City Called Las Cruces

Exhausted, yes.  But also energized by the taste of red chile enchiladas, sight of fuschia Crepe Myrtle, cacophonous sound of the practice hall, arid feel of desert sunshine, and the unmistakeable smell of the choir room.  And strangely nostalgic for all that heartache associated with my struggle to finish a music degree.

After years of cutting my jazz teeth on Chicago stages, I was invited back to New Mexico State University for the Jack Ward Invitational Choral Festival last weekend.  I remember my junior year of high school, my Concert Chorale was invited way back in 19--- er, in the 90's, and the excitement of sharing the stage with real college music students.  At that time of my life, I didn't plan on going on to study music.  I guess I eventually came around. 

Every year during music school, we did this festival.  Invitees were NMSU Choir alumni with successful careers in opera or education.  Although I tried my hand at both, I rested assured that I would never be invited back for either discipline.  The genesis of this invitation was actually a newspaper article about my knitting.  My university choir director, Dr. Alt read between the lines, and recognized that in addition to knitting up a storm and becoming a marketing maven in Chicago, I was also still performing.  We chatted on email and she invited me to do the concert.  We focused on gospel selections, including my favorite song to sing, Josephine Poelinlitz's arrangement of City Called Heaven.  Both the Deming High School Choir and NMSU Choirs were outstanding in their performances, and all came together for the gospel tunes.  There are no words to describe what it is like to sing that song with a strong choir of 100 behind you.  Religious or not, you're gonna feel the spirit.  As an encore, my university voice instructor Chris Sanders, and my dear friend Della Bustamante joined me onstage for our rendition of Bridge Over Troubled Water/This Little Light of Mine.  To be found on the stage with those two ladies, the greatest talents I know--I'm starstruck and the luckiest girl in the world to collaborate with them. 

I was truly honored to be invited back to my alma mater, give some lessons, and hopefully impart some knowledge to high school and college music students.  Thank you Dr. Alt and NMSU Choirs for having me.  True to my rebellious fashion, I will not include recordings, or even pictures of  the show, but a recipe from my reception.  Enjoy!

Carrot Ginger Soup

Soup:
4 lbs carrots, diced

1 large sweet onion, diced

4-6 cups vegan bouillion ("Better Than Bouillion" is best)
1/3 c. grated ginger
3 Tbsp Olive Oil
Salt and pepper to taste


Yogurt:
1 c. plain Greek yogurt
1 Tbsp. honey
5 sprigs of thyme, chopped
Optional sunflower or pumpkin seeds to garnish

(The yogurt is best when made 24 hours before serving) Add thyme and honey to yogurt, mix thoroughly, and refrigerate overnight.

Sweat onion in a large stockpot with olive oil, until translucent. Add carrots, ginger, and bouillion. Bring to a boil, reduce heat and simmer for 40 minutes, or until carrots are soft. Puree soup with an immersion blender. Return to stockpot and warm over low heat.

Serve soup with a schmear of yogurt and a sprinkle of seeds, and impress the heck out of your guests!

Call Me. This Week, Anyway.

When I was a little tyke, I remember spending a lot of time at the car dealership. My dad had what many would consider an addiction to cars. He didn't have a lot of cars at once, he would simply trade each vehicle in after a short year or two. It seemed like we were always at the car dealer, and it was the most boring experience of a young girl's life. If only I'd known how to knit back then. Anyhoo, on one car-trading-in occasion, the dealer asked my dad a trivia question. Which three-letter word contained no vowels? The letter "y" didn't count as a consonant, and it was a word in English. Dad had a week to figure it out, and the guy would give him $100 if he got it right. My boredom was gone. My brain was buzzing the rest of the day. What was that word? Would dad have to read the entire dictionary to get the answer? I don't want to date myself too much, but we were literally decades from internet trivia assistance. How was he going to find that answer?!

Who would spend an entire week on trivia these days? Who would spend more than a few seconds? It's no longer a matter of who is clever and witty. It's now about who can get Wikipedia or IMDB to load faster. Daily trivia challenges are officially losing their fun factor. I'm certainly guilty of the Google quick fix. Fewer and further between exist the late night calls from friends and family, desperate for my specific music knowledge. I love helping someone win a bet over which rock star wore what outfit in which video!

But not this week.

Starting yesterday, I've decided that for one entire week, I won't Google the answer to my trivia challenges. I will look for it in tangible literature or phone a friend. So get ready for the call. I need all of your brains. I'm challenging you to do the same. In turn, I'll be your pop music lifeline. If you hum a bar, or describe a lyric, I can tell you which Men At Work song you're thinking of. So call me!

Carry-on, My Wayward Sister

Continuing with my New Year's Resolution, I'm trying to do something that makes me proud of myself on a daily basis.  I've done things like learning some HTML, eating grown-up cereal, and using an eyelash curler.  I'm not the bungee-jumping type, ok?  In fact, I'm such a wuss, that this resolution is evolving into my simple aspiration to be a normal person.  Today is no different.  

