Says Helen

Auditioning for DCMB

2012-01-11T10:15:00.000-08:00

Of all the auditions I've had since moving out to the Bay Area, there has only been one theatre that didn't call me back (which I will now call Didn't Call Me Back, or DCMB). For a while, I took this as an insult, a heartbreak and a challenge. More recently, I've come to the understanding (duh) that, if I want to get better, I need to start auditioning for more places that Don't Call Me Back. Otherwise, I'm just settling.

The first time I auditioned for DCMB, I sang my usual 16 bars, which is the last part of "When Did I Fall In Love?" in Audra's key. I belt it to a B before getting in a legit G at the end. I was dry, the belt was thin and not well mixed, and (let's be honest) I hardly gave a thought to acting. (Well, truth be told, I thought about how I could connect the words/intent in the song to one of the characters in the show they were auditioning for, but I didn't really follow through.) I also walked in to the audition thinking I wasn't a good fit for any of the female leads, but wanting to be in the ensemble anyway. I'm never really sure what to sing in cases like that, so I just went with my "here's my vocal range" piece.

I had my second audition for DCMB last night. Unfortunately (excuses, excuses), it was the end of long day with more cups of coffee than my body was used to. I was so dry, and my mind and body were running on fumes. I hate singing like that. I hate how I know I'm not offering up 100%. But I gave what I had to give at that moment.

This time I got to sing two 16 bars for their upcoming shows: a modern rock-influenced musical, and a legit Sondheim show with lots of ensemble. I knew whatever I chose to sing, I wanted to focus on acting this time.

Picking a Sondheim audition piece is hard. You don't want to choose anything too well-known, because the room will have heard it a dozen times already. You don't want to choose anything too obscure, because the pianist may kill you. In the end, I went with "I Remember" from Evening Primrose: obscure enough, with relatively simple accompaniment and an acting arc vaguely similar to "Green Finch and Linnet Bird." I made some nice choices (most of which were even the ones I practiced!). But the singing was crap, the range of the 16 bars only went up to a D on the staff. If they remember me from last time or believe my resume, maybe that's enough. But it was frustrating.

Lesson learned there: I can now act a song or sing it beautifully. Pick one.

(Side note-slash-question about choosing audition rep that I should have asked before: I don't really think I'm a Johanna. Maybe I have the vocal range for it, but I don't see myself as a romantic lead, much less a young one. And I'm certainly not a Mrs. Lovett for quite a while. So, what should I be trying to 'show' in an audition? The mechanics of ensemble auditioning are so elusive and scary.)

For my uptempo, I belted out "Don't Get Around Much Anymore" and gave them a low A, a belted E at the top of the staff, and a high A. And I gave them character and personality, but who even knows. I was having fun with it, but I couldn't throw away the disappointment of the other piece fast enough. I ended up feeling self-conscious and like I was singing for myself.

In the end, it boiled down to this: I had faith I sounded potentially good to a first-time listener, but I also knew how much better I could sound. I think I made some good acting choices, which is a step further than I've been before, but I took a step back in vocal prowess as a result. I also re-affirmed my notion that I can muscle my way through 2 minutes of singing no matter how empty my tank is.

August 2005; or, the time I was smuggled into Poland

2012-01-03T19:45:00.000-08:00

Marcin popped the question on a Tuesday, while we sat in the Alexanderplatz stereotypically eating Döner from the shop at the base of the Fernsehturm. "Want to go to the Baltic tonight?"

We were in Berlin. A trip to the Baltic meant driving 3 hours, across the border into Poland and up to the northern coast. I had never been to Poland and I knew hardly any Polish, except for the few curse words Marcin taught me the first night we went drinking. Did I want to get in the car of someone I'd only recently met, to visit a country whose language I didn't know, just to get a new stamp in my passport? Hell yes.

We started the trip around 6 after picking up our friend Ursula. Ursula was a Spanish transplant bumming around Berlin with the two of us. She and I had gone from being acquaintances to friends when we walked around Prenzlauer Berg one day looking for a piercing parlor on a whim. She got a nose stud. I got a tragus hoop. (A word to the wise for anyone who wants to get pierced in a foreign country: point at the spot you want pierced. Don't want anything to get lost in translation.)

By the time we hit the interstate, it was already dark. If I've learned anything about driving on foreign interstates, it's this: once you lose the visual cues around you, you might as well be anywhere -- Pennsylvania, Thailand, or the Czech Republic. For a while, it was a mostly silent ride, punctuated by the wind coming in through the driver's side window. (Marcin was a chain smoker and would not take a three hour trip without nicotine, so he'd rolled down the window an inch or so to ash his cigarette. Every once in a while he'd ask me to light him a new one. I never could figure out if this was his way of flirting.)

As we reached the border, Marcin asked us to hand over our passports. At his suggestion, Ursula and I stayed silent while Marcin spoke with the patrolman. There were a few tense minutes and looks, but eventually stamps were issued and we drove on into the dark, looking for a gas station to convert Euro to Zloty.

When we pulled in to the first station we saw, it was midnight. Marcin winced when he noticed a white van parked in a dark corner. He whispered a warning -- "don't look at them!" -- before heading inside. Ursula and I stared at our shoes, out of our element, and I couldn't help but smirk. In just a few hours, I'd gone from eastern Germany, reclaimed by the west for over a decade by the time I was living there, into the edge of the Eastern bloc. Of all the things I had expected to see upon entry, the Polish mafia was not one of them.

