoes removed. After a long paragraph from three women (of which I understood nothing) I responded with "I am a singer" accompanied by a large smile and nervous giggle. They either hated me or loved me, but I was serenaded throughout the afternoon as the following events occurred...

1. I was bathed in some form of gelatin and left to soak for an hour or so. I felt a deep connection to Bill Cosby and meditated on that. It was nice.

2. I was wrapped in saran wrap. Two women worked together, one hoisted me up while the other made me into leftovers. It was interesting.

3. The actual mummification. These terrifying devices on my feet sent shock waves to my wrap up jelly legs. I'm still unclear on the motivation, but I'm sure Spock would know.

You'd think that would be the end of it, but I ended up making friends during this strange torture** I was subjected to. The shop owner sang to me in Chinese, and I sang back. I even got a free coaching as she fixed my diction. (Everyone's a critic!)

The night ended with an evening of acrobatics thanks to my fabulous program! I can't believe how well we are being treated, they must not have realized yet that we are only a bunch of singers... bring on the mummification.

*I went out last night and thought I asked for my soup to go. What I got instead was a bowl of noodle soup and some vinegar in a tied-up plastic bag. No wonder the woman looked at me like I was a nut-job. Silly Americans...

**My old little L guessed correctly, I smiled and nodded the whole time. What else is one supposed to do during these experiences? Reject the cultural exchange that was going on? Just because something is different doesn't necessarily mean its bad! (But this was actually different and bad).

This is NOT the story of Saran wrap mummification...

Tomorrow or the next day* I am going to write about my recent trips to the Great Wall of China, an amazing acrobatics show, and even a lovely (if not terrifying) tale of my saran wrap mummification** while getting what I thought was a pedicure. For now, I will just throw in a short blurb of an unforgettable night and a few quick pictures of awesomeness.

The amazing people that I am singing with were kind enough to give us a night off so to go see a concert version of Aida at the Chinese National Center for the Performing Arts. I can't begin to describe all of the beauty I witnessed at this event. The glorious architecture of the complex, the beauty of meeting new friends (from the East and the West) and getting a quick peek at how other people/singers around the world live, and the wonderful voices of the Aida cast. Our fearless leader and program visionary was a part of the cast, but I would have been happy if he had pulled a Cher and sung all the parts, a must see. His booming voice shook me to the core with every note- it was such a thrill! The woman singing Aida was also other-worldly, check her sing the role later this year at the M. if you don't believe me!

As if the week of exposure to Mandarin, delightfully challenging coachings with extremely talented staff, and tickets to the opera weren't enough the most wonderful Super K. got us all backstage after the concert to see Fearless Leader and congratulate him on being awesome. (We clearly didn't have to tell him how wonderful he sang, surely you must be well aware of your own awesome if you are that good. The only thing to do is to congratulate one on one's awesomeness!)

As promised pics tonight, more (mis)adventures shared later!

*Of course you have all figured out by now that I am not the most timely poster. While I promise to write these stories, let's not pretend that I can commit to any kind of realistic timeline to when they will get posted.

**It's even better than it sounds, get excited.

I might be on the Real World, but I don't live in a whorehouse!!!

One of the last emails that was sent out by the program I'm singing with said that cameras might meet us at the gate when we land. (Which really means I don't care that you've been traveling for 22 hours, put some damn make-up on and don't look a hot mess). What they didn't warn us was that the same camera crew would be with us at all times to document everything. You're drinking coffee? Let me film you. You're laughing at a joke? Let me film you. You're scratching your bum? Let me film you. It is a bit overwhelming. Plus, the kid carrying the boom has hit me in the head twice. (We may come to blows).  I'm just waiting for them to set up the confessional somewhere so I can start talking smack about these complete strangers. They all seem lovely, but you never know about those sopranos and tenors!

The film crew watched is amusement as I sought out an old comfort from home/the only thing that I could tell what was in it... Lay's Potato Chips. They giggled as they watched me realize that my options were between "Hot and Sour Fish Lay's", "Spicy Prawn Lay's", "French Chicken Lay's", and "Italian Red Meat Lay's". It's like the Lay's potato chip company can see into my soul. A.) Everything tastes better in chip form, and B.) I can say I've had a balanced meal between all of the variety's of tater chips I'm noshing! I eventually chose the blueberry chips, and they were so good I can't wait to try others.

