Enough Said

Bahston, Part Deux....

So on the way to Boston, I lost my debit card.  That's right, lost my damn card.  And I have to tell you, it has spooked me out enough that I now check that I haven't left anything behind every time I go out......which is beginning to be a bit of a pain-in-the-ass.  Especially when I do the underwear check.  What is more horrifying is that I am usually pretty good about keeping track of that stuff. But apparently I stopped at a gas station, threw my hands into the air and shouted "I don't need money OR responsibility!  Wheeee..."  And then I put my bra on my head and ran around the McDonald's.  I'm really not sure if that's exactly what happened, but when I called to cancel my card, the friendly woman from the bank let me know that someone had turned it in and it had been canceled.  It is good to know that Good Samaritans are still alive and well.

Luckily I belong to three million different banks in three million different states, so I was able to transfer money to my Boston bank. Which was important, because there are STORES and SHOPPING and MAKEUP and HAIRSTYLISTS in Boston.....places and people I have been lusting after ever since I set foot in Binghamton.  In fact, I ran through Newbury street shouting "I'll never take you for granted again!  Please forgive me!!!!!!"  Of course, reality soon set in when I realized that having all sorts of stores at my disposal doesn't change the fact that even with my debit card, I am tragically poor.  Why was I born with such expensive taste?  Why?????

I did manage to make a stop at Sephora, where I ran up and down the aisles, painting my lips as I went.  And as I was checking out, the salesclerk asked if I would like to join their "Beauty Insider" club.  Alas, I informed her that there wasn't a Sephora within 50 miles of me in Binghamton, New York. And then she gasped and said "Oh My God!  My grandparents used to live there!  Oooooh, you poor thing!  You SO don't look like you belong there!  You must be DYING!"  I assured her that I was surviving and had a much nicer apartment there then I could ever afford in Boston.  And I had to carry Scrubbing Bubbles with me into the laundry room. It's heaven on earth.  

So I am back and miss Boston already.  However, I am delighted to be back in my apartment, where I can walk around freely without pants.  Paradise!

Pahking the Cahr in Boston.....

This weekend I had to head to Boston for business and pleasure.  In order to get from Binghamton to Boston, you can either endure an eight-hour bus ride (with the delightful people of the tri cities upon it with you) or rent a car to drive the far more manageable five hours into the city.  Oddly enough, Binghamton actually does have an airport (go figure) so I was able to rent a car from Hertz for fairly cheap and with unlimited miles.  Which was good, because I wasn't quite sure if I was technically allowed to drive the car all the way to Boston.  

When I arrived at the airport to pick up the car (with my lovely Binghamton friends driving me out to the scenic countryside to get there), the woman at the counter informed me that they had only one car left to give me for the weekend.  And, lucky me, it was a deluxe car that I wouldn't have to pay extra for.  Goody.  So I headed over to the parking lot and came face-to-face with the last car in the lot: a 2008, cherry red Mustang.  Normally, an individual would be delighted to get such a jazzy car.  However, I was going to be driving on the highway, where every cop, trooper and state police officer was going to be drawn to my car like flies on horse dung.  Not to mention that my friends in Boston don't exactly live in the most "upscale" neighborhoods (because we are poor, and would rather live in a place with culture than a place like....uh....Binghamton?), and this shiny new car had the potential to attract a lot of sketchy people....who may have skills in hot-wiring cars.

But, it was the only car available, so I got in and turned it on.  Much to my surprise, the car ROARED on.  Oh good Lord.  Not only was I in the most attention-grabbing car ever, it was LOUD to boot.  So I headed back to my place in Binghamton, rumbling all the way.  And Mustangs are not really known for their cargo space, so it took quite some maneuvering to get my suitcase into the minuscule trunk.  After driving a Grand Marquis most of my life, I am puzzled at cars in which you cannot fit your whole apartment, including the couch.  

