You Want Me To Do What?

You know you're seriously out of shape, when a pregnant woman moves better than you do. I recently joined a gym, and last night I decided to take advantage of one of the many opportunities that exist at this gym--aerobics. I thought it would be good exercise, fun even. Then I met the teacher, the typical aerobics instructor--bright and bubbly. She was short, with blond hair, and just happened to be five months pregnant and as big as a house. I really wasn't sure how this was going to work, but I thought I'd stick it out just for the heck of it. There was no warm up, no introduction to the steps, just a get down to it and go attitude. I'm not the most coordinated of people, so this was a bit of a problem for me, but I managed. Five minutes into the routine, I was gasping for air, and this petite woman carrying an extra 30 lbs. on the front of her was just perking right along...she hadn't even broken a sweat yet. A half an hour later (thank God this was a short class) I was dead tired and ready for a nap, while this very pregnant instructor was gearing up for teaching another class. Kudos to her, but clearly, I have a lot more work ahead of me than I thought!

Some Days You've Got It...

...other days, not so much. Last night was one of those times. I had my first audition in over a year last night. Light Opera Works was holding auditions for their entire season. It's a pretty big deal, as this is one of the few non-equity paid companies in the area. Let's just say, I was a little more than rusty. Auditions can be nerve-wracking experiences. They can be fun too, but mostly they're nerve-wracking. There's so much that goes into it. It's not just singing a song in front of a couple of people...it's how you look, how you present yourself, how you react to bad notes and out of tune pianos. It's the worst parts of a job interview smooshed into ten minutes of "do or die." And if you're having an off night (or an off week, in my case), it's painfully apparent.

I arrived at the YMCA in Evanston with plenty of time to change clothes and warm up, vocally and physically, except I was in the wrong building of the YMCA, so I walked a block and a half to the correct building. This gave me a little less time to change and warm up. Nonetheless, I filled out my paperwork, handed my headshot and resume to the resident schizophrenic behind the desk (her term, not mine), and waited not so patiently for my name to be called.

When my name was called, I walked into the room, and immediately froze. It wasn't a terribly intimidating room. There were two judges seated to the right at a school lunch table, and the accompanist (who I knew) seated to the left at the piano. I just couldn't shake the impending doom I could feel building in my chest. It should have been a cinch, but it wasn't. After a tenative nod to Richard (the accompanist), I started to sing. The first song (So In Love, from Kiss Me Kate) just wasn't what it could have been. I got through it, but it could have been so much better. The second one (Out of My Dreams, from Oklahoma) was much better, but most likely not enough to get me in. As always, we'll see. The director was bopping along to the music, but that's not really a sign of anything.

What, if anything I have learned? Given my current state of mind, I could easily give this theatre thing up, as terrifying and frustrating as it is for me. I could retreat to the realms where I'm safe from being judged on my abilities to sing and act, but I think I'd rather try again. Maybe I'll get good at it yet, certainly if I audition more than once a year...

It's the First Day of School!

Yay! It's the first day of school! I am probably the only person my age who is actually happy about that fact. Actually, I'm not sure there are people at any age who are excited about that fact. I can't explain what it is about the first day of school. Maybe it's the start of something new, or the anticipation of learning something completely different, or the possibility of meeting new people...I don't know. I just enjoy the idea of school, of learning. I'm determined that in my lifetime, I will never stop learning. Of course, at some point I will get tired of school (usually half-way through the semester...).

Of course, it could also be the school supplies. I'm a complete nut for school supplies. I get the shakes when I go into Office Depot, walking up and down the aisles picking out pens, binders, paper, highlighters. I usually don't buy anything, except on the first day of school. On that day, I get to treat myself to a nice new pen to take notes with. It's become a tradition. Previous pens have not lasted much longer than the first class...too inky, too bold, bad color...I have a collection of reasons for which I will decommission a pen, but I always have a new one on the first day of class. It's become sort of a symbol of a new beginning for me...a chance to start over with a clean slate. I suppose it's a strange thing to attribute to a pen, but it's a nice thought nonetheless.