Italian Red Meat

French Chicken

Blueberry

I'm exactly 12 hours different than my EST usual, so you know I have a nasty case of jet lag. (Why else would I ever be up and writing at 5am?) Luckily I have wifi in my apartment and my VPN makes it possible to share my stories with you my lovely readers!* A note about the apartment? Why, I have a spacious 2 bedroom 1 1/2 bath complete with a terrace, kitchen and living room! I'm so incredibly grateful, particularly since I have seen the other side of what these programs can do to you.**

Yesterday, on top of Mandarin lessons and coachings, we had an hour long discussion with P. (As in, been a stage director at the best opera house in the country for the past 20+ years, P). I can't wait to work with him, as I've heard he is an absolute genius. On top of that, he is the anti-name dropper, and it is beautiful. Every time he opened his mouth to share a story about his work at the M, he would say "a singer I've worked with...", or "I know a singer who..." and then continued with his story. We all know that the singers he has worked with are the powerhouses of the industry, but he simply finishes his thought. It makes him slightly more, and slightly less intimidating. As long as I don't vomit my Hot and Sour Fish Soup Lay's on his shoes I think we may get along just fine!


*Last time I checked I was up to 33, but that was 3 weeks ago and I can't remember how to check how many readers I have. Since I'm not sure, I've decided to estimate it is somewhere in the 1,000s...

**Before I left the country I had the opportunity to visit a friend from college at his summer program. He was in an abandoned whorehouse with 10 other men. Yep, 11 people in one bordello. So- we may not have any pots and pans... but I am so thankful it is just me and my roommate!

How I ended up wearing my mom's panties on my chest.

If you look at the picture at the top of this blog you will see a picture of me (Molly the mezzo, the one with all the misadventures), and my gorgeous, supportive, creative, and slightly crazy mother. I say slightly crazy as a term of endearment, and as an understatement. Fact: that woman is nutso and I love her.

I flew into Denver last night to visit my parents before I go sing in Beijing. This is going to come as no surprise when I say my parents are ... different. People expect after meeting me that the ones who raised me will be just as obscure, and they would be correct. I could write a novel on my father's exploits into uranium mining and my mother's life in the convent, but for now I think I'll just focus on one itty bitty story.

My mother, has this quirky habit of buying me twenty dresses every time I need one. They are always lovely and classy as heck, but seeing as I have the body (boobs) I have they take a little extra work for me than for other people. One dress needs to be taken in, one let out, one have straps made for it... welcome to how I have spent my morning. (Not that I'm complaining, I'm sitting on a comfy armchair on my computer while she and our friend Ann work like little Russian ladies in a sweatshop in LA. I don't even have to get dressed, just put on a robe in between fittings of various dresses. Tres chic).

The unconventional celebrity treatment was going well, until I put on a dress that was too low cut and needed "something to be more modest"*. Having warned her of this issue the evening before she presented me with the best of fixes.

"Hold out your arm", said she

"Here tis", said I

"Oh joy, they match most splendidly", said she

"What is this flesh toned contraption on my arm?", asked I

"Why, tis my drawers!" exclaimed she**. 

Apparently her plan was to put the nude panties as a panel in the v-neck. She is rather brilliant because she actually went from this:

Gross, I know... To this: 

And when I complained there was too much skin she finally went to this: 

AKA the lace from the undies with the non lace part under it.

This pair of nude undies is now going to be in one of my most glamorous, classiest performance gowns.

And that's how I ended up wearing my mom's panties on my chest. On stage.


*This royal blue beautiful dress was perfect other than the fact that there was so much cleavage I felt as though I were mooning others from the front. Not pretty.

**To be fair, that woman had actually bought the undies brand new that morning. They had not been worn, by her or anyone (hopefully).

Not to be dramatic, but I'm going to die alone.

