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.