The Singing Life

I've been studying voice now for over 2 years, maybe even 3 by now. I'll admit that I've improved immensely in tone, quality, and confidence in those years, but recently I've noticed something...something that bothers me. I don't love singing any less, but there are days that I dread actually having to go to my lesson. It's not even the money that I spend to do it (well, it's partly that). It's more that I spend quite a bit of my time justifying my life outside of music to my teacher. There are times that she questions why I would want to go to school, why I can't just take a day off to fill a lesson spot for her, or why I don't drop $100 on a ticket to the opera since I've never been. I suppose if music were my life, I might be willing to do all that, but I'm not foolish enough to believe that I can make it in this world as a singer alone. I still need a real job, which comes with very real commitments.

Singing is my love...it's what keeps me going some days honestly, but it can't be my life. I have other interests, other loves, other commitments to myself, to the people around me, and to real life. I've never been able to get her to understand that. She smiles and nods and says she understands, but there's something in her eyes that tells me different. Last night I had to tell her that I was scaling back my lessons, so that I could make the car payment on the new car I desperately needed. She complained briefly, said I was at that stage where she needed me to be there every week, asked if my father could help me out, and when I said no, she backed off...sort of. She did the smile and nod thing, but also added little jibes throughout the lesson that I really needed the practice that lessons every week would provide. There was even a veiled threat that I might not be able to perform with the studio as much.

I know that I would improve faster with lessons every week, and I struggled very hard with the decision to scale back. Singing truly does make me happy, and it's very difficult to give up a part of what makes you happy for something you need. I don't want to be bitter about it though, and if all I'll hear from now on from her is "you could be improving so much better if you were here every week," I'm afraid I'll get bitter really quick. How do you hang on to something you love, when the person teaching you, who you've come to trust with this precious thing, is pushing you away from it?

Tickets, or Why Commuting Sucks

I have stumbled across the real reason that the crime rate in the United States has risen to such a high level…it’s because good, usually law-abiding citizens like myself are forced into it by an incompetent and uncaring law enforcement system. I received my first speeding ticket this morning. That’s right, after 12 years of driving I have received my first moving violation…for going 12 miles over the speed limit in an area where everyone else is doing at least that if not more. I just got to be the lucky one this morning. Maybe it was the fact that I have a brand new car, with the dealer plates still on it. Or maybe it was the fact that it was a city car, and I was in a Podunk suburb (Oak Park) speeding merrily through on my way to work. Or maybe it was because I took a drink of coffee from my travel mug while stopped at a light. Whatever the reason, I got pulled over. I told the nice gentleman that I didn’t realize I was speeding (probably because he didn’t pull me over until well after I had apparently been speeding) and that I was really late for work (which I was). He took my license and insurance and said he’d be back. Then began the game that I like to call “let’s see how pissed off we can make this chick by having a polite bantering conversation while she waits in her car, late for work, watching us in her rear view mirror.” I was irritated that I got pulled over, but irate that they held me there while they discussed God knows what. I doubt it was my stellar driving record.

In any case, the little worm (yes, I have been reduced to referring to police officers as worms…more on that later) finally returned with my insurance card and a lovely shiny new ticket. Notice, I did not say that he returned my license. Apparently, in the state of Illinois, if you speed, you lose your license. Your ticket serves as your license until they mail you yours once you’ve paid the fine. Or you can accompany the officer to the station house and pay it right there. Being late for work, I was forced to accept choice A, getting to work with no photo ID. Yeah, that’s going to fly. Like I’m going to let the state of Illinois mail my license back to me. Who thinks that I would actually get it?…not me. And for the record, asking the police officer if he’s seriously taking your license for something so minor is not a good idea.

So, I arrived at work a full half hour late, ticked as hell, with one thing on my mind…how to get my license back before one of these idiots loses it. I decided on my course of action. On my short lunch hour, I would go to the police station and pay my fine. I would even pay the additional fee and go to traffic school, so that my clean driving record could be restored.

At 11:30, I left work and drove the 11 miles to the police station in Oak Park, only to stumble across a traffic jam on I-290. Is there ever a time when there isn’t a traffic jam on I-290? I arrived at the station 20 minutes later, praying that this would be a short, painless task. The very nice police officer behind the bullet-proof glass window said he’d be happy to help me. We were off to a much better start. He just needed the ticketing officer (a.k.a., the worm) to bring the ticket to him. The good start ended there. It would have been nice if the kind officer had explained that the worm wasn’t actually in the building…he was still on rounds. So, I waited and waited. Getting frustrated, I decided to get some coffee from the table upstairs in the Village hall area. Alas, there was coffee, but no cups. What a cruel world!

