Friday, April 28, 2006

Not so much on the eye for an eye thing, though.

I'm a very big fan of the biblical maxim, "If it offends thee, cut it off."

Offender: Tonsils
Cutoff date: December, 1986

Offender: Uterus
Cutoff date: July 28, 2002

Offender: Hair
Cutoff date: October, 2001; November 2003; January 2006

Offender: Retinas
Cutoff date: Haven't saved $2,000 yet, hopefully will soon.

But the kicker:

Offender: Stomach
Cutoff date: Haven't asked yet. Hopefully will soon.

So many of my problems would be solved by not having a stomach:

1. No hiatal hernia, so no reflux; no reflux so no vocal cord problems or chest pain
2. No ghrelin production, so no hunger; no hunger, so no huge chest, flabby arms and giganto butt.

I just have to convince someone that these syllogisms make sense.

Wednesday, April 26, 2006

My father's daughter

I just spent 20 minutes picking stewed, canned tomato chunks out of my chili. I do the same thing with peas from fried rice. Because, you know, if I accidentally ate either, my head would explode.

Best. Invention. Ever.

I love my iPod, Jane. Not just love as in, "Wow, what a handy thing to have around," or "It's so convenient having all of my music in one place!" No. Love as in, "Stay five feet from her at all times or get strangled with my noise-cancelling earphones' cord. Mine. My iPod. No touchy. Don't touch it, I said! Stop breathing on it! You're steaming up the display! Gahhh (gahh being my killer karate move I'd whip out to protect it, 'cause it's a good little iPod, yes it is! So pretty. So shiny.... )!"

If I were pressed to do so, I suppose I would have to rank the printing press really as the #1 invention of all time, as I couldn't live without books, but the fact that Jane has 15 movies, three behind the scenes at the Disney Studios shows from the 50s and 60s, over 200 CDs, the Battlestar Galactica 2003 miniseries, the whole Firefly series, countless other Aardman and Disney shorts, constantly shields me from the painful reality of life and the inherent rehearsal drama stemming from no one on the artistic staff actually having communicated with each other and every scene having to be reblocked to the conductor's satisfaction, it really is the invention that has enriched my life to the most fulfilling degree. And it keeps crazy people from talking to me on the bus.

Why is it, though, that bus headphone "don't talk to me" etiquette doesn't apply to rehearsal? The second I put the headphones on during rehearsal breaks, everyone must talk to me at THAT PRECISE MOMENT, especially if it's to only ask what I'm watching or what is that or tell me that I'm addicted. I'm NOT addicted. I can stop any time I want. I mean, I left Jane at home today and my hands are only shaking a little. And I have to go home tonight after work anyway, as I can't wear a dress to rehearsal, so picking Jane up has nothing to do with it. Nothing at all. I'll just finish the episode of Alias I'm watching right now and then I'll be able to concentrate on other things. Really! I swear.


Tuesday, April 25, 2006

I can't stop staring at this picture.

Even the most hardened animal hater couldn't help but love this picture.

A hundred thousand bows of appreciation to Manish for this pic of his new kid Bali (on top) and Bali's littermates.

Nothing like a good dose of public humiliation...

to cap a really fabulous day.

At rehearsal last night, a number of people were absent, and in a scene where I have to cross the stage with another chorus woman, stop in front of Macbeth, curtsy and exit, I had a new partner and was trying to walk her through the direction as it was timed to the music. Well, I crossed upstage of two of the principals instead of downstage as the principals were directly in my path, and to cross downstage would have meant going even farther downstage and then back upstage to exit, and there wasn't time. The director got very irritated. He came onto stage, telling everyone to stop as "these two don't know what they're doing," moved the principals upstage and took my arm and said, "And when you bow, don't stick your behind out," and proceeded to imitate me and make fun of how I bowed, which is how every opera singer bows. Well, the principals thought this was just hilarious, so the director kept going. And going. Making voices, faces, imitating my actions, all center stage with the principals laughing at me, not with me. I know the difference. I was the literal and figurative butt of their mockery. I finally just left the stage, angry and embarrassed.

I'm a smart girl. I can act, and follow direction. To get me to do what you want, all you need to do is tell me. Preferably in a more private setting, but if it has to be in public, don't make fun of my ass while doing it. Unfortunately, most of the people on stage had the maturity level of fourth graders, so any chance to mock a chubby girl was seized upon with glee. Ah, professionalism. There ain't nothing like it.

Monday, April 24, 2006

Christian will have to wear a shirt over his wife beater.