Once I was on the highway, I had to take great pains not to zone out while driving, because this car had a deep-seated desire to fly at the speed of light.  And every cop was going to assume I was speeding, whether I was or not, so I made sure I drove behind every old lady and pokey old man out there.  That way I knew I was going to be safe.  I was in the slowest moving Mustang in the history of the world.  People kept moving out of my way, and then looked puzzled that I wasn't blowing by them.  Sorry guys, this is a "respectful" sports car.  And ladies, if you want to get a man's attention, try pulling up in one of these loud, shiny toys.  Nearly every guy turned around at the rest stops to check out my ride.  Too bad I emerged, wearing a HUGE sweatshirt (because I want to be comfy when I drive FOREVER) and with a pinched expression on my face from the stress of keeping my speed so low the entire ride.

But I was thankful not to have a large car once I hit the city of Boston.  As I am sure some of you know, Boston is not the place you want to drive.....especially if you (like me) haven't really driven in three years.  Lanes will suddenly disappear, or turn into "left turn only" lanes, or will have a car with it's flashers on in the middle of the lane.  And God forbid the other drivers let you into their lane.  I finally figured out that I had to throw the front of the car into the other lane, into oncoming traffic, before people would take me seriously enough to let me merge. And I wasn't always sure that this technique would work, so I was constantly screaming "don'thitmedon'thitmedon'thitme" as I drove.  By the time I got to my friends' place, I had to peel my hands off the steering wheel.  You want my advice?  NEVER drive in Boston.  At least New York (while crazy) is on a grid system.  Boston's street tend to meander and circle back on themselves, scoffing at the notion of "straight lines."  It took me a half-an-hour to figure out how to get out of the city and back onto the MassPike.  While I would like to stay in Boston, constantly circling the city in my bright red car was not how I wanted to spend my days.

Tomorrow, more on my trip to Boston.........

Whaaat?

Where do I get a cat like this?  WHY do I not have a cat like this?????  I MUST have this feline in my life.  

Work It Out!

This was me at the gym today.  No, I am totally kidding.....I trim my whiskers better.  I am off to Boston tomorrow for a long weekend and may not be able to post until Sunday.  I apologize, but this Diva is looking forward to being in CIVILIZATION!  Ciao!

Piggy Feedback.....

Two of my favorite readers (Anna and Susan) left these amusing comments about my Three Little Pigs experiences:

My God that sounds unfestive.  The sacrifices you make for your profession.  I don't think I could ever do that.  Hopefully the suit doesn't smell....even if it does, maybe the smell of rubbing alcohol will seep into your skin, thus resulting in you being drunk?

They were probably looking at that headshot where they thought you were 15 lbs heavier, thinking, "Great!  She'll fit into the overalls without the fat suit!  Hire her!"  That, and the fact that you're willing to wear a pig nose in public.  Don't forget to take it off before you leave the building.  On the other hand, maybe it'd help you blend into the urban landscape you describe with such horrifying detail.

Susan also writes a blog about opera, which she sings and studies for fun (the idea!) at www.Luindriel.Blogspot.com.

Monster in the basement....

The laundry room in my apartment terrifies me.  I'm not proud of it, but there it is.  In fact, it freaks me out so much that I have managed to go THIS ENTIRE TIME without doing laundry. And no, I am not wearing my underwear inside out.....I literally have enough underwear collected through the years that I can make it this far.  I'm not saying it's sexy (Hanes Her Way anyone?) and it may be a wee bit dingy, but it is clean.  However, my towels started standing up on their own, so I finally had to bite the bullet and face the laundry room.

One has to go outside to reach it, and that is not so bad.....except when there is seven feet of snow on the ground.  Then I might get a bit cranky about laundry, stiff towels be damned!  No, the scary part is the fact that the stairs leading down into the room just happen to look like they are leading to a dungeon.  Not to mention that the lights are supposed to turn on automatically, but rarely do.  Which necessitates doing laundry during the day, when there is enough light coming in the window in the door.  And once you get down the old, treacherous steps, the lights are turned on via a timer.  God forbid you don't give yourself enough time: you could be plunged into darkness whilst unloading your delicates.