A package of mini Oreos later, I went back down to the police department. It was 12:30, and my 45 minute lunch had been over for 15 minutes already. I stepped to the window again and a new face greeted me. He wasn’t nearly as nice. I explained the situation again. He informed me that he had my license, and I handed him my check for $105. Please enjoy the following verbal exchange, I know I did:

“We only take the $75. You’ll have to mail the $30 in for traffic school.”
“OK.” Me fumbling with my purse as I cursed having written a check that I wasn't going to use.
As I’m pulling out my checkbook to write another check, the officer says “We don’t take checks.” I stared at him blankly. “We only take cash.”
In complete disgust, “I wish someone had told me that.”
“The other officer didn’t tell you that?”
“Uh, no, the other officer did not tell me that,” I said nearly crying out of frustration and anger. “I’ll be back.”
“I’m really sorry for the inconvenience, but the other guy should have told you that,” he said as I walked dejectedly away.

Yeah, the other guy should have told me that. The three police officers I had talked to previously should have told me that. Somebody, God damn it, should have told me that, so that instead of hunting for nonexistent coffee, I could have been getting money from an ATM!

So, I returned to the front desk at the Village building and asked the nice lady behind the counter where the nearest ATM was. She sent me across the street to a BP gas station where I paid $1.75 in fees (not including the $2.50 charge that will appear on my statement) to get $80.00 out of my checking account. Let’s just be happy that it’s payday, shall we. In my heels with nylon covered legs (of all the days to wear a short skirt and have it have absolutely no effect but to make me really cold), I trudged in the freezing cold back over to the station to pay my bond. Not a fine, mind you…no…a bond—because I’m a hardened criminal who has been convicted of crime. Yup, that’s me…cuff me and lock me away.

I walked back down the stairs and over to the bullet-proof window yet again and handed the officer my $80.00. “Is that $80? We only take $75,” he said to me.
“You can’t make change?”
“We don’t.”

OK, am I the only person in the world who knows that ATMs don’t give money in five-dollar bills? If they only accept cash, then shouldn’t there be a bunch of five-dollar bills lying around to give me change with? Nope, that would make sense. Things that happen in my life hardly, if ever, make sense.

The officer finally agreed to apply it toward my traffic school fee, so that I’ll only have to send $25 instead of $30. Probably because I looked like I was ready to cry and kill at the same time. I’m not a hardened criminal yet, but I sure felt like becoming one after all that, but I'm not done yet.

Then, he started filling out the paperwork. At that point, it was 12:50. I was supposed to be back to work at 12:15. Any thought I had of getting a decent parking space was gone. I was just hoping to get back before the end of the day. He could have been filling out paperwork while I was running for money, but no he waited politely until I returned, so that I could have the pleasure of watching him print my name and information at a painstakingly slow pace. And then, he stopped to talk to someone. Then he answered the phone…twice. And out of politeness to them, he didn’t write while he was talking. He directed his undivided attention to these tasks, while I stood there being stared at by an old lady in a red coat who was pissed off at her neighbor for blowing the snow from his driveway into her garden. Apparently the fact that nothing grows in winter has escaped her attention.

Finally, he finished my paperwork and gave me my instructions and sent me on my way, apologizing once again for the inconvenience. “Inconvenience?! I have a job that I’m not currently at. A job I might not have if I don’t get my ass back to my desk sometime soon.” I said this to myself as I walked back to my car. As I got in, I realized that it was 1:00. I was still in Oak Park, and now I could not speed back to work because it’s just not a good idea to get stopped for speeding twice in one day. I finally did make it to work, at 1:30, and sat myself at my desk to work, where I promptly started writing this instead. I haven’t accomplished anything so far today, why ruin the trend?

Needless to say, I have nothing good to say about Oak Park. It may have been the birth place of Frank Lloyd Wright, but I will be pleased as punch if I never have to see that suburb again. And I won’t...at least not until Monday, when I have to come back to work…oh crap, I still have to drive home. So much for not seeing Oak Park…dammit, commuting sucks.