Songs for the next year

2011-12-31T09:01:00.000-08:00

One of my 2011 goals was to see 50 performances (other than the ones I was involved with, of course). By December 31, I will have seen 42. Not too shabby!

This year had some great moments, many of them theatre-related. But a couple of the bad parts jabbed me pretty hard and deep, so in the end I'm ready to move on into the scary, wonderful unknown of 2012. The last year of our lives, or something.

I'm convinced that my body, 26 years old as of today, can still do anything if I really try, so this will be a year of physical reformation. Lasik got checked off the list a little early. Invisalign is in the works. I am re-setting my goal weight, for all to see and hear, at 145. I'm guessing that would make me a size 4, which is smaller than I've ever been.

I think I will try a similar theatre-going goal in 2012, but with a twist: I'd like to see as many shows as I can without paying for them. But still, you know, legally. I've enrolled as a student at Foothill, so I can get a student discount on most tickets now, but many theatres allow you to see for free in exchange for ushering or some other form of indentured servitude.

And in lieu of my 9 to 5, I am going confidently in the direction of my dreams. I am taking courses in songwriting and in-home production, in the hopes of coaxing out that musical dancing around in my head. I'm taking acting and dance classes. If time and funds permit, I hope to take so many dance classes that my face falls off and my mind no longer has the time or energy to be afraid of it. My dance skills continue to be one of my greatest regrets.

In fact, that sounds like a good mantra for the next year. 2012: the year I pummel some long-held regrets.

A complete account of my Lasik experience

2011-12-29T09:25:00.000-08:00

Friends and internet-dwellers who are interested in hearing the complete process of my Lasik adventures: here is a complete account of my experience, from choosing the doctor to details of the surgery itself (with a warning for the squeamish).

Choosing a Doctor
I went with Dr. Scott Hyver, because of name recognition, recommendation from my husband, and his success rate. If you live in the San Francisco Bay Area, chances are you've heard his radio spots. The man has literally become an institution (his 3 Bay Area locations are called "ScottHyver VisionCare"), and your interactions with him during the process are fleeting -- once during the sale/evaluation appointment, and then on the operating table on surgery day. Otherwise, you are working with nurses, auxiliary doctors, and a personal sales rep.

If you like your doctors touchy-feely, this may not be right for you. For my part, I didn't care about learning much about Dr. Hyver himself; I just wanted to know that the surgery would go off without a hitch. And the ScottHyver group made me feel that way throughout the process.

Because their offices go through so many patients, they have everything down like clockwork. Each incoming patient is presented with a blue baggie of eye drop medications for their recovery. The somewhat complicated medication instructions are boiled down to their essentials in an idiot-proof chart. The day-of 'what to expect' FAQ is laminated so that it can be re-used for hundreds of patients. Because Dr. Hyver himself doesn't have to bother with the prep work, he remains in the operating room and can do (I estimate) two dozen surgeries a day.

Some people may be turned off by the feeling that they're just another pair of eyes getting churned out by the ScottHyver machine. Honestly, I found it very comforting to know that I was nothing new. The procedure, my extreme nervousness, any inane question I had -- they'd seen and heard it all before.

Evaluation Appointment
I went into the offices exactly twice: once for my eligibility evaluation, and once for the surgery. I did not need a hard sell since my husband had already gotten the surgery.

At this appointment, they did the following:
1. Got a rough digital reading of my prescription using one of those "look at the house" machines;
2. Fine-tuned that reading using one of those "A or B" machines you're used to using at your normal eye doc;
3. Compared that reading against my contacts prescription and my glasses prescription;
4. Checked the health of my eyes using various eye drops and implements (nothing beyond what my normal eye doc does);
5. Numbed my eyes with some drops and then touched a device to my eyeball to measure corneal thickness (this was mildly disconcerting: while I couldn't feel it, it caused a 'ripple in the matrix'-like visual effect).

All of the preceding was done by nurses and a doc who was not Scott Hyver. Next I was brought into a room where Dr. Hyver himself explained which procedure(s) I was eligible for, based on the tests. (In short, comparing current prescription to glasses and contacts shows whether your prescription is stable and therefore worth permanently implementing into your eyeball. Corneal thickness helps indicate whether you're eligible for Lasik vs. PRK.) Again, since I was already sold on the procedure, I didn't need him to say much, but he answered all the questions I had.

Finally, I was brought into a sales rep's room to talk about pricing and payment options. Although prices change somewhat depending on your vision insurance and the type of procedure you're getting, a good ballpark figure is $5K. That's for both eyes, and (in Scott Hyver's case) "lifetime upgrades" in the event that your eyes change prescription over the course of your lifetime. At 25 years old, that amount of money seems worth it, given that I will no longer have to spend $500/year on glasses, contacts and their maintenance.

Between Appointments
I walked out of the evaluation appointment with a script for antibiotic eyedrops, to be started 24 hours before the surgery. Because this meant dealing with Kaiser Permanente's pharmacy, this was actually the most annoying part of the whole experience.

Surgery Appointment
I was incredibly nervous for the surgery, because you have to be conscious and actively involved, training your eye on a green dot. Before the actual surgery, they did the following:
1. Had me sign a form verifying the type of surgery I was having (Lasik vs. PRK; one eye vs. both eyes);
2. Handed me the pouch of post-surgery medications and walked me through them;
3. Re-tested my prescription, both digitally and then using the "A or B" machine;
4. Put some numbing drops in my eyes and offered me a valium for nerves (I did not hesitate to accept);
5. Gave me some stylish booties and a hairnet.