After a fabulous trip of multiple weddings and a dramatic ending to a relationship, I was left feeling empty. (This was mostly due to the fact that I had a horrible plane experience and nothing to eat all day except the "Tapas" served on the flight. Note: never eat "Tapas" on a plane.)

When fabulous looking man on not so fabulous flight asked me for din, I (of course) said yes. Mainly though, because I no longer wanted to fell like this:

During meal, said man was fascinated with the fact that I sang opera. I was pleased to not get the usual reactions which are:

"Oh, so you're one of those starving artists types who will be forever dependent on their parents..." 

or 

"Wow, what a totally interesting, not at all boring or dead art form to be so involved in..."

The problem is, the bugger kept bugging me to sing. I started out being all coy and acting shy:

"I don't like to sing all the time, and I'm nervous by your manly manliness 

which has stopped by focal folds from vibrating". 

It then went to practical:

 "I insist that our fellow diners don't want (or deserve) 

such an intrusion in such a small space.

 I am a very loud person and make very loud singing-ish noises when I sing".  

Then came downright hostility:

"Listen dude, I don't have to sing for you or for anyone. 

I am a 21st century woman and I will sing when I damn well please!"

I finally gave in and sang three notes, and he reacted as if I'd just done something ghastly. 

This is a cruel and unusual pattern that may just continue forever. So while I'm not trying to be a dramatic person (just a dramatic mezzo) I am convinced that I will die alone, maybe with Maude. Shoot... the way she looks now Maude may just outlive me.

The funeral from hell (but I hope the lady went to heaven...)

Last year, around this time, I was contacted by a former colleague of mine to sing at a funeral in small town Oklahoma. The gig was on a day I didn't have to work, and offered a decent amount of pay (any pay is decent for me) so I took it. I didn't foresee that it would be the worst funeral ever.

Set list:
Ave Maria (Gounod)
On Eagles Wings
O Holy Night

Simple enough. I could sing all of those pieces in my sleep.*

Day of the funeral I show an hour early, as discussed with the organist and wait. I watch as the family (of what was sure to be a sweet old lady) saunter in. I sit professionally in my royal blazer and black skirt and keep a stoic face as I mentally make a grocery list. I anxiously check the clock now and again and keep an eye out for my colleague to rehearse the songs with.

The organist walks in with 10 minutes to spare and suggests we go to the choir room to run things through once. This is where feces hits the fan. The funeral director follows us in and asks for the Schubert, not the Gounod. (It's cool, just a totally different song... no worries). He has a copy of it, but it is about a third lower than any woman, mezzo or otherwise, should have to sing. Awesome.

He wants me to sing "O Holy Night" in French. Totally possible?

He does not want me to sing "On Eagles Wings" but a different hymn. One I've never heard of before. And could I please sing it at the front, next to the open casket, during the processional?

Before I can even comment that I can not translate to French on the spot, it is time for me to stand next to the cadaver and sing. At a Catholic funeral. Which means incense. Lots and lots of incense. So there I was, sight reading a hymn in front of a bunch of strangers next to a dead body with the alter boy circling around me swinging the incense like a 4 year old with his first yo-yo gasping for air and trying not to miss a note.** Just when I thought I was free and could taste normal air again he doubled back and hit me in the shin. He must have known I was thinking negative thoughts (about him) at a funeral and needed extra cleansing.

You'd think that would be the end of my woes, which it was for the most part. I don't feel like typing any more or I would tell you how the organist fell asleep and I had to throw a pencil at them to wake them up to play during communion. But for now I shall translate into French and tell you that I am le tired.

*Although I hope I don't, because that would be a waste of vocal energy.
**That was a run-on sentence, but ti deserved to be as it was a run-on experience.

I've met the Craigslist Killer

One of the strangest things about being a young musician is having your friends placed around the country/world. From music school classmates to participants from various programs, my friends are more scattered than the feathers from a 80's sleepover pillow-fight montage. This fact mixed with wedding season (for those of you who aren't terrified of commitment) means a lot of summer travel.

