Laid Up Leg Up

I started writing this about a week ago, but I'll admit being laid up in bed with not a lot of energy doesn't exactly inspire brain waves to move toward creativity. For those who don't know, I broke my ankle about 2 weeks ago and have been quietly mending since then. Now on day 16 of invalidism, I finally feel up to finishing what I've been trying to write down for weeks.

Literally slower than a one-legged man in a butt kicking contest. I have never been more frustrated with the inability of mobility. I was fine with a resting state of inertia before this happened, but too much of a good thing in this area is a lot worse than simply eating an entire box of cookies. I haven't felt like doing much of anything because every time I exert myself my body decides that it's had enough and tries to wimp out on me. I loathe this feeling so much that even the idea of sitting in a French government office all day is starting to sound pleasant. I am not going to lie for the sake of pleasantry and say that it's really not that bad, because it is. It completely sucks (if I had a better synonym to describe this feeling I would have used it, but there isn't one) and I want to cry and scream about it most of the time. Yes, I have crutches; two pair in fact (one polio style and the all-American underarm burners as well) but before you wonder why it's such a big deal, please go to your nearest hospital with two broken bones in your ankle, have them cut you open so they can drill 7 screws and a metal plate into your bones so you look like a junior high carpentry project, dope you up on morphine for days only to take it away so it then forces you into immediate detox (withdrawal) for the next week until you just can't vomit anymore and then.... Lift yourself up and down on one leg anytime you need to urinate (because let's face it, all of those opiates are going to keep you nice and constipated for a few more days) and do it all in another country where you are in such a state that speaking your mother tongue is difficult enough, let alone any other language.

We all remember the kid that broke a leg in school. We drew asinine pictures in magic marker on their casts, tried out the crutches and thought they were cool, and were jealous that they were able to obtain a get out of jail free card for at least 2 weeks of school. My bubble is officially burst. Being an adult with broken bones is just pathetic and sad.

I suppose I should start at the beginning and explain how this less than blessed event came to pass. I was leaving a friend's place after a lovely evening of dinner, wine, good company and some dancing. Being that in France most elevators, lifts or ascenseurs are rarely made for more than two small nose to nose people and there were three of us leaving the apartment, I opted to take the stairs. It was four flights down, but I didn't make it past the first. Most buildings have large, wooden circular stairs with carpet that is being bolted down by metal rods and screws. I was wearing my cowboy boots as I would any other day, and slipped on the last two steps, which buckled my foot under so when I landed it snapped my ankle perfectly between my body and the stairs. I must have been in shock, as I have very little recollection of what happened directly after that. My friends lifted me and put me in the elevator to go back up one floor to the apartment. They got my boot off and assessed the damage which led to the calling of an ambulance. I was convinced that it might not be that bad and so I would just wait it out until morning. I did know I had done something really bad to it because I was in some seriously unfamiliar pain and normally have a pretty high threshold when it comes to that sort of thing. The next morning after I had to crawl to the bathroom for fear I would wet my pants, my friends took me to the hospital. I must say that if one finds him/herself in such a predicament that might require an emergency room (in Paris) I highly recommend 8:30am on a Saturday. Completely void of people, I was immediately whisked away to an exam room with a very sexy doctor from Luxembourg and his handsome little intern. Mind you at this point in the game I fear my pride was wounded far worse than my ankle, especially when they removed my socks to uncover the hairy legs of winter and non-pedicured feet. Only after that mortification did I discover my right ankle to be twice the size of the left. After the intake, I was supposed to go to "radio" on a rollaway gurney only to be left waiting in the middle of a giant hallway for about an hour. I watched a handful of doctors and nurses walk by who were all well above par in the looks department. I suppose if one is forced to wait, enjoying the sites is always a viable option in time passing. A woman came and asked me something in French about "radio" and I really still had no idea what she meant until I saw the x-ray machine. Duh....radiology. Meanwhile back in the vacant waiting room were my patient friends Jeremy and Thibaut. Both sleep deprived without any news of me they sat and waited. While they were there, a gigantic (meaning tall and wide) man walked up to the nurses station in sweat pants, huffing, puffing and sweating - registered, asked the orderly for a plastic bag, then decided the best seat of the forty empty chairs spread generously across the waiting room would be the one right next to Jeremy. He proceeded to sit down and vomit profusely into the small, clear plastic bag he had requested. This made me burst out laughing when I heard this from Jeremy. By that time I was fresh with the news that I needed surgery and would be admitted to the hospital only to perhaps find out there might not be room for me on the orthopedic surgeon's schedule that day. Oh, and did I mention they put me on drugs too? Yeah, that did make things much more hilarious and able to digest. Come to find out I was in a brand new orthopedic wing at Saint Antoine Hospital which is supposedly the best in Paris. However, the fresh out of school nurse who came in to take six vials of blood from me, left giant bruises as she couldn't seem to decipher what veins looked like. I wanted to stab her several times and see if that might improve her skills so as to keep her patients from looking like heroine junkies. The reality of all this felt as though it had barely set in when they wheeled me to be prepped for surgery. I had never broken a bone, had surgery or been admitted into a hospital since the day I was born. Still a little out of it I tried to decipher broken French and English with the nurses, surgeon and anesthesiologist that I was a singer and if they were going to knock me out or have to intubate for any reason to use a small tube and be extremely careful with my vocal folds. Ultimately I opted for a nerve block that would simply keep me from feeling any sensation below the waist for a few hours and was fully conscious in surgery (aside from the awesome sedative and morphine combination they injected into my bloodstream - intravenous drugs really do have their up side). For those of you who are a bit squeamish I would advise you read ahead. I wanted to watch the surgery, but they wouldn't let me. I did get to see them draw the giant Frankenstein-ian marks on either side of my ankle to use as for the cutting and suchers reference +++++. I laid there for about an hour and then started to hear what sounded like a power drill. It was complete with flying liquid and debris, and brought with it a smell I will never forget. At first I thought perhaps it was burning flesh, but then I realized that scent was coming from the hot screws being drilled into the bones of my leg. It was reminiscent of a barbecue near a slaughterhouse. I watched them roll the cloth and fiberglass around my leg. It's an odd perspective to watch people handle a part of your body that has zero sensation. It might as well have been someone else's.