Then a nurse walked me into the surgery room, where there was Dr. Hyver and two additional nurses. I lay down on the surgery table, and they asked me to verify my birthdate and surgery type. (I appreciated this; a last-minute triple-check to ensure they were burning the right prescription into my eyes!)

Warning: a description of the surgery as I remember it follows. Lying face-up on the table, a few inches over my head was a green LED light. They flooded both my eyes with numbing drops, then put a patch over my left eye. They then used tape to open up my right eye, then used a device to make it stay open -- no blinking. I have no idea what the device looks like, but in hearing about it before the procedure, I kept thinking about the torture devices from A Clockwork Orange.

Then, the most painful part of the procedure: Dr. Hyver took some clear plastic (through which I could see the green dot) and pressed it against my eye, hard enough to immobilize my eye and keep it from twitching. My job through all this was to stare at the green dot with all my might, but as the pressure got more intense, basically my vision blacked out until all I could see was a night sky full of stars. Then the plastic stayed in place for a few seconds while I imagine they cut the corneal flap.

Then the pressure was released and the green dot came back. For a second or two, Dr. Hyver manipulated my eye in such a way that it caused the green dot to go streaky, sort of like a barista making foam pictures in a fancy latte. I imagine this was the point where the corneal flap was lifted, because when I saw the green dot next, it was far less in focus. Imagine the halo you can sometimes see around a street light -- that's what the entire green dot looked like. (It was a little scary knowing that my eye was currently that much out of commission!)

Then, the most anxiety-inducing part of the procedure: I was supposed to watch the center of the green dot ("even if it moves") as closely as possible while a laser burned my prescription into my eye. The "even if it moves" warning made me wonder if it would bounce around, but I didn't really sense it move much if at all. So for the good of my future self, I stared at that green dot with as much intensity as I could muster. The laser itself was painless and took a few seconds.

Then Dr. Hyver announced he was going to put in a drop of saline, during which I think he also flipped the flap back over, because the green dot suddenly came back into focus. They took off the eyelid holder and tape, and started on the other eye. The whole surgery (both eyes) took under 5 minutes.

After the Surgery
Immediately after the surgery, they gave me a pair of sunglasses and suggested I keep my eyes closed as much as possible for the next 6 hours. My husband drove me home and I sat in a baseball cap and sunglasses in our den with the blinds down. I listened to an audio book and tried to take a nap. By the afternoon of the surgery, I was on the computer without a problem, and my husband and I watched a movie that night.

Building my audition book, and other holiday delights

2011-12-17T09:39:00.000-08:00

Matt and I are scurrying around the house, packing. The emergency catsitter has been acquired. The dishes are, blessedly, almost finished. We are blasting Mannheim Steamroller (his holiday tradition) and A Disney Christmas (mine). Last night, we watched The Secret Garden at TheatreWorks, under a mile from our apartment. In a day we'll be watching Anything Goes on Broadway. And in under a week, we'll see Mathilda on the West End, as we spend Christmas in a flat in London with Matt's parents and siblings!

I'm feeling blessed that I got to see so much great theatre this year. And, although I didn't quite hit my 2011 goal of seeing 50 shows (more on that in another post), I'm confident my 2012 goals will have something to say about seeing more theatre. (Although, I'll have to be a lot more cognizant of my spending habits next year -- I easily spent over $1K on tickets this year!)

Anyway, leaving the Bay Area for a few weeks means putting aside some of the projects I've been futzing with. One of those projects has been building my audition book -- by which I mean, choosing a base set of songs which I carry with me, to all auditions, ready to sing at a moment's notice. I see myself supplementing these with additional songs as the audition requires, but I'll always have these to fall back on if they happen to ask for something else.

For the first time, I'm trying to choose songs that show off not just vocal prowess, but connection as well. (My past audition choices have sucked in that regard.) From past classes as well as some internet scavenging, I came up with a list of song types I need to have in my book:

Operetta
Legit Bway (1 up-tempo, 1 ballad)
Contemp Bway (1 up-tempo, 1 ballad)
Jazz (1 up-tempo, 1 ballad)
Comedy song
Rock song
Pop song

At first glance, that's a lot of songs to have available at a moment's notice. But I think it's ultimately worth it. I also read some (admittedly probably overboard) advice suggesting that audition songs should start with the words me, my, I, etc. I agree with the sentiment: that audition songs should be immediately personal. Here is my first pass at choosing songs for my book. What do you think?

In other news, I'm auditioning soon for a season that includes Sweeney Todd (Sondheim) and The Full Monty (Bway rock). They're asking for two 32 bars, so I'm thinking a Sondheim legit (maybe "I Remember," since it's obscure and I have it ready?) and "Find Your Grail" or maybe even "O Bless The Lord."

A schizophrenic joy

2011-12-14T14:02:00.000-08:00

The other day I noticed how well-rested I look. I may be poor as hell now, but damn if the dark circles under my eyes haven't receded.

In my haste to run away from the corporate world and towards the the-ah-tuh, I blinded myself to a fact that's now stomping on my foot and laughing in my face; namely, that I couldn't make a living being a regional theatre actor, even if I were booked non-stop. In fact, I'd have to take non-stop production gigs (directing, music directing) to even have a chance at making a living at it.

This isn't a deal-breaker by any means. On the contrary, I think directing and music directing are much more my speed, since I'm not (in my own words) a leading lady. (This is fodder for another post, but in short: it's more than just looks. It's a confidence and innocence, a vulnerability and a vocal style that I don't think I have -- yet. Acting lessons and continued self-awareness will help grow my versatility and vulnerability. But for now, the leading lady persona is too far away from my base personality.)