As I gear up to go to the wonderful weddings of my gorgeous old room mate and my old card buddy*, I find myself looking for a kind soul willing to give shelter to my pathetic creature. After exhausting all of my regular resources (like friends), I, like most normal people, turned to craigslist. Imagine my joy and wonderment when I found someone willing to watch Maude (and change her diapers) for all ten days for only $150! Too bad they live two hours away from me. I went to the second best deal, someone in Raleigh for slightly more. Maude and I agreed to go and meet this woman and tour her facility, to be sure it was of the upmost quality. I should have known...

Upon our arrival we saw the scariest shock collars known to man. Not like little "buzz" shock collars, but more like "I'm gonna mess you up of you ever even think about barkin again you stupid dog, cuz I'm a scary gangsta shock colla. Holla". Her dogs all had them on. Yikes. Next we looked in the backyard. It is still puzzling why someone who watches dogs would keep a cactus garden. The real terror came when we went into the kitchen. There, sitting next to the doggie treats was a huge hand pistol. I have no way of knowing for sure, but I'm pretty sure the serial number was scratched off. And the safety was off. And the trigger was cocked. This might be an exaggeration.

Needless to say Maude and I made our excuses and headed home. This has taught us two things: 1.) Be careful of craigslist, because you never know when you're going to meet a lady who has a gun pointing at you adjacent to beggin strips. 2.) Raleigh is a scary place.

*I sound like an awesome old man drinking Budweiser when I say "card buddy". Although I wish it were true, what I really mean is not beer and poker but "Dutch Bliss",the mennonite card game we used to play in college before church. Boom. Awesome. Blitz!

Singers and Paperwork

TREASURE HUNT!!!! 

What did I find after this treasure hunt in my own house? (Treasure, of course!) Apparently I have dental insurance. (I wish I would have known that before I paid out of pocket, but a treasure none the less).

I can't even begin to describe how many times I have gone on similar hunts in my own house to find what most people would consider vital information. (e.g. lease, checking account, adoption papers*, etc.).  I honestly didn't know I had dental insurance until my sister instructed me to go looking for it in my paper work from last August. The real question is not how did this crazy lady not know her own health care, but why is it in a random folder with the wrong name on it- and the wrong name isn't even Felicity Zzyblyx**.

Oddly enough, I can tell you where every libretto I own is. I can tell you the right binder for every scene/art song/aria that I have had to made copies of. (Not that I ever break copyright laws...). I can tell you about my passport and all of my audition application requirements- but I don't even know if I have coverage for m' pearly whites.

At this point we can all roll our eyes, shake our heads and sigh "singers and paperwork"!

*Not actually adopting anyone/or anything***, but I'm offended you have that look of surprise. I would most likely be an awesome mother, up to the point where I forgot I had it and found it 10 months later on a shelf in my practice room.

** Felicity Zzyblyx is my alter ego. She stems from a family tradition where my father used to refuse to give his name to delivery men and hostesses, and would provide the name "Felix Zzyblyx". I was mortified by this as a child, so of course I use a pseudonym now. And obviously as my father's daughter she is a Zzyblyx. And obviously I have an email account and address for her****. That's not weird.

***I did adopt Maude (she's sort of a dog) a couple of years ago, and she is kind of still alive. So there. I am awesome. I can kind of take care of a sort of animal. Winning.

****Her address is actually my friend's address from college. We were next door neighbors, so it was easy to remember. Sometimes she lives in Sussex, England though. Cuz that's believable.

Steve Martin lied to us.

I've applied for my visa! This may not seem exciting to anyone, but I know me and know how much I hate doing paperwork- as in I once filled out an entire sheet in blue marker so my boss would stop asking me to fill out useless forms. I stick to the story that I thought it was appropriate as she asked me to write in blue or black ink. It was your standard blue ink Crayola marker. Goal met.

I am getting more and more excited to go to China. I am also getting a little anxious. I know they're busy- but I really would like to have my rep now. Please? Pretty please? I'll trade you for Maude!

Although she may not make the flight over... but it is worth a shot.