By the time surgery was over, my less than opaque hospital gown was completely torn and falling off (not that it prevented one from seeing everything in the first place). For perhaps the first time ever, I had a Garden of Eden moment of bashfulness, when I realized I was naked in a room full of strangers. My friends had been with me just before I left for surgery, and brought some bare essentials, reading and writing materials. I imbibed in a perfectly wretched hospital meal that night and met the over night nursing staff. They were three jovial women that came in laughing and singing, but whom did not speak English, so this forced me to fight through my drug ridden haze to communicate. By this time I had a roommate in the bed next to me in the form of a 75 year old French woman who appeared to have fallen and dislocated her shoulder. She was wearing the same transparent gown as I, and let me tell you I don't ever want to see that much wrinkled nakedness again until I'm staring at it in the mirror 40 years from now. I didn't think I could feel much worse until I needed to urinate. It had been a few hours since surgery and I figured I'd call a nurse to help wheel me over to the bathroom in a chair....but no. This crazy heifer brought me a nasty, white, post-war bedpan and stuck it under my ass. Whatever miniscule sliver of remaining dignity I had, took a flying leap right out the nearest window. I sat on that stupid bedpan for about an hour in various positions trying to convince myself that it was "okay to pee in bed." I confess, I was a bed wetter as a child until about the age of 9 I would say. It didn't happen often, but it was humiliating nonetheless and I always hated having to tell my mother because I knew waking her up in the middle of the night with this news was never something she was happy to hear. So, at this moment I had to fight past the fear of being scolded for wetting myself, plus doing it in front of two other human beings. I just couldn't make it happen and the bedpan was starting to dig into my rather plump ass cheeks, so she took it away. At 3am they came in to give me a new dripping bag of drugs and asked if I wanted to try again. It still took some time but when the nurse returned she asked if I was successful and then threw her arms in the air with cheer as I confirmed that I had been. Then she wiped me......that.....I can't.

I am a very proud, independent person who never asks for help from other people, and therefore is not used to accepting it. When I have asked in the past for help from my friends or family I'm always ridden with guilt while doing it. However, it appeared in this scenario I didn't get to make the choice as to whether I would accept help or not. I have learned (mostly the hard way) that when we are resistant to making certain decisions, life will eventually make them for us, but never in the way we expected. So, at the risk of negating or retracting other things I've said about not depending on others and doing everything on my own..... I see that I need to learn how to let go of pride by allowing others into the parts of my life where I feel weak or vulnerable. That accepting help and needing to depend on people is okay and should not carry shame. My parents have said to me on numerous occasions that I was the child they never worried about because I always wanted to do things my own way without help. I wish they had known that even though I have a strong will for independence, I still needed to be taken care of like a child and taught that people can be dependable even when you think you don't need them. Some lessons come later, and life has an interesting way of teaching you when you refuse to learn on your own.

