Wienies and Operas and Cocktails, Oh my!

It’s been two weeks since I posted last.  My time in PA was amazing.  Ryan and I think we gained about 10 lbs each from the delicious smorgasbord of meats and foods that my parents love to cook.  I also played some golf with my dad and sister, which was great.  I really want to start playing more, and upstate New York is the perfect place.

We made it to Cooperstown last week.  And as soon as we pulled into the GO parking lot, we were on the run.  The week has flown by seeing old friends, meeting new people, and of course, working.  I am thrilled to be spending the summer here again.  It’s like home.

However, it’s never exactly the same when you return home after being gone.  There are always little things that change:  some for the better, some for the worse, and some completely unnoticeable.

One of the delights of working at GO is the fact that we rehearse in different found venues all over the region.  We rehearse in school gyms, church-owned spaces, grange halls, and our newest rehearsal space is a Masonic Lodge.  That’s right.  The lovely ritualistic space of Dan Brown novels will be part of my every day for a few months.  I’d tell you all about the lodge, their members, and the artifacts in it, but then, they’d have to kill me.

Happy Memorial Day Weekend!

“What do you do for a living?” is one of my least favorite questions in the world.  Explaining to someone what a stage manager does is difficult enough; saying that I work for opera companies doesn’t make it any clearer and usually brings the conversation to a halt.  So it’s always awkward, and I kinda think my job is uninteresting to most.  However, I love being wrong.

Yesterday, I accompanied my parents to my dad’s hormone treatment (No, he’s not having a sex change).  It was my first time meeting his medical oncologist, whom my parents are very satisfied with.  Of course, after I introduced myself to the doctor, he asked the dreaded question.

I started off, “I work backstage for opera,” hoping that the conversation will end with, “That’s very interesting.”  However, he beamed with excitement saying he’s an avid opera-goer.  Completely ignoring my father, Dr. Opera began asking questions and talking up a storm.  He wanted to know if I worked with the lights or the scenery, and I then revealed that I’m a stage manager and facilitate all of the backstage operations.  It was comical, and even cute, the way he went on and on telling me about his favorite opera singer (who is from his native country) and that he regularly attends the opera in DC (Washington National Opera).  After a good 8 or 9 minutes, he finally turned back to my father, who although was being extremely proud was thinking, “Hey, I’m the patient here.”

There’s nothing like telling one of your best friends that you can’t go to his wedding.  That phone call was so painful.  I wanted to cry every second of it, and the lemonlimetini that I was drinking went from sweet to sour in a single sip.

You feel rebellious and self-assured thinking about your career in the performing arts, that you fought the mainstream, and no one can take you down, but in reality it controls your whole damn life.  You can’t turn down work because you’re living check-to-check.  And most of the time, calling in sick isn’t an option.  Getting a sub just ain’t so easy.  Yes, some companies have understudies/covers that go on for singers at the drop of a hat, but stage managers don’t have covers.  We can’t just not show up.

I remember many years ago.  It was my first summer stock, my first professional job, my first inkling of what it meant to be part of this business…show business (cue spirit fingers).  One of my new friends Miss Belt-It-Out Long Legs couldn’t go to her best friend’s wedding, and she was supposed to be the maid-of-honor.  It makes you sick to your stomach.  There are so many sacrifices that I’ve made to do this, and I’m not sure this one is even close to worth it.

I live just under 1500 miles away from my parents and sister, under 1700 miles from most of my college friends, under 1400 miles from my brother.  And I never can control my schedule.  The thought of taking a Friday off to have a 3-day weekend is ludicrous.  I’m lucky to have one day off a week to get a hair cut, have a dentist appointment, or take little Oscar to the vet.  My schedule is always determined for me.  Another college friend, the one I’ve known the longest, had her first baby recently.  I never even saw her pregnant.  It’s been that long since I’ve been able to visit.

This was the wedding that I would have paid a fortune to attend.  They’ve been together for nearly a decade or OVER.  And now I just can’t go.  

“The show must go on” never sounded so bitter.  

Round number two.