Marky and I are going to visit my brother and sister-in-law in Houston tomorrow.  It's a recreational trip.  Normal people do that all the time.  But no matter how smooth my life was going before a trip, things start to fall apart when I travel.  It starts about three days before the trip.  I can't sleep, I start gnawing on my fingernails, and I fantasize about security locking me away for trying to get through the everything detector with a bottle of foundation.  I've been flying since I was very little, and I don't know where this all started, but I can't stop my travel neurosis.  Although I hate flying, and do everything in my power to lose consciousness as soon as I buckle my seatbelt, this is not a condition limited to air travel.  It happens with road trips, too.  What if there's no food at our destination and I pass out?  What if I need a jacket and all I brought was open-toed shoes and sundresses?  I can't focus on the fun vacation I'm about to have, because I'm wracked with paranoia.  I'm not paralyzed by the paranoia, but I know it gets annoying to the people around me.  Marky has adapted by cleaning the house, packing two days in advance, and letting us leave extra early.  It's best for him to acknowledge my panic, and help me through it.  

I've packed, shopped, cleaned, taken the knitting needles out of my bag, unhooked my Swiss Army knife, and feel ready.  I go to online check-in.  This is usually a nonessential step, because when I get to the airline queue, I'm so worried I've already broken a law just by getting in line, I need my hand held at the counter, and I check EVERYTHING so they don't take my lip gloss away.  Marky, check.  Breezy, check.  How many bags are we checking?  One for me, one for...  Wait.  Does that screen say they are going to charge me for my checked bag?  You don't even get ONE checked bag as a gimme?  Now, I'm in a quandry.  I'm paranoid, but I'm nothing if not thrifty.  Let me get this straight: the airlines not only charge you $4 for 20 oz. of water after forcing you to empty your $0.89 White Hen bottle, but now they insist that you roll the dice and get your perfume confiscated or else pay $15 to check your bags?  All right.  Here's my proud moment of the day:  I'm getting the quart-sized Ziplock bag.  I'm putting my shit in it, and they are going to let me through with liquid carry-on items!  Not only will I get through with my conditioner and eye drops.  I will brazenly include my empty camouflage SIGG bottle, and once that is through security, I will even more brazenly fill it with water from a fountain, and laugh in the face of the O'Hare McDonald's that for so long had a stranglehold on my liquid intake to wash down my OTC consciousness-ending medication!  Ha-HAA!  Take that, FAA conspiracy!

Overexposed Whore

Okay, that title is a little dramatic.  And, no, I'm not about to write about Lindsay Lohan or Paris Hilton.  

For the second time, I'm doing the Biggest Loser Comp at work.  It's a 5-month fight to the death... of fat.  And laziness.  And minimal sex appeal.  Seriously.  Last year, the whole office seemed to transform.  People looked better, but they also felt better, so they were more confident.  It was a really good thing for the whole crew.  Don't get me wrong, there was a downside.  The working out was exhausting.  All I wanted to do was sleep.  That fatigue made it difficult to navigate the questions about food and exercise.  Then when I got to the point where I should have been really confident and happy, I went to the mall to get some new clothes, and nearly had a nervous breakdown.  And then it happened again.  And again.  Poor baby, I know.  But the end result was difficult in a way I never could have imagined.  And then I got over it, and haven't been perfect since.  But pobody's nerfect.  I'm ready to jump back in.  

In a show of good will and support for my fellow losers, I'm committing to a weekly blog detailing my diet and exercise regimen.  There is no secret.  It's just a lot of work.  And if anyone has any questions about what a squat thrust or a prison-style lunge is, I will help you find a diagram, or demonstrate it, or refer you to an awesome personal trainer.  I have an easier time with typing than talking.  If people ask me what I'm doing, I'll show them my blog.  I'll be as honest as possible, exposing every little detail.  

My book, is, of course, advertised here.  No harm in whoring myself for a potential sale!

These Are The Rejections I Know, I Know

Marky's two, now famous, rejections are at the top of the list. Then there's the person who bought my book, and decided to trade it for a scarf, instead. That's not a lose-lose situation, I know, but I count it as a rejection.

I've sent off countless query letters (for only a short amount of time, mind you--I'm being SUPER antsy and sensitive), and have gotten all rejections. At first I said to myself, "Well, as long as book agents are reading my queries, and it's getting out into the collective consciousness, it's okay if I get rejected. They gave me a chance." I'm here to admit, it's much better thinking a book agent didn't even look at the query, than having one ask for the first five pages and then turn it down. Utter heartbreak. At least I send SASE's in my favorite color, lime green. Getting cheery envelopes in the mail seems to soften the blow of the inevitable rejection letter lurking inside.

As fun as it is wallowing in my own goth girl self-pity, there is an unfortunate bright side to this subject. I've started rejecting things, too. I reject the notion that I should feel guilty for someone else's problem. I reject diving into paranoia and mental instability just because the person talking to me is going that route. I reject my former motto, "I can knit anything as long as it's a square or a rectangle." My new motto is, "I can knit anything!" Or perhaps, "I can do anything!"