A few days after surgery I was allowed to go home, but still had to face one flight of stairs to the 6th floor as the elevator stops at the 5th. I really need to acknowledge these amazing people who were at my side these last couple of weeks in some of the worst moments of my life. I have only known them for a few months, yet their kindness, generosity and care have shown what lovely people they are. Jeremy stayed with me and made sure I was settled into the hospital with a working phone and a list of phone numbers. He visited me every day, has done grocery shopping and comes over at 9am every Thursday to let in the nurse who takes my blood to make sure my platelets aren't going to kill me. Tara has been so helpful and amiable when it comes to making sure I'm comfortable, have everything that I need and brings me delectable chocolate. She and Thibaut even had me stay at their place for a few days and they waited on me hand and foot (not to mention that I took the first bath I've had in France and clean hair for the first time since leaving the hospital). Thibaut is in the field of naturopathic medicine, so he has taken on the responsibility of getting me to and from the hospital, doctor's appointments and dealing with all of the paperwork in French to make sure I know what is going on. He even did my gross and disgusting pile of dishes....and yet somehow still wants to be my friend. More thank yous to Sylvain, Hanaye, Nanci (Camille and Juliet's mother) and everybody who keeps checking in on me via phone or skype. I have more fun stuff to share and tell, but I'll wait until tomorrow to bombard you all some more.

From your favorite Paris gimp,

K

Les Ennuis Terribles!

Last night before I went to bed I started to recall and write the story that led me to become a singer and the events which followed landing me in Paris. However, after this morning's minor debacles I've decided to finally put together all of my annoyances about being here in France. Don't misunderstand, as this city is completely gorgeous and every time I go outside it makes me smile in some fashion or another. My favorite thing to do is take a walk. The nuance of romance is built into nearly every building be they Romanesque, Baroque or Neoclassic. Much like Rome, it's difficult not to stumble upon some sort of great monument. The boulangeries are ubiquitous, the open air markets are filled with fresh items to indulge any and every gluttonous desire, and there is never a shortage of curious side streets to help one become lost in another world. What could I possibly have to complain about, right? HA! I'll go out on a limb here, while using fictitious statistics based on different articles I've read, and say that 80% of home grown Americans have never left the country and I'm sure at least half of them have made some antiquated generalization about the French or France that is based in myth or hearsay. The craze of "Freedom Fries!" is a perfect example of those who are quick to criticize a land they've never bothered to set foot in, let alone outside the gates of their trailer park to investigate (not that there's anything wrong with a good old fashioned double-wide). Of the 20% of Americans with passports, I'm sure Paris might be a romantic or educational destination and perhaps they'll come home with charming anecdotes of their week long experience, but that is hardly enough time for gathering information to make assumptions. I will also not pretend to be fully versed in the ways of the French, but in the last four months I have come across the same bag of irritations that makes a bout with poison oak seem pleasant.

Where should I begin......ah yes, this morning. I woke to make coffee as I always do after my eight hours of psychedelic dreaming and twenty minute morning meditation (alliteration makes me giggle with joy). I sleepily went to fill the kettle with water to heat on the stove, which I use to pour over the lovely Italian coffee grounds that will steep in the heat to bring me that glorious first sip of caffeinated goodness. I turned on the faucet which began to exhibit signs of a choking victim by wheezing and spitting out bits of water. About a week ago there was a notice in the entry way of my building informing the tenants that the water would be switched off from 8:30am - 5:00pm on Monday, February 8th. Well, that works out for most people with normal jobs, but I don't have school until noon on Mondays and then I come home before going to work to teach a class from 6-9. I tried to remind myself how I needed to get up early yesterday to shower, make coffee and brush my teeth, but alas my body decided to sleep through any chance I had of that. Also, the last time they threatened to turn off the water it didn't seem to happen until three days after the fact (this is very typical French) so I admit I felt my chances of getting a shower in would still be quite favorable. I woke up at 9 a.m. startled by what seemed to be elephants parachuting down though the building walls. As, I stumbled to the kitchen I was indeed met with disappointment. Just to be sure, I turned on the bathroom sink and shower as well, which only brought back the angry elephants in the walls instead of water. I had to accept my smelly fate for the day, brush my teeth with sparkling water and use what was left in the kettle to make a small cup of coffee. Of course there was still no water when I returned home and left again at 5:30. My class ended early last night so I rushed home in the hopes of having a shower, but to avail. I turned on every faucet and left them on until the water finally came rushing out (or up, as I am on the 6th floor) and in full disregard for water conservation I let them run until hot water appeared....not really, the hot water never came out. The thought of a cold shower in winter was less appealing than toughing it out until this morning. So, you can see how I might be a little more than perturbed by the kitchen sink spitting at me for the first five minutes of the day. I decided sit here in my own filth before having the glorious shower I've been looking forward to, as to keep me in a state of irritation while writiting......ooooo so method of me! Or is that just for actors.....