The craziness of summer travel begins today.  Ryan flies home this evening, and then we start the drive in the morning.  We’re stopping in Nashville and staying with the wonderful Miss Etouffee (I will be giving alternate egos to some of my friends and colleagues, which I believe is typical in blog fashion.  I think it’s fun nonetheless).  With all of the flooding that’s been happening in the home of country music, I’m not sure how much we’ll be able to do on Sunday, but we’ll see!  The Literary Southern Belle’s parents also live in Nashville, so Oscar may have a date with their golden retriever, Minnie.  He’s very excited; he bought new cologne for the occasion.

Home to my parents in Hanover, PA is the next stop.  We haven’t been home since Christmas, and that was really an unexpected trip.  During December I was working in Eugene, Oregon on Le nozze di Figaro that would open on New Year’s Eve, a lovely tradition, and with little time off I didn’t expect to fly home for the holidays.  Unfortunately, a few days before Christmas I got a phone call from my mom confirming that my dad had prostate cancer.  I knew he was having tests, but was hoping for the best.  So, long story short, I flew home for about 36 hours to be with my family and flew back to Oregon to run Piano Tech #1 the next day.  Let’s just say, “Not ideal.”

That trip was hectic and emotional, and the last few months have been hard not being home with my family during my dad’s radiation treatments.  However, he finished his radiation last week, and Ryan, Oscar and I will be home in a few days to celebrate!  And we’ll be in Hanover for almost 2 weeks (practically a record).  My sister and parents are extremely excited for us to get there.  Eating lots of food, drinking cocktails, and playing golf are the primary points on the agenda.  Oscar will also get to play with his cousin, Saxer, a 90 lbs weimaraner (he may be few pounds lighter because he’s been on a diet - sad for him).  That’ll be a treat for both of them.

So the Summer Sojourn begins.  Nothing is really packed except, of course, Oscar’s toys, food, and clothes.  He has to make sure that we don’t forget him.  But who cares about packing!  I cannot wait to see my family and friends along the way.  It’s a long drive with a huge pay-off.

The performing arts is a difficult career to pursue, especially financially.  Like most businesses very few people rake in a six figure salary, which now-a-days isn’t actually a lot of money.  Yes, the super stars in their genre aren’t hurting like the rest of us living check-to-check.  (I’m sure there’s a happy little non-AC liking person depositing his check right now!)  And I’m not saying I’m a starving artist.  Personally I work more weeks in a year as a stage manager than most stage managers I know.  Probably not saying a lot, but I digress.

It’s been five years, almost to the day, since I graduated from college.  And it’s only now that I’m realizing what my financial situation actually is:  CRAPTASTIC!  Of course, that is mostly because of decisions I have made along the way for bad or for worse.  Private College = Debt.  Career in the Performing Arts = DEbt.    Living in an Expensive City = DEBt.  Getting a Dog = DEBT.  None of those decisions I would have changed.  Going to a great school for theater gave me the connections and skills to pursue what I love.  I moved to Boston to be with the best person in the whole world.  And we got Oscar, the magnificent wienie pooch, who gives special up-the-nose kisses every day.

But now I’m just screwed.  I’ve got student loans, credit card debt, no savings, and a job at McDonald’s as my retirement plan.  I wish I could say that it is my career that has put me in this situation, but the truth is it’s not.  My entire generation is drowning in debt.  The current economic status of the US (and the world) has made it exponentially worse.  No financial institution wants to give out loans or think about helping someone like me.  And credit card companies want to raise APRs, lower credit lines, add fines and fees where you aren’t looking, and inject poison into wienie dogs.  It’s scary.  I read it on the huffington post.

How am I supposed to get a decent car loan?  Or buy a house some day?  Well I can’t right now.  I’ll continue to rent, which means throwing money away instead of putting it into a mortgage.  Every time I think I’m paying down my credit cards (I almost always pay more than my minimum payment), I have to fly to visit family/friends or buy presents for a wedding or Christmas, you know those things that make you a good person and not just a leech living on planet Earth throwing plastic bottles into the dumpster instead of recycling.  Frustrating, it’s just frustrating.

Luckily, I have a brother who is a financial planner who can help with trustworthy advice.  He’s awesome.  However, can someone tell me why I waited 5 whole years to ask for it?  Well, I’m ready to take control of my finances, but the end of the fiscal tunnel of doom is years away.  Thank goodness, I have a lot to be thankful for that is more important than money.  I have my health, my family, my wienie dog, my Ryan, my friends, my cocktails, my job, and a roof over my head (when it doesn’t shake).