Lord knows I love managing and dramaturgy -- so perhaps my penchant for over-researching shows (and annoying cast mates with my tidbits) will finally come in handy! -- and I'm telling you, it has been such a schizophrenic joy to be in multiple theatre projects at once.

Gettin' some work done on my eyes

2011-12-07T19:44:00.001-08:00

On my 26th birthday, I will wake up. And I will blink and look around. And for the first time since elementary school, I will be able to see clearly without contacts or glasses.

I've been a mite jealous of Matt's eye surgery, so on Tuesday I went in to Scott Hyver's office to determine my eligibility. Not only am I eligible for LASIK, they said, but I can save a ton by doing it in 2011. For starters, my Google vision insurance, which I retain through December, gets me a better discount than my new Strava insurance. And I get a second discount for being the spouse of someone who recently got the surgery. (Seriously. That sounds like a very specific, but well-aimed, marketing ploy.)

In other words, as long as I'm planning to go all cyborg on my eyes anyway, I can save the equivalent of a pair of cross-country plane tickets by doing it before the new year.

So, I've scheduled myself to get LASIK on December 28. And I'm terrified. I've been wearing glasses forever (5th grade, to be exact, although I didn't start wearing them constantly until middle school). And except for periods of contacts-wearing here and there, I've been be-spectacled ever since. I still wear contacts from time to time, but I find them uncomfortable -- and not just because they're usually under-washed.

I feel somehow naked without my glasses. When I get scared or uncomfortable, I can feel myself start to pull in behind my glasses. They are one of my last physical security blankets ... which is exactly why I'm scared of losing them, and why I need to get rid of them.

I can already see that 2012, my 27th year, is going to be the year of gently loosening my grip on some of the poor habits I've needed for so long. This seems like a good way to start.

The 5 Kinds of Christmas Music

2011-12-06T15:44:00.001-08:00

Staring down the barrel of the unemployment gun

2011-12-04T23:05:00.001-08:00

Tsk tsk. I had such a good run of posting nearly every day in the month of November. Now, all of a sudden, it's been nearly a week since my last post. Well. Many changes afoot.

I am officially unemployed -- or, as my husband loves to call it, funemployed. A lack of income does not mean a lack of projects, however. I have a growing list of theatre projects; I'm taking over the management of our home (yes, we might as well call it home making -- how frickin' domestic am I?); I am handing out my resume to independent bookstores within a 20 mile radius.

How does it feel? Well, to tell the truth -- sitting here, drinking a Manhattan, knowing I'll get to sleep in tomorrow if I like -- it feels nice. Tomorrow, I'll be eligible to sign up for classes as Foothill; I'll apply the GTD method to my next two weeks of unemployment and give myself goals to hit on a daily, weekly, bi-weekly basis; I'll finally get to sit and think about what I want to accomplish on my Christmas trip to [the secret place I can't mention because Matt's family reads this blog].

The anxiety and the yearning for cash flow will come soon enough. This week I will cherish the time to bat around song, scene and kitchen ideas in my head. And if I feel like it, I'll even take a dang yoga class at the studio across the frickin' street where I already have a 10-class pass.

In other news, check out what I did today (hint: it's part of my new Hunger Games-inspired project).

I'm supposed to be writing, not baking!

2011-11-28T21:28:00.001-08:00

This is my last week at Google. When people ask what I'm doing next, I don't have a good answer. I have a lot of projects lined up, but none pay much.

When I first pitched the leaving-my-steady-job idea to my husband and myself, I said, I'm burned out and I need time to finger paint, or in other words, time to fool around and be creative and just see what comes out of me.

Silly person that I am, I assumed the form the things coming out of me would take. I assumed they'd be songs, or stories. Writing of some sort. But guess what 25-year-old Helen wants to do when she's left to her own devices?

She wants to make food; bake, can, cook. She wants to create and curate recipes. Who saw that coming? Me, the person who, in an embarrassingly stereotypical move, ate ramen for her entire sophomore year of college. I guess that's what you get when you assume. You make an ass out of you and me, and you get in the way of whatever creativity wants to come out.

My newest cooking endeavor is already a-brewin' (not literally), and when it's done, I'll post it here. Until it's complete, I'm doing my best to keep mum. My one hint? It has to do with The Hunger Games.

Noël chez Laroche c'est arrivée!

2011-11-26T12:02:00.001-08:00

This morning, while Matt was cooking breakfast because he is awesome, I walked in with a big box. "Do you know what day it is?" I said. "Saturday, November 26," he replied. The man is nothing if not factually correct. "Yes," I huffed. "AND ... Christmas tree day!"

Buying a 4' faux tree was one of our more brilliant moves:

After the first year, the tree is FREE, and it's just waiting in your closet to be set up and trimmed the second Thanksgiving leftovers are done. Alternatively, it is available for Christmas-in-July events.
It never has to be watered, and it can be left up until whenever you get around to putting the Christmas decorations away. (Christmas is red and green themed, so there's equal argument to keep that stuff up until Valentine's Day or even St. Patrick's Day. No judgement.)
The lights are pre-hung in the tree. All you have to do is plug it in.
Finally, my favorite benefit: you can twist the fake branches around your more fragile ornaments' hangers, so they won't fall down.

I know you people with functioning noses are all like, but Helen! What about the smell? The smell of a piney Christmas tree is all that keeps me from going on murderous rampages during the holiday season!