Some group is always on strike for some reason. It took me two months to receive my modem and cable box because the La Poste was on strike twice for a two week period. My landlady received a subpoena from her property management company because she hadn't responded to the billing notices for the taxes on my apartment that were stuck in the mail limbo due to this ridiculous strike, and guess who got to answer the door to the daunting man who served the papers? There is not a lot of room for logic in the French system and you must succumb to their way or the high way when dealing with them. There are people who are paid to push paper to slow you down and make life miserable. I am not exaggerating. The government has no problem paying for these types of positions be they public or private. However, if you like to try to shoot for a sense of efficiency, that does not exist unless it serves the interest of the particular French agency. They will put you off until they feel like dealing with you without any consideration of your circumstance. I had all of my paperwork in to get my work visa after receiving a student visa, but I had to wait six weeks in order to get a mandatory chest x-ray to make sure I wasn't bringing tuberculosis into the country before they decided to approve a work permit. I could have taken out all of Paris faster than the bubonic plague in a matter of six weeks if I were that disease ridden. If it is their fault that something has not been done on time, they will always immediately absolve themselves and punish you for not making the deadline. I guess they would have another American to blame for destroying France.

Alright, THAT'S IT! At this exact moment while I sit here complaining, there is a bit of a ruckus in the hallway. There's always something or someone disturbing my peace, but this is the same noise over and over and over again..... I just now went out to investigate only to discover there is a man tinkering with the elevator. I use the word "elevator" loosely, as it is hardly designed for more than one person and moves at the pace of the simile involving January's molasses. The man appears to be pushing the button...and pushing the button...and pushing the button... and receiving the same response one might hear when a car's battery has died. This is not good news for me. As previously mentioned, I live on the 6th floor. The lift only goes to the 5th, but one flight of spiral stairs is better than six. My right to bitch and moan has just been validated. Buildings with old romantic nuance are pretty to look at, but a pain in the ass for modern living.

Let's keep going down the laundry list of complaints, shall we? Oh come now, my pain can be your pleasure. You know all of those lovely walks I like to take? Well, I spend more than half my time with my eyes glued to the ground so as to avoid the fresh piles of steaming dog poo left on the street by the very powerful canine community here in Paris. Dogs seem to have more rights than I do in this city. They take their masters everywhere without leashes, often determining the route and pace of travel. They stop and defecate anywhere they like without having to clean it up and no one says boo about it. There have been days when I have taken no more than one step outside my front door and walked directly into it. The animals are carried everywhere by the master if it's raining (which is ALL the time in winter). Dogs are allowed inside everywhere and if they are not then they are allowed to be tied up directly inside the front door, so this way the entire establishment has the luxury of listening to them yap at the top of their voice box until their "master" returns. Yes, most of these are yappy little dogs. I will never understand the choosing of dog breeds in Paris. It's worse than New York. The population of white, long haired, short, small yappy dogs is simply ridiculous. I really do love animals and am a dog person, but I also remember that I am the human and they are the pet. There's even a specialty, high end, doggy clothing store just up the street from where I live with designs by Jean-Paul Gautier. I mean really, imagine for a moment if I wandered around wherever I liked in my Gautier jacket, spewing excrement all over the sidewalks, screaming at the top of my lungs inside every store I entered and then whined for someone to carry me so I wouldn't get my feet dirty, I'd be known as the town crazy and probably be thrown in jail!

