Unexplored Territory

Thursday, July 19, 2007

Pull the plug already, will ya?

Last night, our choir director decided that it was a good idea to get the choir together to "touch base." It was a fine evening, filled with laughter *mostly generated by me and a few other cutups* and singing. Fine.

The only not fine part of the evening was that I had to get a sitter. No biggie, really but I hate to tell someone that they will only be there for X hours, and then it turns into Y hours because my director just can't seem to get a handle on good time management.

We were finished in choir at 8:30, 15 minutes later than we should have been. Which then put our special ensemble practice off that much more because it was supposed to start at 8:30. Of course, I have to be a social butterfly and talk to people in the hallway.

But really ... an hour and a half of practice!? Seriously. I had to call home and tell my sitter that I was going to be later, and I really hate doing that because I like to win the trust of the parent of the sitter. Of course, the mom was just fine ... she totally understood.

But you know ... it isn't like we are singing backup to Beyonce.

Labels: babysitters, choir

Sunday, April 08, 2007

A Sign From Above

This morning, we had our Easter services. I had a solo. Yes ... me... the one who complains about not getting solos. I had one. It was brief, but it was there and I was ready to Tear. It. Up.

So I am singing away in the first service, and I thought that the choir anthem was more toward the middle of the service. The director starts waving his arms, and this really familiar music starts playing.

Me: La dee da. Hmm... where did Ace say he put my purse? Where ARE my parents? I can't find them in here at ALL and if they miss my sol.... WTH? Is THAT my music? Oh SH** it is.

Now. That was the inward discussion. The outward appearance was one of bliss, and then it was this:

So I about fell down off of the step, tried to non-chalantly, but hurriedly make it to the mike stand, and my director was kind enough to reach in and hand me my mike. And then I was off and singing. So I didn't really have a lot of time to get too nervous.

I went to sit with my parents afterwards, and asked my mother how it sounded. The Mominator, in her true style, said "well, your notes were dead-on, but you were WAY too loud. Do you think that you can hold the microphone down a little bit when you sing the next time?"

Me: Well no, Mominator. That isn't MY job. That is the guy in the sound booth's job to mix the mike in with the rest of the stuff. Go talk to him.

So I go into the second service, knowing exactly where I was supposed to sing, and was ready to do it. I walked up with confidence, grabbed my mike, and decided to check to see if it was on. Sure enough, it wasn't. But there are only sixteen measures in a fast 4/4 time to try to turn that puppy on, and when it wasn't turning on, I calmy handed it to my director, and started singing sans mike.

He got it turned on for me and handed it back, smooth as silk.

So there are a few theories: (1) it was the diva soprano who turned it off (who had the mike beforehand), (2) it magically turned off on its own, or (3) it was my mother. I was voting for # 3. It turned out to be # 1.

BUT here's the lesson learned in this little story: as much as I have bad-mouthed my director in times past, he was right there to help me. So I needed to learn that life's lesson. And it was also God's way of showing me that He has a sense of humor.

Labels: choir, church, solos

Monday, March 26, 2007

P.U.!!!!

One of the things you learn when you have sung as much as I have (all throughout my high school and college careers, performing things like the Messiah and going out on "tour" on a few occasions) is that you never. ever. wear. perfume.

NEVER!

It has an affect on people who can't handle fragrances where it will make them physically ill. And you would never want to be the cause of someone passing out or, worse yet, throwing up on stage.

I stopped wearing perfume when I was pregnant with the Queen. I could not handle the smell. It made my ILL. I would throw up at the drop of a hat with her pregnancy, and that just made matters MUCH worse. So I stopped wearing it then and never picked it back up. Does it make me ill now? Nope. Just don't wear it myself.

However, there is one person in our church choir who it does bother.

We receive these little perfume PSAs every once in a while. Please, don't wear perfume or cologne on stage. Please refrain from wearing any fragrance of ANY kind. Blah blah blah.

Ok. I get it. I have gotten it. Since high school, people.

About a month or so ago, we get an email from our choir director ... you know, the one that doesn't like me for oh so many reasons ... reminding us not to wear perfume or cologne because someone "almost had to come down off the platform on Sunday" because of an allergic reaction to someone's perfume.

Hmmm... ok. Wasn't me, and I didn't hear any complaints out of our "side" (the altos and tenors). So I think that we are in the clear.

Well, apparently not. The following week, we get another email, telling us to PLEASE not wear perfume or cologne because this same person had ANOTHER reaction this week.

Well ok ... someone please define "reaction" to me. We never really heard.

Certainly there was some sort of criminal intent going on here. Certainly we could go to the prosecutor's office and seek justice! There was a cologne conspiracy going on, and if we played our cards right, we could probably bring RICO charges as well.

As if the email wasn't enough, we had to read it in our little choir update sheet that following week.

The exact wording was "PLEASE remember not to wear any cologne or perfume on stage because we almost lost one of our own last weekend."

Well there you go. That is it. Analphylactic shock for certain! I mean, when you say lost to me, I take it in the strictest sense of the term.

Here's where we get to the part where I prove myself to be the biggest pain in my choir director's ass: I raised my hand and asked:

Now, when you say lost, do you mean like "lost" lost, as in analphylactic shock lost, or "almost" coming down off the platform again?

Well he didn't mean "die" lost ... no. That wasn't what he meant.

So I told him to not use colloquial terms. This elicted a guffaw from the ONE person in choir who "gets" my humor, and we took it to the obnoxius degree of discussing strict liability and burdens of proof.

This is why he doesn't like me.

We receive an email from him the following day, apologizing for taking this thing too far. His wife and a friend told him that enough was enough, and he was going to allow the section leaders to handle the stiuation. We never heard from ours, which further proved to me that it wasn't our side.

Our director CALLED the soprano section leader AT WORK (she is a first grade teacher so those of you who are or were teachers know what a PITA it is to take a phone call at work) and told her she needed to handle the situation in her section. Needless to say, she was LIVID!

Do you know what it ended up being?

Not Obsession. Not Drakar. Not Old Spice. Not even Love's Baby Soft.

It was ..... DUM DUM DUM....

SHAMPOO! Worn by the person standing next to this anal retentive, completely over the top, she puts the "d" in drama soprano ... no, not the diva soprano ... the soprano who some of you know as a good friend's MIL.

Give. Me. A. BREAK!

So from now on, if you are ever attending my church and smell something ... that would be the body odor of the choir members because apparently we can't even SHOWER or someone is going to go off the deep end.

Don't get me wrong ... I KNOW that people have reactions. But really ... for this woman, this "reaction" could be watering eyes. Or a runny nose. Coming from anyone else, I would take the claims as substantial. Coming from her, not so much.

Labels: choir, perfume

I'm a mom of three peeps ... Queen Bee, The Door Man, and the Chandelier Monkey, and wife to Ace, the Helpful Hardware Man. I created this space to get away from the people known as my inlaws, and because life with three kids and a hubby is all Unexplored Territory.

The nine-year-old who seems to be growing older every minute, has an opinion and a comment for everything, and has a true servant's heart.

The seven-year-old who loves the organization of things, will someday be someone's therapist because of his kind soul, and will more than likely be living with us until he is 40 years old.

The five-year-old with the 13-year-old attitude, who has a dictator's personality, asks you to watch her all the time and say "hold on" to keep your attention, and will someday come home on the back of some dude's motorcycle with 10 tatts and a body piercing or two.

The man of the house, the fixer of things, the winner of prizes, and the only person in his family to escape the South.