sing we now

I used to sing. At BYU, I was in women's chorus for 2 (or 3? M, help, I can't remember!) years, and then I joined the awesome community choir called the Christmas Chorus. It's a women's choir and only meets for Christmas music and Benjamin Britten's Ceremony of Carols. We sing in the chapel by the state mental hospital in Provo (yes, in the picture on the left. If you look really close, you might be able to see me in the back middle). We wear gynormous homemade green bag skirts and white blouses with red holly/ivy vests that are made for women significantly more endowed in the bust than I am. Sometimes we are great and sometimes we are...less than great. But it is always fun.

And now I live far away and have no choir in which to sing. This makes me sad. So this morning I decided to look up some local choirs and see if anything tickled my fancy. And of course I found lots of great choirs--it is DC, after all. But the more I looked, the more I saw the word "audition" lurking about.

Audition.

Audition.

AUDITION!

And it fills my heart with terror.

Not that I expected anything different. Of course I would need to audition to get into a choir. Especially a really great one that sings motets and cantatas all the time. But auditions and I have never really gotten along.

It started back in 6th grade when I realized that the 350-pound, loud talking, poofy-haired, abrasive/terrifying teacher named Ms. Pagano was also the drama teacher. There was no way in hell I was going to try out for anything in front of that woman. She might as well be Mrs. Trunchbull, thought I. And then freshman year I went to a Women's Chorus audition high on lortab and other various painkillers for the chronic migraines I'd been having. What I can remember of that audition (which isn't much) is hazy at best. Let's just say it went less than desired.

But the mere thought of auditioning for something literally makes me shake with dread (no really. My hands will start shaking any minute now). I've never been very confident singing alone in front of others (unless those others are family, close friends, or Kathleen Battle and Frederica von Stade or Renee Flemming, who won't talk back no matter how I sound). I hate solos. I hate auditions. Something weird happens when I'm forced to perform on command. My voice suddenly isn't mine and I realize everyone is listening to me and I think I sound like a dying cat and I panic. And then I lose my notes and my concentration and it's a disaster from then on. Luckily I've been able to avoid this situation most of my life by just avoiding auditions in general...but I'm not sure how to get around it this time.

Maybe I should try hypnosis.

oh to age with grace

Last night I discovered a box of old pictures without a place. They're the kind that aren't good or interesting enough to put into a photo album, but you still don't have the heart to throw them out. They're memories of freshman year days, roommates, early adventures with T-rav. And after a few minutes of happily reminiscing, I decided two things:

1- My awkward years went well beyond the typical "teenage" awkwardness. I wish someone would have mentioned a few things to me at some point...You try looking unkempt and disheveled (in a non-cute kind of way) until the age of 25 and see how you feel about yourself. (With a few anomalous exceptions, of course; every once in a while a glimmer of the self that I know now appeared).

2- I'm getting old. Not that I look old yet--people still regularly accuse me of being barely old enough to be a college freshman--but I do look older than than I did when I got married. And that scares me a little.

Yes, yes, I realize this is normal. There's no escaping age. And I'm rather relieved that I no longer look 14. But the fact that I can identify some stark differences in how I look now and then alarms me, especially as 30 is looming in the not-so-distant future. It's starting to scare me a little. I don't want to get old. I don't want to look old (really, who does?).

I've been chastised plenty of times by old and young people about my dismay of getting older. I've been told I should embrace the progression of life. Who wants to stay 28 forever, they say. But in all honesty, part of me kind of does. I fear looking old and losing the youthfulness that I've had for so long.

Now I realize that feeling this way is: 1) a sign of my vanity (which I try IN VAIN to get rid of, and generally fail miserably). It's true: I'm both vain and self-conscious; and 2) immature and silly. I know I'm silly to feel this way and I'm actually surprised to be confessing this to you (or maybe I'm just infinitely bored). But I'm eager to hear your advice/feelings on the matter. So please advise me.

books

I used to collect things when I was a kid. Leaves. Rocks. Shells. Thimbles from places I visited. Pine cones. Cool sticks. Books. You name it. I didn't always keep my treasures, but I was seriously attached to whatever it was I was collecting at the time. Then after a while, I'd get sick of them (or I'd realize it was weird to keep a twig lying around) and I'd throw them back into the woods or even the trash.

I hadn't thought of it this way before, but I guess I now collect books. Or I try to. When we decided to move to DC last winter, I had to put a hold on my book buying because who knew how tiny of a place we would live in? I still snuck a few in here and there, but not as many as usual. And now we have a place to live, and it's not tiny, but definitely not well-equipped for 4 1/2 large shelves of books. And I've found myself wondering if I can part with some, or even all, of our book collection...

...I just can't do it.

The more I think about it, the more unthinkable it becomes. Which ones do I choose? How do I narrow down my selection when I love every single one of them? I can't possibly get rid of so many good old friends.

When I try to think rationally (which is, admittedly, a bit difficult for me where books are considered), I must ask myself if it is really logical to cart around such a heavy and cumbersome collection. And then the answer is generally a hearty NO. Our moving truck was literally 1/3 books/shelves (1/4 kitchen things, 1/4 camping things, and the rest miscellaneous). We could have gotten a smaller truck and our apartment would definitely be roomier without them. I suppose I could leave them in storage, but what's the point of having books if you can never see, find, or read them?

At this point, we're definitely going to keep all our books; they're already unpacked and have a place. But I wonder what to do the next time we move. What then, I say?

Part of this may be my compulsion to purge my house of all unnecessary things. I hate clutter and I usually throw things out to the point that I regret it later (the perfect Alice in Wonderland costume-dress from DI comes to mind every Halloween since 2002). I hate when people see my things and blurt out "Wow! You have a lot of stuff!" I don't have stuff, thank you. I have lots and lots of books. And quite a few kitchen things that make tasty food that I plan to feed you.

I'd like to be able to pack up and move at a moment's notice and just leave everything I own behind. If I were to become a vagabond and travel around the world or just move overseas like I'm always hoping, I'd be ok with storing my books for a while. Maybe I'll become detached enough to get rid of them. Maybe I'll get to that point one day. But right now, they're just too close to my heart.

a rant

I'm going to rant, so if any of the 5 of you who read my pitiful blog have something better to do, which I'm sure you do, don't bother reading this post.

Working in an office is a waste of one's life. And a waste of company time. Between the smoke breaks, bathroom breaks, water breaks, coffee breaks, meetings, "consultations" (read: chatting) with coworkers, and, of course, lunch, why bother coming in to work at all? Imagine how productive we could be if we actually worked during work? And for those of us who do work, and can do it without the hours of distractions, what are we to do with our remaining 6 hours of the day when we finish our task? Facebook? Amuse ourselves by googling things like "British people are..." or "best hair dryers for frizz" or write a ranting blog about their dull job.

I hate having a client whose every whim I have to satisfy. Especially when one of those clients is a complete and utter imbecile. Trite. Asinine. Exasperating. And possibly a trollop. Don't people realize that my way really will be better? Basically I despise working for someone. It's one thing to be a teacher and have a department chair to answer to. It's another thing entirely have a project manager, department manager, and client. I'm a free spirit. I don't want a job where I have to answer to so authority figures. I hate authority.

It's a damn good thing I won't be doing this forever.

On another note, I'm sick of the rain (4 days without a break) because my umbrella is broken and they're sold out everywhere so I can't buy a new one and my rain boots are in the moving truck coming across the country as I type.

How's that for whiny?