I love the apartment I'm in, mostly because I get to live by myself, but it's not without its limitations. If you've talked to me or read other postings you know about the miniature shower situation. At the risk of handing out too much information, or TMI as the youngsters like to say, I am rediscovering what a hairy woman I can be. Shaving is just not worth it, unless there is the rare occasion when I wear a dress or have a date, and it always proves to be a most vexatious incident. Speaking of hair, the blow dryer situation is something I fear will never be resolved. In the States, a good hair dryer would melt off your eyelid and blow away your lashes if you let it, but here it's more like the hot desert wind of the Santa Ana's. Riding on the back of a Vespa without a helmet would be a better solution. This of course, has to do with the allowed voltage in this country, which has recently been changed to make the world a greener place to live (although green as a color is not what I would use to describe Paris, however kudos for trying). That brings me to the next complaint of electrical wiring and number of outlets. If I run the radiator and blow dryer at the same time, I must extinguish any lights. If I turn on every light in my apartment it is only slightly brighter than that of Abe Lincoln and his candles. Each electric outlet (I have three) only allows one plug at a time, and of course I have a power strip, but with the limiting number of four plugs. OH! And, did I mention that because each wall outlet is 2 prong, one must also have an adapter for the very strong 3 prong power strip.....? Er go, this leaves me with entirely too many things to plug in and not enough room to use them. I am constantly forced to have to choose between the computer, modem, two telephone mounts - one via the internet and one land line (which is why some of you have TWO phone numbers for me, incase I need to unplug one....) - the keyboard, the printer, the lamp and the several chargers for any number of "rechargeable" electronic devices. Enough said (photos included).

Let's move on to local shopping for ordinary household items. Toilet paper. I just want nice, normal, white, unscented toilet paper. It seems a most outlandish thing to request. There is a rather large section of an aisle in the grocery store dedicated to this necessary paper product, however it is overrun with colored paper coordinated with a corresponding scent. Examples include: peach color/ peach scent; pink color/ rose scent; green color/ pine scent; lavender color/ lavender scent. There are some "fashionable" unscented colors such as bright orange-red or black, but something about black toilet paper just feels wrong to me. As I said, I do not wish to dye or scent my delicate areas, and (avert your eyes to the next sentence for another TMI moment) I would like to know the color of my bodily fluids without having to use a color wheel to figure them out.

I can't seem to find any cleaning products with bleach in them. Ammonia is as good as it gets, but I have always hated that smell. No economy sized Kikkoman low sodium soy sauce, in fact most "ethnic" foods are non existent except for the abundance of coconut milk for some strange reason. The import Mexican food products are all made by Old El Paso, and the thing that really makes me sad and nostalgic is peanut butter. Being that there are no peanut farms in France, there is no such thing as French peanut butter. You can get jams, marmalade and Nutella inexpensively by the bucketful, but a 4oz jar of Skippy in the "international food" section will cost you 7 euros. For a country that claims to have the best and highest cuisine in the world, their ability to innovate and fuse gourmet items from other countries and cultures says a lot about their ability to adapt in general.

In my opinion, that is probably the biggest problem with the French. They pride themselves upon being very well educated, learning the art of gastronomy, developing sensitive palates for wine and cheese, believing that travel is an important way to discover the world, and yet at the end of the day will insult everything they have seen, tasted, smelled or experienced outside of France. It is truly preposterous. No wonder they are filled with such a sense of ennui. It's as though they are inveterately bred for nothing other than to keep an idea of loathing for outsiders, and to exclude any antipode to their opinions for fear it might rouse suspicion that their way is not the best!

"Do Not Go to the Garden of Flowers!"

Sorry I've been on hiatus lately. I could say "I've just been so busy" which in the past was always code for: I don't feel like talking to anyone. The truth is, I got into a really odd sleeping pattern coupled with wildly vivid dreams of piloting a helicopter, riding a pink bicycle up a fictitious 13th Ave in New York City (I hate pink) and being the principal of a school where I threw out Itzhak Perlman for racially discriminating against one of my students. Hmm......I guess I have been busy after all. In turn, that has made most of my writing a bit nonsensical and fragmented. I wouldn't have wanted to torture anyone with that. However, an email from my lovely Aunt Rebecca gave me that little extra push I needed.

I watched Almost Famous the other day. Although there are plenty of bandwagon sayings I can lay down that made the movie itself famous, the one I always related to most was when Cream Magazine Editor, Lester Bangs said, "I'm always home! I'm uncool!" For some reason, people seem to think I'm cool and the truth is, I've just learned to play the part. I am SO not cool. I am a nerd. I have always been the weird uncool girl, but not in a death-metal-kill-rodents and wear a vile of blood around my neck, kind of way. Just in that I'd rather study music, math, literature and science, so I guess that makes me a geek way. I do admit to getting very caught up in the "industry of cool" that has in fact taken over the world and left it with such superficial priorities where Aristotle himself would probably be one of those guys wandering the streets of Manhattan with a homemade cardboard sandwich sign spouting his philosophies in magic marker, and we'd either walk quickly past him (for fear he'd smell of dirty ass) or give him a name like "apocalypse Joe" or something. We've stopped listening and looking for the concrete truths because we'd rather play with our iphone (and all its very cool programs). I'm not leaping out against technology because if I wasn't able to type away all the crazy thoughts in my head, my fingers would bleed with ink stains and arthritis might set in sooner from gripping a pen with all my might. I had a point.....oh yes, I'm not cool. It's all a facade. Or, perhaps what really makes me "cool" is that I don't believe there's just one way of doing things. I believe in questioning rules and ways of life that try to bind, pigeonhole or define us simply because others need to throw us into a category of something they can comprehend. I tried that for far too long so that I might fit in and be accepted by my peers. Once I learned the formula for being superficially cool, I used it to my advantage and I will admit it is a good skill set to have.