My mother has seen this laundry room and, while she is known to be a calm woman, she kind of freaked out.  Especially about the general creepiness of the place.  She also made me promise to only do laundry during the day, bring a flashlight, and to bone up on my martial arts skills. Today I brought down a can of Scrubbing Bubbles, because it is the one thing I have that can probably maim and disable anyone stupid enough to go after me in the laundry room.  I must have been quite the sight, walking to the basement in my PJs, carrying a ton of laundry, laundry detergent and a can of Scrubbing Bubbles.

Then, to top it all off, a chunk of my laundry key snapped off.  So, I had to go next door and get help from one of my neighbors.  The young man was very nice but, alas, had pants that did little to cover up his ass crack.  As a result, I was able to get my laundry out, and was almost treated to a full moon.  He also asked me my name five times and winked at me twice.  Apparently my Diva pajamas are an aphrodisiac in some cultures.  Needless to say, my towels are going to have to start walking around before I venture down there again.

Note to self....

It is best not to shop in a Binghamton grocery store wearing a flow-y, sequined top.  Apparently this is not normal grocery shopping attire around here and people will stare.  Young AND old alike.  I hope everyone had a good time gawking at the overdressed woman today at Wegmen's. Apparently I am the only exciting thing to see on a Saturday afternoon.  You're welcome.

Good Lord, I gotta get back to a bigger city.

Practicing my come hither look....

So, I have been given the role of the sexy, treacherous vixen in the upcoming opera.  Finally, I get to play a sexy mezzo, as opposed to all the over-the-hill, nasty old women I have been playing lately.  My glorious time has come....bwhahaahaha!  Uh, too bad I kinda like playing those old ladies because I can have all the candy and ice cream in the world and it is not going to show in the sad sack of a costume I usually get assigned for such characters.  Now I actually have to look good when I walk on the stage, and mugging and acting silly are STRICTLY prohibited.  In fact, one of my friends threatened to kick my ass if I started acting goofy while performing the role. Spoilsport.

However, I am rather nervous about this role, since I am quite unused to being sexual on stage. I tend to fall back on the "funny" because it is easier to hide behind and people don't have to find me alluring....they just have to laugh.  Now, all I got are my feminine "charms" to hide behind.  And those tend to only emerge after a couple of cosmopolitans.  So, obviously, the only solution for me is to be blitzed out of my mind for the entire rehearsal process.  And I have NO idea where to get a decent cosmo around here, so that idea might be out.  Of course, the conductor might like me better, since he tends to be in a blitzed state all the time as well, so I had better ask him where he gets his "supply."

So, I have until the end of October to learn how to "seduce" a man without giving up and making farting noises instead.  Bodily function jokes are SO much more my speed.

Drunk Carmen....

The most amazing performance I have ever seen.  This woman is my hero, because you would not BELIEVE how many times my friends and I have joked about going on like this.  Probably helps with the nerves and all that.....

In my dreams....

This is how I would like to answer those questions some Young Artist Programs ask on their application forms:

Why do you want to be a part of the (insert opera company here) Young Artist Program?

Well, thanks for asking.  I'd like to think you will read the answers to these questions and will really take them into account when you are making your final decision.  However, I do realize that these questions are just so you can make sure that we singers can write in complete sentences (a rarity in this world), and you probably won't even read them.  So, all I can say is that I would like to be part of your Young Artist Program because I HAVE TO GET OUT OF BINGHAMTON LIKE WHOA!  I will be serving out my sentence here until May, and I would like to have another program to go on to so that I do not seem sad and pathetic.  I would also like to know that I am wanted for a program based on my talents, not just because you need mezzos and I was the only one desperate enough to jump at the chance to move to a (kind of) scary town.  Also, I would like to get the ball rolling on this whole "career" thing so I can stop mooching off of my parents and start behaving like a real adult.  My parents are cool and all, but I am WAY too old to be needing their help.  Really, if it helps, I would be happy to include a letter from my mother, detailing just how much of a sad, money-grubbing worm I am.  Oh, and your program would give me a hella lot of street cred amongst my friends.