First of all, dude. You might consider talking to someone about that. Second of all, we've got you covered. In our ornament box is a pair of Christmas tree-scented candles. We thought of everything.

Right now, we're sitting around in the post-trimming glow, listening to Mannheim Steamroller ("Lo, How A Rose E'er Blooming" is my jam), wearing flannel pajamas, and stinking up the joint with candles so potent even my broken nose can detect them. (I dunno, sometimes I can pick up the most basic aspects of scent, I think. The best way I can describe this smell/sensation is "prickly clean." But maybe it's just the burning wick.)

So without further ado, I present ... our Christmas nook.

Our humble tree, filled with ornaments from his family, my family, and our little two-person family.

I try to rotate our tree toppers. This Carl's Jr. star has been in my family since we got it (from a kid's meal?) in 1992. It's a good topper because it's both a star and an angel! Zing.

Matt has gotten us a Swarovski crystal ornament for each Christmas we've been married. There's even one for 2010, although we celebrated separately. It's hard not to choke up a little at that.

Lots of happy memories here: a small piece of Mickey garland that's been in my family forever. It's broken into smaller and smaller pieces over the years. Now none of the strands are more than a few Mickeys long. The boy in that photo ornament is Matt! The angel and carolers are old family pieces. The angel "sings" a number of Christmas carols with an electronic beep that I can recreate from memory. The santa was embroidered for us by Matt's step-grandmother. See also the CMU ornament and (cut off on the right-hand side) the hand-blown Hefeweissen glass.

The Second Sex: The Musical?

2011-11-25T23:01:00.001-08:00

I'm writing this down, oh internets, so that future Helen must be held to it.

In the next six months, I am going to write a three-woman cabaret-style show. It's going to be about womanhood, expectations around what it means to be female, obsession with weight and lovers and the pursuit of "normalcy." Music, book and lyrics by Helen Gruner. The opening number has a kickline.

I already have a cast in mind, but before that, there's lots of research to be done. Women of the internets, expect another poll from me soon.

Art isn't easy ...

2011-11-24T09:27:00.001-08:00

Writing regular blog posts is funny. At first, I'd have to wait around until some point in the day inspiration would hit. Then I'd know I had a topic for that evening's post. More recently, it has been less of an issue -- in fact, now I find that I have a number of posts stockpiled, simmering, some ready to write and some not.

In any case, I feel as though my thoughts are more concrete these days, that I'm returning to the world of the living after a period of groggy, just-woke-up mental haze. Turns out, working dispassionately wears not only your heart, but your mind as well.

In the past few weeks, I have been asking my mind to wander somewhere creative. Go wherever you like, I've been telling it. You're free to turn any which way you choose. And, brain? It would be nice if you could write something down every once in a while.

So, I've been reading. Filling my creative tank. Doing a lot of whatever I want, which is, apparently, cooking and baking. I've been juggling my theatre commitments, trying out the new roles I've been afforded. And from time to time, I've been writing things down.

So far, it's mostly a bunch of one-sentence synopses. Letting the mind wander and having follow-through seem to be incongruous. But the product I'm proudest of so far -- the one I have the most ideas for, but which seems to have the least value beyond personal interest -- is my set of theatre/food mashups I'm calling Theatre Nosh. My intent is to build a recipe around some core element or reference in a given show. There's only one post there now, but I have a dozen ideas, none of which I've had time to kitchen-test.

Other than that, I've just been listening to things like Sunday In The Park With George on constant repeat, planning a set list for a one-person cabaret, considering translated lyrics for Frauenliebe und -Leben, turning my sights back on Yeston's December Songs, and generally casting my net all over the place.

Can't talk, reading (day 2)

2011-11-22T21:35:00.001-08:00

By now, I've made it through book 2 of the Hunger Games series, and I'm still going strong. Huzzah for the Kindle, which allows for impulse book purchases (not to mention "omg just finished, must buy next book" purchases).

I'm back at work (for now) through December 2. After that I 1) jump off the cliffs of insanity, and 2) regain my mental faculties. (Does that mean that, in order to have my mental faculties intact, I must be insane? Eh. It fits.)

I also finally bit the bullet and signed up for the Hoffman Institute in Februrary. It's basically a week-long find-yourself intensive, recommended to me by my therapist (she's actually more of a spiritual guide/marriage counselor, but that's a topic for another post). Time to be alone, pull stuff up by the roots, and look at scary things head on. Visualizations, journaling, re-enactments.

Because I did a 6-hour introductory session a few months ago, I already know that it will be painful. I will not like it. But damn it, it's time to re-set these old poorly-healed grievances so that they heal right this time. The world can't afford one more day without me at my fully-healed, fully-realized best.

Can't talk, reading

2011-11-20T23:34:00.001-08:00

There is a post a-brewing in my head about filling your creative tank with good material. But I don't have the mental through-put to think it out right now, because I:

1. baked a loaf of bread today;

2. survived an awkward drawn-out encounter with my dad, who threw a tantrum when I told him I would not accept unsolicited advice about my future career;

3. crewed the final performance of Parade and struck the set in a marathon 7 hours at the theatre; and

4. am currently halfway through the first Hunger Games book, and need to get back to it before my eyelids get any heavier.

Backstage life is bringing out the OCD freak in me

2011-11-19T23:32:00.001-08:00

One thing I've noticed while crewing for Parade: I am terribly OCD when it comes to rote tasked jobs that last a finite period of time. I would have made a great pencil factory girl, for example.