When I first moved to New York I remember hearing two questions that I had never been so confronted with in my entire life: What are you? and, What do you do? My first answer was always....I'm a woman (or then, girl) from California, but that was never a good enough answer for the deep rooted cultures of New York Italians, Irish, Jews or Puerto Ricans. It was like a qualifier question so they could judge whether or not they were supposed to like me. I found it really annoying and so sometimes I would just make things up for fun to study their reactions. Once I had an entire Irish pub convinced I was from Argentina with a Spanish father, went to university in London (which was why my English was so good) had a ski chalet in Switzerland and a beach house in Cinque Terre. The story developed over a few hours and several scotches, as did my strong "Argentinian" accent. The second question was not so much of a mystery as to why they asked it, I just simply found it almost rude or condescending. Mostly because I hated having to answer: well I work as a make-up artist, but I also sing opera. I'm sure all artists feel this way to a degree, as though they have to explain to the people with "real jobs" why it is we do what we do. I once dated a computer programmer who was from a family of scientists and engineers, and his sister asked me, "Did your parents freak out when you told them you wanted to study music?" I laughed because both of my parents are musicians and the thought of them freaking out about any of my decisions just seemed absurd (mostly because after a certain point they gave up trying to tell me what to do). You can't really make someone who isn't wired the way you are comprehend how you really don't have a choice in the matter. I'm good at other things and could have been an accountant or surgeon with no problem, other than my creative side would have been nagging at me so much it might have turned me into some miserable shrew for denying it. After the initial answer, there always followed a myriad of questions which used to bore me to tears trying to explain to people who knew nothing about opera. I mean, don't get me wrong, I love to talk and me is a great subject, but I prefer conversation that requires the exploration of ideas rather than a series of 20 questions. My favorite was when someone would try not to offend me by saying they didn't like opera in a nice way. I would let them squirm in their excuse for a few minutes and then finally let them off the hook by saying, "Don't worry, it's not for everyone." Although, I do admit that my ornery side would come out if someone even mentioned Phantom of the Opera to me. My hair would stand on end, I would raise one eyebrow, half-smile and in my most soothing and charming voice put them back in their place with some mild condescension and humiliation. It was a sure-fire way to change the subject and keep them from the requesting that I "sing something!" See? I'm still not cool.

I remember being in high school and starting to hang out with some of the rebels in the drama department, mainly because there was a boy I had a crush on. He was best friends with this really cute girl who was what we'd call "slutty" and she smoked, drank and cursed all the time. Being an impressionable Southern Baptist girl who was never exposed to this vein of life, it left me very curious. My parents didn't drink, so there was never alcohol in the house, swearing was strictly forbidden (my mother used to threaten the 1950's method of washing our mouths out with soap if we ever did so) and of course there was never any talk of sexual behavior, activity or orientation. In fact, the time my mother forced herself to have the "reproductive talk" with me, was on our way to my 4th grade basketball championship (nice timing ma) and that was the last I heard of it from the adults in my life. I was the first born, so I never had an older sibling to test the waters and let me in on the do's and don'ts of deviancy. Needless to say I had no idea how to get this boy to like me because I had zero experience in his fields of interest. I thought I'd start with cursing. My parents would never know if I did it at school and I wouldn't have to worry about side effects or hiding mysterious odors or unwanted pregnancy. Since never cursing before (and too ashamed to admit I barely knew what any of those words meant) I just went for it full-bore. I started telling a story and throwing in the foul language wherever I could. For a moment it was going quite well as I mimicked their "fuckin' this and fuckin' that," then I said, "and we went to some shit-load little town" .......at first there was confusion, then came the laughter, which was of course followed by mockery. It was one of those adolescent moments where you want an ever so handy, time traveling, trap door to drop beneath your feet. At that moment my uncoolness was ever so apparent and I vowed to never let that happen again. For a while I just laid low, stayed quiet and agreed with anything people said. I turned it into a science experiment, watching their behaviors and interactions as if it were my own little petri dish. By my senior year I had it down to a science and had a whole new group of friends. I still wasn't cool, but I could fake it when necessary. However, the worst part was I felt like a total fraud and was constantly riddled with anxiety that they'd finally figure it out and expose me. For years afterward I would always describe myself as a "social chameleon" which is still very true in ways. I am able to be relaxed in any social setting and talk to everyone without a problem, but now I don't pretend to be anything other than myself. I can attest to the truth that that works out best. There is no longer a need for a little liquid courage, a bump of superpower, or a toke of relaxation to create a false sense of social bonding. It's more fun to just be me and keep everything else in the petri dish. It's gone through the phases of "please like me" to "fuck you if you don't like me" to "It doesn't matter if you like me I'm fine with who I am" to "oh, you like me? That's nice."