We're no longer the white trash neighbors, which means no more sitting on the front porch with a shotgun handy to keep away the damn kids. My mom weeded our entire front yard, shaming us into edging, pruning the hedge and planting our vegetable garden:

Our lawn will forever look like fifteen kinds of crap, however, as we refuse to fertilize and aerate and all of that really labor intensive crap. My parents simply don't understand our lack of lawn attention. Theirs looks like a golf course and my dad takes unearthly delight in mowing it twice a week. I just don't care that much. It's all coming out in a year anyway to make way for my English-style courtyard complete with artistic fountain and wrought iron benches. Ooooh, and penguin waiters. And raspberry ice. And a white lace tea dress. And Dick Van Dyke. Who would need a fifth of scotch. Never mind.

Friday, April 21, 2006

I have a dream....

and that dream is to:

Fly to Europe and take the 11 day Disney cruise in the Mediterranean.
Go to Paris after the cruise and spend a few days with the Goussus, shopping for a Baroque guitar. Go to Disneyland Paris.

Yes, I'm smoking crack if I think we can afford this. Don't care, want to go.

Tuesday, April 18, 2006

But he promised me they wouldn't come back!

In 2002, when my cervix was attempting to plummet to its death and I needed to seek advice on how to end its suffering, the surgeon my OB/GYN sent me to, when examining me in that horrible thumb up the pooper way, said, "You have the worst hemorrhoids I've seen in years. You must get them taken care of. How can you LIVE like this?" He was very judgemental of my waste disposal system.

Now, I had never thought much of my, well, hangers on. It was my understanding that everyone bleeds out of their butts, itches like ants were crawling on their bung holes and cries when they have to go #2 because nothing will come out. Apparently that's not the case. So, Mr. Terrible Bedside Manner referred me (forced me to go) to a colorectal surgeon. As if women weren't exposed to enough indignities on the exam table. When the CRS looked at me bum, though, he said that he could snip off the offender while I was under, immeditely following my ute extraction, and all would be well. He was so CONFIDENT. He told me that I would never have these problems again.

He lied.

Makes me sound kind of pretentious, no?

I took this Myers-Briggs-based quiz yesterday, and this is who it says I am:

Personality Type: INFJ

The Portrait of the Counselor Idealist



Copyrighted © 1996-2006 Prometheus Nemesis Book Company

The Counselor Idealists are abstract in thought and speech, cooperative in reaching their goals, and directive and introverted in their interpersonal roles. Counselors focus on human potentials, think in terms of ethical values, and come easily to decisions. The small number of this type (little more than 2 percent) is regrettable, since Counselors have an unusually strong desire to contribute to the welfare of others and genuinely enjoy helping their companions. Although Counsleors tend to be private, sensitive people, and are not generally visible leaders, they nevertheless work quite intensely with those close to them, quietly exerting their influence behind the scenes with their families, friends, and colleagues. This type has great depth of personality; they are themselves complicated, and can understand and deal with complex issues and people. Counselors can be hard to get to know. They have an unusually rich inner life, but they are reserved and tend not to share their reactions except with those they trust. With their loved ones, certainly, Counselors are not reluctant to express their feelings, their face lighting up with the positive emotions, but darkening like a thunderhead with the negative. Indeed, because of their strong ability to take into themselves the feelings of others, Counselors can be hurt rather easily by those around them, which, perhaps, is one reason why they tend to be private people, mutely withdrawing from human contact. At the same time, friends who have known a Counselor for years may find sides emerging which come as a surprise. Not that they are inconsistent; Counselors value their integrity a great deal, but they have intricately woven, mysterious personalities which sometimes puzzle even them. Counselors have strong empathic abilities and can become aware of another's emotions or intentions -- good or evil -- even before that person is conscious of them. This "mind-reading" can take the form of feeling the hidden distress or illnesses of others to an extent which is difficult for other types to comprehend. Even Counselors can seldom tell how they came to penetrate others' feelings so keenly. Furthermore, the Counselor is most likely of all the types to demonstrate an ability to understand psychic phenomena and to have visions of human events, past, present, or future. What is known as ESP may well be exceptional intuitive ability-in both its forms, projection and introjection. Such supernormal intuition is found frequently in the Counselor, and can extend to people, things, and often events, taking the form of visions, episodes of foreknowledge, premonitions, auditory and visual images of things to come, as well as uncanny communications with certain individuals at a distance.

Is it me? Yes? No? I'm curious as to what others think.

Monday, April 17, 2006

Isn't this what Flickr is for?

I KNOW I probably post too many pet pictures, but when we got home from Spokane last night, we had missed the birds so much that we forwent (?) cleaning and unpacking to take them out of their cages and subject them to a photoshoot. What different little creatures they are from each other, and from Stanze before them.