I notice it most when clearing the prop table. I tend to do it as the props are used up -- literally as they come off stage, if I'm not cognizant of my OCD. The smart thing to do would be to consolidate trips. But the props, they speak to me. We are wasting space, marring the surface of your beautiful plastic grey prop table. Put us neatly back into the prop closet where we belong, so we can play again tomorrow.

This isn't the first time I've noticed this hyperactive and obsessive side of me. I had a job in college at the gym facilites, a desk job where I checked IDs, gave wrist bands, and washed and delivered laundry. Soooo posh I might die. The 4-hour shift always came with a checklist, which I would obsessively do and then have 3 hours to twiddle my thumbs.

I guess I'm just an all-or-nothing kind of gal.

Question: What is better than a personal pizza?

2011-11-18T10:12:00.001-08:00

Answer: A personal PIE.

I decided to try making some ramekin pies last night. It was sooo ridiculously easy. Here's how to repeat:

Ingredients
- 1 cup and change of frozen fruit (your choice -- I used mixed berries)
- a pre-made pie crust (one crust can make 2 ramekin pies)
- 2 ramekins (I used a pair of these from C&B)
- enough sugar and flour to coat the fruit (about 1/3 cup each)

Cooking instructions
1. Preset your oven to 375 F.
2. Roll out one pre-made pie crust. Turn a ramekin upside down and use it to cut out 4 circles -- they will become your pie crus bottoms and tops. (Genius!) Put one circle on the bottom of each ramekin, and put the other two aside. Squish up the remaining pie crust until it is pliable, then mold it like Play-Doh onto the sides of the ramekins.

3. Combine the fruit, sugar and flour in a small bowl. Toss the fruit in the sugar/flour mixture until it is completely covered. (The flour is there to help make the filling more cohesive. The juicier the fruit you choose, the more flour you should use.)
4. Spoon the fruit into your pie encrusted ramekins. In this photo, I had a bit too much filling -- for best results, your filling should be flush with the edges of your pie crust.

5. Now go find the pie crust toppers you put aside, and add them to the top of your creation. Make sure to cut a slit or some kind of hole in the top, so your pie can breathe. Push down the sides of the toppers against the side crust so that the crust all fuses together. As you can see, I tried to fancy mine up -- I think the lattice came out ok, but the other one looks like some sort of unidentified male and/or female reproductive organ. (A delicious one, though.)

6. If you want to get all crazy, brush a little milk onto the top of the pies. Pop these suckers into your pre-heated oven and cook for 30-40 minutes.

I didn't even get any pictures of the cooked pies 'cause they got eaten right quick. One pie + two spoons = perfect shared dessert. Or eat the whole frickin' thing yourself, dude!

Frustrations of a soprano: mid-range head voice

2011-11-17T09:01:00.001-08:00

I've been singing Audra McDonald's recording of "Come Down From The Tree" in my head for a while now, so I looked it up on Grooveshark obsess a bit. And, come to find, she has a recording of "You Don't Know This Man," which basically says to the world, I'm Audra, and my voice is beautiful, and I love picking pieces for my albums that I'll never get to play, but singing the bejeezus out of them and making you wonder why I can't play them after all. And then you cast me anyway (see: Dot in Sunday... and Clara in Passion).

Can we talk about how she never goes into brassy chest voice, even in the lowest part of YDKTM? Here is my secret shame: my middle range was always my weakest, since I was always like "ooh, wavey hands, listen to my whistle range! Listen to my low E! Pay no attention to the boring notes in the middle!" My middle range got better and more robust in college, but I never did get great at carrying in that range without a microphone.

But I got all belt-happy after college, and I've been pushing my belt up and up and up (let's say ... high F? G? on a good day when I get a mix going, which is the subject of a whole different post). That's fun and exciting in its own right, but it's trashing what middle-range head voice progress I'd made. Now, being brassy is fun, but I listen to people like Audra and Alicia and the woman playing Sharon in our Finian's Rainbow, and I miss my ability to sing in head voice, which I think sounds graceful.

In the end, this plays back into the question of my 'type'. Which voice type (belting vs. legit) is more useful to me and to the parts I'd reasonably be considered for? Can I reasonably keep up both, or to get really good, to I need to make a choice?

For now, I'm planning to make a cabaret set of legit pieces (maybe a belt-y here and there), and focus on them in my voice self-study. Some ideas so far are "Come Down From The Tree" (one of the reasons it's been stuck in my head) and "The Girl in 14G" (Kristen is also the subject of a while different post -- or bevy of posts). Some comedy, some straight.

Got any suggestions -- favorite pieces -- things you need to hear me sing someday? Message me or leave it in the comments. I simply must hear your opinion.

Wherein I discuss major Thanksgiving nommage

2011-11-16T23:47:00.001-08:00

Oh hey, Thanksgiving. I didn't see you there.

This Thanksgiving is the first one I'll spend in the greater San Francisco area. My sister and her boyfriend are hosting in San Fran (don't call it that). And so I must make a decision: what, what, WHAT am I bringing?

The answer (as it always should be) is pie. Now, I'm not too vocal about this, but I'm kind of a big deal when it comes to pie. As in, if one day I lost all ability to hear or see and could no longer tell stories, and I had to choose a different non-lucrative passion, it would be pie. The TV show Pushing Daisies is based in part on my secret dream (the owning-a-pie-shop part, not the touching-dead-people-brings-them-to-life part).