I am sure most of us have no idea what is written in our yearbooks from days of old, but there was always one entry that burned itself in my memory. It was from a guy I had known since we were little, we had the same group of friends in high school, were on the swim team together and I thought we were friends. He wrote some type of poem about flowers and how they compared to me and it seemed very sweet until at the very bottom it said, "No you're not! YOU are a WEED!" which was probably funny to him because it rhymed with my last name, but I remember being hurt and it bothered me the few years after whenever I thought of it. That came to mind a while ago and instead of having the insecure little girl's reaction I laughed and thought....he was so right! I began to think of my dad out in the landscape of the beautiful gardens he'd created at our house with his weed-whacker and how irritated he'd get that they would keep coming back, bigger and stronger than the rest of the flowers. They were harder to kill, never easily defeated, and weathered the bleakest of climate conditions.

I decided to see what wikipedia had to say about weeds and I found some relevancy that made me smile:

"Weedy plants generally share similar adaptations that give them advantages and allow them to proliferate in disturbed environments...weeds have adapted to grow and proliferate in human-disturbed areas....The weedy nature of these species often gives them an advantage over more desirable crop species because they often grow quickly...Some plants become dominant when introduced into new environments because they are freed from specialist consumers; in what is sometimes called the “natural enemies hypothesis,” plants freed from these specialist consumers may increase their competitive ability. In locations were predation and mutual competitive relationships no longer exist, some plants are able to increase allocation of resources into growth...."

LONG LIVE THE WEEDS!!

Strong Like Bull or Angry Toddler

It's funny how things can change on a dime, including you. I'm sitting on the RER (which is kind of like the light-rail within Paris and a couple of suburbs) and I've never bothered to take it before because you have to burrow like a mole to get to it and it's just annoying. However, after I lost track of my internal compass today by circling through St. Germain and around the Jardin du Luxembourg, it became the best option to get home. When I began my afternoon jaunt, I was hoping to cut through the beautiful landscape and sculpture that resides within the gates of the famous garden, but they were closing them as soon as I entertained the thought. I knew where the bus stop was that would eventually drop me right in front of my building, but since it was so beautiful out, I decided to walk for a while. And, that I did. In a BIG circle. It is synonymous with the way I've dealt with my own life's journey thus far: Circling around the main issue hoping to float along and be carried in the right direction, eventually finding my way, only to learn I'm exactly where I began. I face the same decision to take the clear path before me or wander about some more. I am a fan of Ferdinand the Bull's philosophy to stop and smell the flowers, but I've mastered that technique well beyond my wildest dreams at this point.

(I've included the Disney cartoon adaptation below if you've never met Ferdinand or would just like a trip down memory lane).