Oh yeah, and I want to improve my performance skills with your prestigious staff......blah, blah, blah.  Like you haven't heard that all before.  By the way, is there a shopping mall near the training center?  And how many teeth does the average resident of your town have?  How about mullets.  Trust me, if you lived here, you would know why I ask.

Thanks so much and see you at the audition!

Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin....

Just when I thought I had a shred of dignity left, I headed to rehearsal and promptly lost it today. Why, you ask?  Because I am wearing a FAT SUIT as one of the three little piggies.  On top of that are overalls, piggy hands and a nose.  And I am not sure if you are aware, but pig noses tend to cause massive sweating of the face. And speaking of sweating, I have to have added padding (on top of my fat suit) to fill out the size-60 waist on my overalls, so I took a moment to be grateful that I couldn't fill the thing out all by myself.  The problem with all that padding is that it gets hot as hell.  In fact, in the dead of winter here, I may wear the costume to wait for the bus.  Not only will I be warm enough, I may have room in my overalls to house all the bag ladies who wait for the bus with me.

Because we now have fat suits, our whole way of moving around on stage has to change. Instead of charging through doorways, the pigs now have to turn sideways and squeeze through.  A couple of times, I got stuck and had to have the guy playing the wolf shove me through.  Oh the humanity!  And when I throw myself on the ground (as directed), I kind of bounce because of all the padding.  So I end up landing a few feet from where I originally meant to land.

And pig hands are not meant to move set pieces.  We have gloves that have been made to look like pig feet (which is as creepy as it sounds), and the set pieces kept slipping out of our hands. Adding to this delight is the fact that gloves tend to keep heat in, so you end up with the WORST sweaty palm situation ever.  Add to that the uncomfortable pig nose issue, and I have never been so desperate for a shower after a rehearsal in my life.

And the worst part?  We share these costumes with the singer in the other cast.  And no matter what the costume people say, there isn't enough rubbing alcohol in the WORLD to disinfect this pig nose after I have gotten through with it.  Today we did back-to-back runs, and my double (who happens to be a 6-foot-4-inch man...go figure) was stuck going second.  Which meant that he got to wear the costume after I lost 10 pounds of water weight in it.  To quote him: "I didn't know girls could sweat this much!"  I could not apologize enough for my overworking sweat glands.

There isn't enough deodorant in the world to make this sanitary.

My talented photographer...

I have gotten a few emails asking about my headshot photographer.  Her name is Arielle Doneson and she runs Arielle Doneson Photography.  Her website is undergoing maintenance today (Monday), but should be up and running by tonight.  Please check out her amazing work (link above) and prepare to be awed!

Thank you Tyra.....

This weekend I got my headshots done in New York by my talented singer/photographer extraordinaire; Arielle.  And to say I was nervous about this photo shoot was an understatement; I was petrified enough to spend hours practicing my "poses" in my bathroom mirror.  Thank God I live alone, or else I would have had some serious explaining to do about my current mental state (which, let's face it, hasn't been all that steady to begin with).

The problem is that while I am comfortable on stage, I tend to freeze up like Bambi's mother in front of a camera.  Part of this is because I am the color of ice, and the flash on a camera tends to obliterate my facial features, reducing me to red lips and a floating nose.  And no amount of bronzer helps the situation; too much and I look dirty, too little and I might as well have skipped the whole process.  And speaking of my nose, I have a very cute nose in person...in pictures, it tends to widen like the San Andreas Fault and leaves me looking like a girl in serious need of a nose job.  Don't believe me?  Even my own mother has marveled at the size of my nose in pictures versus the size of it in real life.  Compounding this whole photograph issue is that I am a size 12.  Not fat by any means of the imagination, but I won't be working Fashion Week for Cavalli anytime soon.  And if I am caught at the wrong angle or facial expression, I tend to look like Jabba the Hut's prettier, younger sister.  To avoid this, I tend to make "funny faces," that involves pursing my lips and making my cheekbones stand out.  People think I'm being "clever and funny," but in reality, I am using "silliness" as a guise for making it look like I have a chiseled face.