Stanze would have NEVER let us pet Fritz in her presence, much less hold the two of them together ON THE SAME FINGER. Christian's hand would have been a mass of bleeding flesh had he attempted this when she was around. Pierre is so placid, almost to the point of alarm. He sits and stares and makes no demands. He let Fritz very assertively preen him:

And while regurgitation may be disgusting, but at least we know they like each other.

There was a tremendous moment last night when Pierre perfectly stepped up several times in a row with no nipping, flapping or clinging desperately to the perch with one foot. They even stepped up TOGETHER, which was the highlight of all pet ownership thus far.

We then, though, had a bit of an unnerving pet moment when feeding the snakes. Mom, don't read this. Frederick was unusually hungry and lunged for the mouse as soon as I opened the cage. He missed, but I felt the whiff as he struck near my arm. He took it as soon as it hit the floor of his cage. And to think we were worried about his eating.

Persephone was in the small feeding cage and lunged for her mouse as soon as she smelled it (they must have been extra stinky) and caught her teeth in the mesh of the cage lid. Fortunately, she disentangled herself with no apparent damage, but it can be shocking to see snakes act like, well, snakes, especially when they're usually so docile. They are who they are, however, and I wouldn't want them to change. I just need to make sure that the next time they eat, the bags the mice are thawed in don't leak, as wet mice must smell to them like cinnamon does to us.

Thursday, April 13, 2006

High Class and Sensitive

I can't tell you how much I want to drop kick a certain other singer right now. This person, for the second time, has posted on her website that she got a part that I also auditioned for before I was told that I didn't get it, before it was announced by the company and before the rest of the cast was informed. Therefore, I found out that I, yet again, didn't get the part by looking at her website. I hope she trips on the hem of her costume while on stage, falls into the orchestra pit and gets impaled by a violin bow. Stupid cow.

Stupid week. Stupid career.

Wednesday, April 12, 2006

Hmmm...that manatee would be a nice treat...

You have to have a license to keep a cat or dog, but superpredators, ah, anyone can keep those! Oh, and as people breed and sell them online as they bring a good price and the general public (dickwad, punkass idiots, mostly) want to buy them thinking how cool it would be to have a pet that eats LIVE GOATS living in their basement, a pet that they can bring out at parties to scare the chicks, they're available EVERYWHERE, and relatively cheaply, especially for an animal that lives FIFTY YEARS. Cool, man. And you know, when the pet gets too big, the fucktard owner can just let it go! Because, dude, it's a GOOD idea to let a Burmese python go in a national park where the wildlife balance is SO DELICATE that half the indigenous species are endangered and the other half threatened.

It's a terribly unpopular position among those who keep these pets responsibly, but I do believe the possession of very large exotics should be illegal. It's not permissible to keep a tiger in your home, so why should be be legal to keep an animal so large that it can consume the family pets, including the children? That would halt the moronic gene pool, though, so maybe it wouldn't be a bad thing.

Oh, and MSN? If you're going to post a picture of a python to go along with the above-mentioned story, make sure it's the right species: a BURMESE python. Not a BALL python, one of the SMALLEST python species, and one that is common in households (as pets, I mean, not just lurking behind cupboards and such, like a spider). Fact check, people. It takes five seconds.

This public service post brought to you by CAPS LOCK.

And what an arduous weekend it would be.

When I got home from rehearsal last night, Christian asked me, in his patented portentious tones, "Would you mind if I didn't go with you to Spokane this weekend? For Easter? Work is piling up and I'm getting nervous." To which I replied, "I'm going to pretend that you didn't just ask me if it was all right if you miss one of the two family functions in Spokane that we've been able to attend in the past year so you can do the work that you've had for three months but are just now getting around to because you've been doing everything BUT said work for the same past three months. You can do your work in Spokane."

But, had I been the kind of embarassment to womankind to roll over and say yes, dear, whatever you want, and had Christian stayed home, this is exactly how his weekend would have gone:


Leave work. Change and go to gym. Work out for two hours. Come home. Take bird out of cage. Eat dinner of three kinds of breakfast cereal mixed with a cookie, ice cream and milk while lying on the floor reading a Crutchfield catalogue, trying to justify the purchase of a subwoofer for the Corolla. Watch Modern Marvels for an hour. Futz around on the internet (specifically the throwing web ring) and then go to bed without showering.