In other news... The dentist gave me laughing gas today. (Have I ever needed an excuse to laugh?) He asked me how I was doing and I replied, "It's okay, I'm from Colorado". Apparently that is a magic phrase to share when you are supposed to be high, because he had no further questions on my well being. I'm not sure if it was a fabulous moment, or awkward, but I kept a straight face and just listened to the John Denver music. (Although, now that I think back good 'ole John might have been in my head).

I thought nitrous would be like this-

But turns out it is really more like this- 

Steve Martin lied to us. 

Walmart adventure

What do you do when you receive a $5 Walmart gift-card and good news in the same day? Obviously- go to Walmart at 10pm and find something that makes you happy.

Did you know that wally world doesn't have kazoos? I thought all stores, in all places, at ALL TIMES were required to sell kazoos. (It might even be in the Constitution, I think it's part of the pursuit of happiness). They have five different types of "Paper Jamz" and four different electric keyboards. They have 42 different pairs of Dr. Scholl's shoes, and a billion different types of goldfish. They have baby diapers, old lady diapers, baby doll diapers and dog diapers. But they don't have kazoos? Outrage.

Being the bigger person, I went for the kazoos' happy cousin. I said to myself: "Do you know what would make me, Maude, and my room mate really happy? Learning to play a harmonica at midnight!". And learn I did. But as it was a children's harmonica it didn't present much of a challenge. At this point I decided to being an even better room mate and play my harmonica while playing my new banjo ukulele. Clearly, this was a good plan.

Issue? I only have two hands. I solved the problem below, and can now go to sleep (or watch Netflix) happily. I think the room mate and the dog are really going to thank me for the miraculous music to come.

Merry sounds to all, and to all a good movie!

Epic Battle

Today Maude and I have been having an epic battle. (In my reality, I am good and hardworking and ethical- anything else that I may do is because of Maude's influence!)

Me: It's 8 am and I am fresh faced and ready to start the day. I should start with a three mile run and then a shower followed by reorganizing my fridge...
Maude: Silence! I require at least four more hours of sleep before we can discuss any further plans.

~And that's why I was in bed until noon. 

Me: It's almost 1! I should go make breakfast and warm-up and get practice and go on a three mile run...
Maude: That documentary about that person and that music is on Netflix.
Me: Ok, we'll watch it, and then practice...
Maude: Chocolate chip cookies sound divine right now.
Me: OK, we'll eat them and then go practice...

~And that's how I laid around watching online documentaries on random subjects while eating my roommates cookies.

Maude: Zoltar's naked yoga* is in ten minutes.
Me: ok, then practice?
Maude: mwuahhahaha... sure.

~And this is the story of how I fought with Maude all day, but never practiced. 

*For those of you who don't know (which is many) I like to go to a yoga class at my gym on Friday nights. The first time I went the instructor introduced himself with "Hi I'm Jim, but you can call me Zoltar". When I didn't have a mat, Zoltar lent me his- advising me not to use the patterned side because it was his "naked side". Lovely.

Hey Bandwagon, I'm Molly. Can I get a lift?

Many of you know, I've tried blogging before. I say "many", but I should say none, or just one (my mom), or maybe all- since my mom may be my only audience for this blog. I was so proud of myself for starting a blog, my first since my middle school foray into xanga. (To catch you up on that colossal failure see here: http://mezzomolly.livejournal.com/ ).

As predicted, it appears that my mom, my aunt, and my best friend were my only readers for that project. Also as predicted, I wrote a whopping total of 6 posts before forgetting about it and chasing a new whim. I'm not proud of my inattentiveness to minor projects, but impressed with myself for being able to call it on my first post.

Another summer adventure calls for another blog. This time, I have the time and the mind to blog leading up to my big trip. In a little over a month I will be heading to Beijing to sing opera. This week I'm going to start the process of applying for a VISA, learning music in MANDARIN, and getting some DENTAL WORK. All three things on my weekly list are incredibly intimidating, some more than others. (Little Shop of Horrors really ruined dentists for me. However,  mine is kind of a hottie so maybe he will resurrect my passion for dental hygiene).

So there you have it: I've started a blog and I'm about to have nightmares of Steve Martin in scrubs.

Love!
M