First audition of what feels like a million

 The time has come my loves and little ones... Audition Day!  I am sitting in the lobby of my first audition waiting for my practice room. You might think I would be focusing on my music and going over it my head (and over it and over it) but my give a shit quotient is at an all time low. Instead of looking over my music and wondering how I can possibly sing it all without peeing my pants,  I am listening to this and writing to entertain you all.

This may be the best tactic ever. I may go into the audition room an hour from now and feel like an absolute balla', or I might bomb it. Either way, we'll know in an hour!

Seriously though, I have already checked in at multiple locations, met with my accompanist, warmed up in the shower, reviewed the tricky bits of all of my pieces, sang through the high notes of my opening piece, drank a poop ton of tea/water, snacked on a granola bar,  checked myself in the mirror to make sure I am as beautiful as I remember/not a vampire, and put hairspray on my hair and panty hose (so neither fall out of place). Will someone please tell me what else to do? Because I can't possibly have all my shit this together...

Oh well, off to obsess somewhere else...

Toi, toi, toi to my self- because I know you all would say it if you had the chance!

I wanted to say Happy New Year, but my face is broken so I can't.

Congratulations everybody, we all made it to 2013. Many of you are probably proud of yourselves for sticking past the first day of your resolutions, hopefully nobody decided to add "spend less time on the interwebs" or "read less blogs by crazy opera singers with not much to say" to your list.*

I'd like to say that 2013 will be filled with less shenanigans on my part, but I decided not to lie to people on my blog. (REAL LIFE- HECK YES. BLOG- NEVER!) Besides, with 7 auditions coming up** I know that the madness and disturbing tales are sure to accompany. What I didn't know was that my New Years would be spent with double vision and losing an eye due to my broken face. Too much too soon? Let's pull a Julie Andrews and start at the very beginning...

I used to love my ex-roomie RY. Look at how cute we are getting ready to celebrate the end of 2012:

This love ended at 12:13 am January 1st, 2013. This is the moment when I knew that 2013 was going to be rocky and scary, and I will blame all of the years misfortunes on the above man. "What did he do?" asks you the reader. I'll tell you-HE MENTIONED THIS BLOG TO MY NEW YEARS DATE (NYD) !!!**** You might be asking "What's the big deal?" or "Why all of the secrecy?". But that's because you fall into one of two categories: 1.) People who know me so freaking well they expect the awkward word vomit that I like to call a blog (aka my mom, Maude, and Megro), or 2.) Some rando who doesn't matter much to me. I didn't mean that, you all matter to me! I just meant that you are probably someone I was in choir with in 7th grade who found my shameless plug for my blog through facebook. You totally matter to me old choir friend/jv football player I went to homecoming with/ and dentist of my step-dad!*****

Point being, NYD does not fall into one of the two categories. He is slowly getting to know me, which is probably wise, because quickly getting to know me can be overwhelming. Not that I want to hide my personality from him, I just don't want him to know that I hate showering and can't do it properly without a beer, or that I frequently order so much takeout they assume that it is for a large party, or that I am paranoid that Maude is dead and check on her at all hours of the day... crap like that needs to be shared in small doses. Luckily RY caught my laser death glare****** before he gave out the blog's name. Hopefully NYD won't see this, or he will most likely not contact me again. On the other hand, if he reads it and still contacts me, I will think he is a freak for wanting to talk to the same girl who wrote a freaking love letter to Chipotle and won't want to talk to him again. Maybe he will contact me and not mention anything about the blog, and then I'll grow increasingly suspicious over whether he has read it and refuses to mention it. Why won't he mention it? Does he not think I'm funny? Is he trying to be sneaky? Why should I go on a date with someone who doesn't like my stinking blog? Or what if he doesn't look it up? WHAT KIND OF JERK DOESN'T READ THE BLOG OF THE GIRL HE TOOK OUT FOR NYE? ... I could go on with this line of questioning for awhile, but you can see from the above that I am damned if he does, damned if he don't. (And crazy. You can see that I'm slightly crazy).

And now you see why RY's subtle mention of my blog was the first disaster of 2013. The second was when my sister broke my face (by accident) while she was suffocating me on couch (on purpose). 

I'd like to write more about that, but this post is already too long. Also, my face is swelling up and the vicodin is kicking in, but I promise to give the full account of my brush with death******* tomorrow, complete with more pictures like this: 

Notice the swelling and the death? This story is actually worse than usual... look out folks! Til tomorrow! (Or some other awesome phrase that sounds like a wicked cool cliffhanger!)
  


* I myself have made no New Years Resolutions. In part because I am too lazy, part because I forgot, part because I believe that you should make positive changes in your life no matter what time of the year it is, and part because I am just so stinking awesome I have no need for change<---Yea, I said that.

** Yes, I got 8/8 auditions from applications. Now instead of getting a friendly PFO in the mail, I have to fly to a foreign city to get rejected. Opera auditions are like the worst case of online dating ever,  like the type of crap they would put on To Catch a Predator... "The victim was convinced to fly across the freaking country for a ten minute interview and was never heard from again, because what kind of idiot flies thousands of miles and pays thousands of dollars to get rejected after 10 minutes? The kind of idiot that would fall for an online murder scammer guy!"***

*** I realize that my logic may be flawed here, but it made sense when I started typing and then I got too lazy to delete it and start over. Maybe that should be a resolution, actually go back and edit your work...

**** I refuse to say any more about this man, so don't ask. I'd like to say it is because I protect people's identities on my blog, but really it is because I don't want to give my family any ammunition when they start teasing. Last time I told them I was dating somebody was 6 years ago, and when they found out that he was planning on going into seminary they had my nephews refer to the man as "Uncle Father" for years. (Even though we only dated for months).  Teasing is a blood sport in my family, and I have to protect myself! 

***** I don't know why I said that. I panicked. I don't have a step-dad. My dad is awesome and has been married to my mom for a really long time. Like, almost twice my age long. (But not really twice my age. Closer to twice my age than half my age, so, twice sounds better).

****** This is Rufus's laser death glare. This is pretty much what I looked like to RY when he was blabbing about my personal brand of cray-cray to one of the last men on Earth who didn't know I was fucking psycho.

*******I just realized that this story better be really good, because nothing fabulous happened in this post. (Besides that dress I'm wearing). <--- Yea, I said that too.

********This has little to do with anything above, except the fact that I think I use too many footnotes, or maybe just too many to continue to use asterisks (astri?). For real though, 8 is a bit much. Maybe in my next post (the last one I write before I die from my face falling off) I will use a number system. But not in chronological order, because that would be hard to remember. Plus, it will be like a game to find the right footnote number.

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.