Get up at 7, unable to sleep in. Get dressed and go to track to shot put. Avoid crushing skulls of members of peewee soccer team practicing in neighboring field. Go home. Ice wrist/back/knee or other injured body part. Eat more cereal. Work for one hour. Make turkey sandwich, leaving tomato ooze on counter to solidify into pink mass peppered with seeds. Read Track and Field magazine. Practice stepping up with birds while taking pictures of them in artistic poses (not dirty, like it sounds). Still don't shower as showering washes away pleasant smell of iron and manly funk. Go to Lowe's and get part for sink. Eat dinner of mac and cheese with the artistic addition of an egg white, a chicken breast and some broccoli. Listen to Swing Years and Beyond while reading sites already read today, as maybe they've been updated/had new comments posted and maybe work for a half hour or so. Go to bed at midnight after watching more Modern Marvels.


Get up at 8, eat more cereal, finally shower, go to Mass (it is Easter, after all). Come home, eat another turkey sandwich, this time leaving lettuce on the counter with bits of turkey that will dry out and stink. Do a load of laundry. Change into grubby clothes. Tighten sink bolts/nuts/cables. Realize that wife is going to be home in several hours, house is disaster and have only worked for an hour and a half. Freak out. Try to get everything done and once and get nothing done in the end.

And for that, he'd miss my Mom's ham.

Monday, April 10, 2006


I said no to Indian food yesterday so I could stay home and nap. I was that tired. I fell asleep after about 15 minutes, slept for a half hour, woke up, fell back asleep for three hours, woke up, ate, watched the telly, went back to bed, couldn't sleep until midnight. Didn't care, though. Excellent nap. I like not having anywhere to go on a Sunday.

Boring post. Want another nap. Am five. Where's my blankie? Oh. It's at home.

If I can't have a real one...

I'll make a fluffy one. I'm very proud of his embroidered nose.

Felting is an interesting process. Ever put a wool sweater in the wash on warm and take it out to find it half the size and really firm? That's felting. It's taking an expensive product and making it cheap. Smooth and pretty, but cheap. It makes for a fantastic toy body, though. Thick. Water-repellant.

Christian had a busy weekend about the house as well. We are slowly replacing all of our crappy household apparati with better quality products. Note the manky grout behind the sink. I bleach it every week and it still looks like that. Well, it's what happens when you have 40 year old countertops. I can't wait to remodel.

Friday, April 07, 2006

My famous boy!

Pierre is on! You've seen the picture, but it's still groovy.

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

And me without my spikes.

After reading an article about a soprano who, in her 40s, was about to make her mainstage Met debut, and reading the subsequent argument on the singer's forum about similar events and the insane jealously that accompanies other singers' successes, I had a dream last night that I was asked to step in for an ailing First Lady in The Magic Flute (even though that's a soprano role, but my subconscious obviously doesn't care) at the Met when the Seattle Opera general director had taken over the role of GM there and hired me from having heard me sing at my chorus audition.

In my debut, I mispronounced two words, which in my dream were Italian, even though the opera is in German (again, very confused subconscious) and my cast mates were very upset with me. I kept getting lectures from EVERYONE, wherever they could find me: the office; the hall; the cafeteria; the bathroom... Also, they were mad at me for not being thin as the singer I was replacing, which made the costume scandalously tight and, oh yes, sleeveless. Good times all around.

Well, after my disastrous debut, I was called into the GD's office to find out if I would be fired or given another chance. I entered the office with a clenched stomach to find the GD on the floor sitting next to his dog, who 1. wore a white, plastic cone around her neck to prevent wound chewing, 2. spoke in a woman's voice and 3. relayed everything the GD wanted to say through the apparent mind meld she shared with him. Somehow I found this totally normal. The costume shop was next door and, as I was STILL wearing the electric blue tank and genie pants, the costumers kept coming in to hold fabric in front of me, presumably to see if the color would look right with my cheeks which were flushed lobster red.

Now, I understand the whole being called to the "principal's" office, and the rest blah blah, but why were we singing on the side of a cliff, and why did I have to wedge myself into a crevasse and sing to the other cast members on the plain below? And why was everything so foreshortened? AND WHY was I then transported to a huge office building elevator shaft where employees had decided to dump all paper products? I had to jump in and slide to the bottom, catch a car and make my way back to the opera house. Why? Where was the elevator? Was the elevator my career??


Monday, April 03, 2006

Oh, say can that a hot dog?

What do most people think of when they think of baseball? Bloated salaries? Infantile players who won't go on the field when they don't get their preferred 2nd base position? Parents pressuring their sons to learn to pitch? Overpriced beers and drunk executives? Opera? Yeah, me neither on that last one. Which is why I think it's funny that, along with some other regulars in the Seattle Opera chorus, I am singing the National Anthem at Wednesday's Mariners' game. And I'm such a big sports fan.