So it was with much trepidation that I approached Arielle's West Village studio.  Luckily, I had the presence of mind to hire her makeup artist (Maestro Alex), who meticulously styled and contoured my face and hair.  In fact, he did such a splendid job that I was tempted to pack him in my Longchamp and bring him home to Binghamton to live in my closet.  He is a beautiful musical theater singer, and, due to a religious devotion to the gym, would probably fit perfectly in my carry-on.  It was a relief to put myself in his capable hands, and it meant I didn't have to worry about what kind of makeup would show up on camera.  When he was done, I couldn't stop looking in the mirror, exclaiming "Oh my God, that's me?  I am so HOT!"  I suspect I was entertainment for Alex and Arielle as well.

The actual shoot couldn't have gone more swimmingly.  I don't know if it was working with a friend, or the makeup, but this Diva had quite the surge of self-confidence going on.  And thanks to America's Next Top Model, I knew exactly what Arielle meant when she said "smile with your eyes."  Done and done, thanks to Miss Tyra Banks' demonstrations at judging panel. Also, thanks to Miss Banks, I was careful to keep my neck as long as possible and to figure out my "angles" beforehand.  And Alex followed closely behind, touching up my makeup and wiping away sweat as needed.  He even shaded me with a lighting panel as we walked to different locations.  I am a good Midwest girl, but even I enjoyed the "P. Diddy" treatment.  And we got 300 shots taken in under an hour, and the large majority of them turned out beautifully. Adding to their "beauty" will be the photoshopping that occurs afterwords.  

I'm hoping to get double D breasts added, but that may take some negotiating.  

*Photo courtesy of CW TV and Bankable Productions

Photo Call....

I am headed off to The City tonight to get headshots done.  This was decided after someone looked at my old headshot and asked if I used to be fifteen pounds heavier.  I was on the phone to my photographer so fast, I got whiplash.  I am sure there will be stories to follow as I bus it to New York City.  TTYL!

Me after filling out young artist applications all afternoon and evening

Audition Season Blows.....

If you are a young opera singer, then you understand why I keep waking up in the middle of the night, shouting "I need one more recommendation and a rep list!"  That's right, Young Artist and Summer Program audition season is right around the corner.  It's the most horrible time of the year.

These are considered the "job interviews" of the opera world.  However, in order to even get an "interview," you have to send money in up front.  That's right, in order for them to even look at your resume and head shot, you have to send them an application fee.  And that fee (which runs between $20-$60) doesn't even guarantee you an audition.  It just guarantees that some bored office assistant will take a cursory glance over your materials.

And the applications are not all standard from company to company.  Some just want your resume and head shot, some want a recording, some want a biography, some want recommendation letters, and others just want the phone numbers of people who will vouch that you aren't as crazy as Amy Winehouse.  My head hurts just thinking about it.

And if you do get an audition (which is half the battle), more likely than not the audition location is New York City.  So I have to somehow drag myself to the city from Po-Dunkville and find a place to stay.  All for five minutes in front of some un-smiling judging panel.

If you couldn't tell from the above "prose," the time of year puts me in a seriously grumpy mood.  In fact, I dread the end of Thanksgiving, because that is when these things generally start up.  And when I lived in Boston, it was a little easier to get to the city, as I could just hop on a train.  Now I have to brave a bus.  God help me....one traffic jam and I'm dead.

Look opera insiders, the system needs to change.  Don't be surprised if you find me picketing your audition in my underwear.

In the past few days....