Traditionally my family has made pumpkin and apple-cranberry for Thanksgiving, and I intend to follow tradition. But as a secret ninja move, I am also going to try making little experimental ramekin single-serving pies. For those, I plan to use whatever fruit I find at the farmers' market this Saturday (can you make pie out of persimmons?).

Matt also has a hankering to make cornbread stuffing, and this recipe caught my eye. Too bad for those vegans coming to my sister's event ... more for us.

Wherein I channel my inner 12-year-old diary-writing self

2011-11-15T23:00:00.001-08:00

Confession: I have a blossoming talent crush right now, and it is the worst.

I mean, let's get the obvious out of the way. I'm married and so the crush is nothing more but an interesting thought experiment. But I have always been, and will always be, a crushing fiend.

Case in point: in my childhood diary (which, yes, I kept and sometimes peruse) was not only FULL of pining references to Eugene, Tristan, Joshua and Leo (and that's only elementary school) -- on the inside cover I decided it would be prudent to list the chapters of my life by the guy I was then doting on, under the heading "Crushes (Major Stages)."

While my crushes don't get nearly the same amount of thought put into them as they once did (which should totally make Matt feel fine about all this), they still crop up from time to time, much to my chagrin. Because honestly? I was never a graceful crusher (stuttering, lack of eye contact, losing my train of thought mid-sentence and inwardly freaking out about it ... awkward to the MAX) -- and now, it's not only embarrassing to do those things in front of someone I'm crushing on, it feels a little shameful too.

So I'm left trying to embrace yet another messy, wonderful life experience with a chuckle and the snarky admission that hey, things could be worse -- I could have no libido...

Wherein I remove a couple bricks from my wall, Jenga-style

2011-11-14T13:20:00.001-08:00

Today has been one prolonged freak-out session. We're talking hyperventilating, snotty nosed, weepy hot mess (minus the hot).

I've just given up an $xx K/year job to go "follow my bliss" -- and excuse me, but what the hell does that mean, anyway? I am going to slap the next person that says some variant of that to me. People talk like it's the easiest thing in the world to know what you're passionate about and what you're happiest doing, when in fact it is THE hardest thing, like, ever. (And if you expect to make any money off of said bliss, well, good luck.)

Can't somebody just take the frickin' guesswork out of all this and assign me a job, The Giver-style? No wonder some people continue to miss Communism. No choices; just do the job you've been assigned and you'll get taken care of.

I know the possibility of making a living doing what I love is far better than the guarantee of making money doing what I tolerate. But the sound of air whooshing around my ears as I free fall is utterly, utterly terrifying. And to add nit-picky insult to injury, the kitchen is FULL of dirty dishes that mock me and throw little barbed insults at me whenever I have to go in there. "How are you going to manage your time once you leave work? You can't even keep the kitchen clean!" "It doesn't matter what else you do today to feel accomplished -- we dishes will tug at the corners of your mind, making you feel crappy. You're welcome!"

On the plus side, the painters crawling all over my apartment are currently playing and singing along to "Mama Loves Mambo" and "Tie A Yellow Ribbon 'Round The Old Oak Tree." So there's that.

What you had to say about my type

2011-11-13T19:02:00.001-08:00

The results are in! Drum roll please ... 35 of you completed my poll about my playable stage 'type.' And I, of course, made some charts. My hope was to get people's thoughts on my appearance specifically, not my personality. But apparently my personality is too big to be ignored, and weaseled its way into some of the responses anyway. Ah well.

Let's take a look at the results, shall we?

My playable age

y-axis: age range; x-axis: # of responses (out of 35)

Not surprisingly, most of you thought my playable age was around my real age. Someone suggested I could play any age, while another joker said I could play 25-30 and 60+. I know I'm an old soul, but...

I also asked whether you'd be more likely to cast me as 20 or 30, in an attempt to figure out whether people see me as older or younger than my true age of 25. Results were split evenly between choices, which may mean you are ambivalent (or as confused as I am). But I will take it glass half-full style: I'm just so versatile I can do pigtails AND motherhood. (Er. Ew.)

My playable ethnicity

y-axis: ethnicities; x-axis: # of responses (out of 35)

I didn't even bother putting anything but variations of Caucasian on my poll. If for some reason you think I could play something non-Caucasian, uh, let me know. In the meantime, nearly all of you thought I could play Celtic (Irish, Cornish, Welsh) or Germanic (English, German, Scandinavian), so I've got all of Western Europe and their colonies covered.

Slavic (Polish, Russian, Czech) did not get the rally cry I thought it would, which is too bad because my Russian accent is killer (just kidding; don't ask me to do it), and I always thought I had a pretty good Polish-inspired button nose. (Based on my true heritage, it could very well be Polish. Or Czech.)

About half of you thought I could play Jewish, and less than a third of you thought I could play Latin (French, Italian, Spanish). Too bad so sad, 'cause I speak Spanish like a boss (you can ask me to do that if you must).

My playable socio-economic status
This was a bust. I asked if you'd rather cast me as a maid or her employer, in an attempt to see whether I am perceived as more blue-collar or white-collar. The results were exactly 50/50 (of 35 responders, 17 responded they'd rather cast me as a maid, 17 as her employer, and 1 abstained.)

Words that describe me
The free-write section was by far the most illuminating, and I'm grateful for all the people that had something to say.

Some comments were unsurprising. I know I can give off a bookish/nerdy/awkward/librarian vibe, and I have definitely heard the girl-next-door/best friend comments before. Even the strong/spitfire comments are something I've heard before and can recognize.

But I did not expect to hear things like sexy/sultry and matronly/nurturing. In all, I'm pleasantly surprised by the range of types that got called out.