Again, I’m not a starving artist, although if I was I could lose those extra 15 lbs.  But now I’m trying to think of ways to make extra income in my copious free time.  Maybe Oscar can get a part-time job.  If only he could baby-sit Shelby, instead of trying to eat her.  Ah well.

Over several beefeater gin & tonics, I've been trying to decide if I wanted a website.  I felt I needed to imprint myself on the www.  To make sure that if someone needed my services, they could find me. However, a website with my resume and work schedule seemed useless.  My good friend Little Miss Bossy interjected recently that, "Maybe you just want a blog."  And I thought, "She might be right."  I was nervous though:  What would I write about?  Who would read it?  Is it pertinent to the world as a whole?  Maybe a little too lofty, but I didn't want to add to the mess of useless blogs out there.  I also am not an avid blog reader, but that might change.

Then I realized that it didn't matter.  A blog would be a great medium for my family ("Hi Mom!") and friends ("Hi Little Miss Bossy!") to keep track of where I am, what I'm doing, and what's going on around me.  I work as an opera stage manager, and I'm never in the same place for more than a couple months or even a few weeks.  Something too serious like a work website wasn't what I needed.  I wanted something casual and fun.  And then it dawned on me that I even had the perfect opening blog...

Over the last two weeks I've been constantly bothered by my inconsiderate upstairs neighbor.  He recently moved in and luckily he brought with him a treadmill.  You should know that my apartment complex has a lovely gym, which has been recently renovated with new cardio machines, weight machines, free weights, flat screen TVs, and even new flooring.  It's much nicer than most 24 Hour Fitnesses you see.  A little noise from a neighbor in an apartment complex is expected.  We're all living on top of each other, and noise is a given, regardless if it is welcome.  However, when someone of not-so-slight stature is running on a treadmill in the apartment above you, something has to be done.  My walls creek, my ceiling fan shakes, and the boom-boom-boom for 30 - 40 minutes is just unbearable.

My biggest question is what kind of idiot thinks it's ok to have a treadmill in a 3rd story apartment?  Really?  After waking up at 6:30 AM to my new alarm, I had had enough.  I went to the leasing office to complain.  Linda assured me that they would contact him but could not guarantee how he would react.  I couldn't care less about his "reaction," I wanted my inconsiderate neighbor to stop shaking my entire apartment every day trying to diminish his cankles.

So I went back to my apartment unsure that anything would be done to rectify this absurd situation.  The worst part is I am leaving my apartment for the summer very soon, and I knew that if I didn't do something about this now that when I returned in September, I'd be starting all over again.  However, after the weekend passed the boom-boom-boom ceased.  I thought they must have contacted him.  Two full days had gone by, and I wasn't cringing on my couch straining to hear Lea Michele sing about her broken heart on GLEE.

My undisturbed bliss was quickly squashed the following day.  Again I complained to the lovely Linda in the leasing office.  She said he had promised to start using the gym, and she also asked me if I had flipped his breakers to his apartment shutting off his power (our electrical breakers are outside our apartments).  I assured Linda that I wasn't that rude, but it was clear that I wasn't the only person being annoyed by Mr. Treadmill's exercising techniques.   

I was beginning to think that nothing was ever going to stop this elephant from shaking my apartment.  However, today was the day.  I had to sign my lease renewal (one of a thousand things on my check list before I leave for Glimmerglass), and I met our actual Apartment Manager, Roberta.  I didn't mention to Roberta about Mr. Treadmill during my lease signing because he had taken another 2 day hiatus. 

But at 4:30 pm my walls began to vibrate, and I marched right to the office and asked for Roberta.  When I informed her of the situation she said, "He said that he would start using the gym."  Clearly she was abreast of the situation.  She asked if she could come to my apartment and listen for herself.  I was thrilled and led the way.  When we were at the door to my apartment (not even inside), she said she could hear it and was so sorry for my inconvenience and that this would stop now.  She immediately went upstairs and knocked on his door. 

I decided to take Oscar for a walk and get out of the vicinity for a little while.  I got a phone call 20 minutes later from Roberta.  Mr. Treadmill promised to stop and he was being moved to a ground floor apartment.  That's right.  He's moving!  So by the time I get back from Sunny Camp Glimmerglass, Mr. Treadmill will be rockin' to Richard Simmons somewhere else.

VICTORY!