Here is what has been going on for the past few days that I have been MIA:

• I put my poor mother and her fantastic organizing skills to work on my apartment.  The finished result is pretty damn sweet, but all that moving and hanging of my wardrobe has nearly crippled my mother.  I am the worst daughter ever.
• It was the weekend of rear-ends, as every movie my mother and I saw involved a naked butt, and we were mooned (by accident) outside the theater.  Who would have thought I would see so much ass with my mother?
• I had a coaching with the alcoholic faculty member, and before our session began, he cracked a beer and poured it into a glass AT 11 AM IN THE MORNING.  Cheers to him. Hell, I should have asked for one and made it a party.
• I am SO sick of this Three Little Pigs outreach crap.  Quite frankly, I can kind of see where the Big Bad Wolf was coming from.  Eat them all and spare me the rehearsals!
• The audition season is almost upon us, and I keep waking up in a cold sweat from the nightmares about it.  More on that in a later post....there is MUCH to talk about.
• I now have a stuffed dragon that keeps me on track.  No, really, I'm taking my cues from a stuffed animal.  This dragon has the sternest look on his face, and I keep him by my desk to remind me not to procrastinate with things like applications, writing in my blog, DVRing Gossip Girls, etc...  His name is Balthazaar, and he is highly disapproving of my love of America's Next Top Model.
• Speaking of DVR, what the hell did I do before it?  I can record shows that I won't be around to see?  Then watch them whenever I want?  BRILLIANT!

Now I have to go and stare at my perfectly organized closet.  My mother has sworn to kill me herself if it doesn't stay in tip top shape.  Ciao!

Yikes!

Bad Blogger....

I have been remiss in posting to my blog as of late, and I apologize.  My mom has been in town and we have been attempting to find some form of shopping.  So far it is a toss-up between The Christmas Tree Shop and Sears.  For the love of God, I HAVE TO GET OUT OF HERE.  On a more interesting tangent, my mother and I were mooned last night.  Some teenager was mooning his friends as we were exiting the movie theater, and mom and I got caught in the crossfire.  On the plus side, the young man seemed more embarrassed than we were.  Mom even leaned over to me and said "you would think he wouldn't want to show off such a skinny tush."  My mom officially rocks.

*Courtesy of Mark Tatulli/Universal Press Syndicate

On a bicycle built for......me

My new mode of transportation around Binghamton is a bike.  That's right, I am riding a bike to and from rehearsals, not to mention the gym, the bank, etc....  The bus system is fine, but I would rather wait until it snows to stare at the man fondling himself on the seat across from me.  'Tis the season and all that.  So, for the time being, I am tooling around town on two wheels.

Unfortunately, it has been YEARS since I have been on a bike, so I am a wee bit wobbly, to say the least.  And once I get going, I am not so good at stopping, so I tend to ride my bike like I just stole it.  Shouting "I can't stop!  Get out of the way!" to people on the sidewalk only enhances my image.  It is especially funny when I get near the drug rehabilitation center (there is only one in this town?  Surely there should be more?)  and the people are much slower to react.  So I end up weaving around crack addicts and shouting "Sorry!  Sorry!  Sorry!"  And what I dread the most is waiting at intersections for the light.  Getting going again is not really one of my strong suits, and I usually end up looking like a drunk on wheels for a few seconds.

The worst part, by far, is the damage to my rear-end.  I don't care how much natural "padding" you have back there, the bike seat will always find your boniest spot.  Every time I sit down, I am reminded about my new mode of transportation.  Is it possible to bruise butt bones?  'Cause I think I did.  And I have to lug my bike up the steep stairs to my apartment because I don't want to leave it out on the street.  There aren't enough bike locks for this town.  And this bike could stand to lose a little weight.  By the time I get it downstairs, I am too tired to go to the gym.  Already worked those biceps, thanks very much.  The other day, I forgot to grab the handlebars as I walked upstairs, and they swung around and clunked me in the head.  And because I have skin like tissue paper, I sustained a bit of a head injury and started bleeding all over the place.  Very sexy.  I had to clean the stairs later because they were covered in blood and I was worried that someone would call the police.  I realized later that blood splatters probably are par for the course around here and I probably didn't need to bother.

It's going to be an interesting nine months.

Happy Labor Day! If you need me, I'll have collapsed while unpacking.