Here are all the comments you made (of course, I am dying to know who said what, and honestly any guesses I do have are probably wrong wrong wrong since the potential pool of poll-takers is, like, 500 people big):

robust, matronly, flirtacious, motherly
fun, awkward in a really endearing way, intelligent, eager
goofy, versatile, jolly, earthy, intelligent
Nerdy, bashful, unassuming, sweet, empathetic.
Brainy, Intriguing, Relatable
sweet/unthreatening/innocent, goofy and quirky, saucy/sarcastic. your hair, glasses/no glasses, and smile or smirk make a huge difference. you can play "cute" because you have a round face, but you don't look "dumb" enough. You could definitely be the slightly obnoxious best friend who teaches the cute girl something too, and that is a better personality fit.
stylish, hip, clean lines, quirky, reserved
Girl next door, best friend, spitfire, smart,
With all due respect and admiration: nerd, hipster, bookworm
animated, sultry, nurturing
open, young, I suck at this.
Cute. Expressive. Subtle sexy. Comedic can play a Lucy or Ethyl with ease
Dignified. Smart. Earnest. Dedicated. Capable of surprise.
Classy, sporty, girl next door, adorable, and chill.
You're versatile. I can see you as both a maid AND an employer. Your essential qualities I think are strength, quirky, comic. I can also see you as a bit zany. Initially though my perception of you was of someone like the Green Girl: sexy, strong physically and verbally. Now I've seen a softer side too but I wouldn't have guessed it immediately.
sweet, shy, sexy librarian, organized.

In all, this was a really useful exercise. Big thanks to everyone who participated!

Operation: watermelon pickles = great success

2011-11-12T23:52:00.001-08:00

Somehow I turned into the perfect 19th century housewife today and spent all day washing dishes, canning watermelon pickles, and making chicken stock. (And, by the way, 19th century housewives always used serial commas. So that whole sentence was in character. I commit.) The chicken stock is now in plastic bags in the freezer (shout-out to Dana for the idea), and the watermelon pickles are in 26 jars.

My dad caught me on the phone and freaked out when he heard I was pickling watermelon rind -- apparently, this is a long-lost favorite of his. Despite his Fresno upbringing, I swear my dad proves himself to be southern day in and day out. He claims that one can buy watermelon pickles at Knott's Berry Farm and that I probably had some as a small child. Pshaw, I say.

Guys, these things are frickin' out of this WORLD delicious. They're like sweet bread and butter pickles, but with a more pungent spice flavor. They remind me of the Branson pickles in a Ploughman's.

Wherein I make blue ribbon award-winning watermelon pickles

2011-11-11T23:35:00.001-08:00

Inspired by one of the characters in Parade, I decided to try making "watermelon pickles" -- apparently a Southern favorite. They are supposed to have a sweet-and-sour bread and butter pickle taste. I will know soon!

Making the pickles is a multi-day process. This evening I peeled and cut up two small melons. I ended up with 4 quarts of peeled rind (currently soaking in salt water, as shown on the left in the picture above) and a large Tupperware container of ready-to-eat watermelon triangles (my inner 5-year-old is bouncing up and down).

As I usually do, I looked around at various recipes before finally settling on the one I'm following. Traditional recipes suggest removing all signs of pink from the rind, but that doesn't work well with the seedless watermelons most stores carry these days. (Somehow the seedless-ness also causes thin rinds.)

I'm hoping to hand these out to the cast and crew of Parade, so I will probably can these in decorative 4 oz jars to yield ~30 jars. This means I'll have a couple extra if anyone wants to be adventurous. Just speak up! Unfortunately I can't ship. (Hi Laura!)

Wherein I discuss a weighty topic and use bad puns

2011-11-10T23:20:00.001-08:00

I'm going to write about the results of my 'type' survey soon, because they are one part hilarious, one part useful. And I am kicking myself for making them anonymous, because I (with a smile) WANT TO KNOW who wrote things like "awkward in a really endearing way" and "with all due respect and admiration: nerd, hipster, bookworm." (You really thought that was going to offend me? Ahhhnn.)

Anyway, I'm glad I reached out for help about my type. In my own head, so much about my auditioning package is in flux (I'm singing musical theatre instead of opera and belting more often than singing in head voice; my body shape is changing; my teeth are shifting so much that I'm ready to jump for Invisalign). It's nearly impossible for me to stay objective.

Part of the problem is that my weight identity is shifting -- but I can't tell where to. In other words, I don't know where I fit: I'm not big enough anymore to be fat, but not thin enough to be what I consider "on-stage normal."

I have a laughably distorted view of my weight, in both directions. Sometimes I lull myself into thinking I am at a "good looking" weight in a show, only to look back at pictures and cringe. Sometimes I try to put myself into the "obese" category when I do not belong there. (At TBA Generals the other year, I performed a monologue from Fat Pig, actually thinking at the time that it was a suitable choice for me. Looking back, it clearly was not.)

Here are my numbers. I'm 5'6". My lightest at this height was 145 (size 6). That was in high school, when I went on the Jenny Craig diet with my mom. (Before and after the diet, I settled at around a size 12.) My heaviest was 182 (size 14). That was a year out of college, soon before I got married. Right now I'm hovering around 154, and I'm at my highest percentage of muscle mass since puberty.

I've made strides since high school, where I thought that I 'should' be more like 115 pounds. But I still don't know where I 'should' be, and my current weight is still not it. I'm always, as they say, one stomach flu away from my goal weight.