I moved to Paris for a number of reasons. The biggest being that I became so comfortable and complacent with life in New York that I forgot what I was doing there in the first place. Neverland really does make you forget when you're focused on nothing but the pleasures of daily life. I became a girl with circles of friends all over the New York Metropolitan area. I could get into the best clubs, with the hottest parties and VIP treatment on the other side of the red velvet rope without paying a cent. If I preferred a decadent meal with great wine, there were tons of restaurants where I was a regular patron and would be sent specialties complements of the owner, chef, sommelier or bartender. Live music and dancing were never a problem to stumble upon, or if it was an off night I might abuse some unsuspecting gentleman's pocketbook to amuse my fancies. I enjoyed every spoiled rotten moment I had in that city of sin and wouldn't take it back for anything. What was the most fortunate treasure to obtain above all else, were the friendships that have become the cornerstone of my existence there. Hardly any of them were involved in opera and on the one hand that really kept me sane. On the other, it was very easy for me to lose focus by trying to be the best friend I could to as many people as possible. It allowed me a strange safety net of spending my time, love and energy on all of them instead of myself. As much as they support and encourage me, none of them are going to stop their life to do the work involved in honing my craft. As I've struggled to deal with myself these past few months I am remembering that part of the relief to move somewhere I would have no solid network of support to coddle me through life's difficulties, was a huge part of this decision. I had to leave my friends behind. It was time to take all of this potential I'm made of and finally do something about it. People keep asking me if I've made friends, or gone out, or seen the sights and it's hard to make them understand that that isn't the reason I am here. I don't even have a cell phone, and I admit that I'm really starting to like it. Sure there are plenty of ways to distract myself and smell the flowers some more, but that doesn't sound as exciting as the rewards of hard work, determination and a strong sense of self.

I woke today with a different perspective. The problems before me that I've written about are not easy for anyone to face, but somewhere along the way I forgot that I knew how to fight. I am naturally stubborn, defiant, and aggressive to the point of madness when I can't have something I want. Ask my mother what it was like when I was told the word "no" as a little girl. The other party would be met with an infallible persistence that always ended in their surrender. I would regularly break rules if they weren't to my liking, and especially if they were illogical. One of my favorite memories as a child is from pre-school. I attended a school where my mother taught for a short time, but in a separate class. On her first day I was so excited that I would get to see my mom during school hours that I had a plan all worked out in my mind. When it came to the nap time portion of the day I would simply explain to my teachers that I hadn't taken naps since I turned two (I was now four) and that since all of the other children would be asleep, I should take this opportunity to visit with my mother in the room next door. It seemed a very rational request to me and there should be no reason they would choose to dispute such a coherent argument. However, I was in fact met with some opposition. First began a few moments of arguing, then I began to get upset (and pointed out the fact they had made me so) and proceeded to inform them that if they were to deny me a visit with my mother I would surely vomit all over the floor. Most people do not believe the idle threats of children, but I was no ordinary child. Projectile vomit had been a reactionary barometer for me since birth, and this occasion would be no different. After a few more moments of hysterics, I delivered on the promise and hurled my peanut butter and jelly all over their shoes. They would believe me now, wouldn't they. Needless to say, I was very quickly escorted to my mother.

Somewhere along the way I started to obey the rules and to believe people when they said, "no, you can't do it that way, it's just not done" or "the world doesn't work like that." I began to take their advice in so deeply as my own ideals that it became the food which fed the hungry beast of doubt living inside me. Where was that little girl who used to look "NO!" in the face, stick out her tongue and flip it the proverbial bird with her unparalleled relentlessness? The thing that made me such a difficult child is the thing my parents have said they admire most in me. Well, crap! How's that for switching on the light bulb?

This morning I recognized my opposition as a force that will always be there to trick me into believing that "NO" is my only option. That by entertaining the fear of never reaching my goals, I give power to my enemy instead of remembering to fight tooth and nail until I've torn that bastard to bits.

(photo by Jill Greenberg)

Let Daily Coffee Be Your Guide

Over the years I have uncovered a number of compulsive behaviors. I've tried to ask 'why,' find ways to make sense of them, and spent money on therapy to get to the bottom of things. I'm over that. I don't want to know WHY anymore, I just want to kick them all out the door like an unwelcome house guest. Since there is a tendency for depression when it's cold and grey outside, I have decided that the beloved artists' past time of alcohol should be omitted from the equation (along with all other drug use aside from coffee). Compulsive eating or purging are hard to do on a low budget, and I'm not disciplined enough for anorexia. I'm not computer savvy, so escaping into the world of chatrooms, online gaming or any other sort of avatar-like activity are also out of the question. If sleeping were an Olympic sport I would most certainly medal. Can one become a compulsive sleeper? I don't think that's really me either, as I do tend to stay awake through most of the night, which could cause the reason for the following day's drowsiness. What my latest obsession tends to be is the symbolic behavior related to my existential plight of not wanting to go outside until things are properly tended to on the inside. Essentially, I am acting out my spiritual crisis in the way I live my daily life. I don't want to go out into the world until my apartment is clean, I have exercised, practiced, studied and meditated. HOWEVER, I have been sitting idly by and not partaking in any of these activities, therefore creating a mild version of agoraphobia. Not enough to worry about panic attacks, but enough to keep me chained inside my surroundings until I deal with them. Maybe I'm depressed. Maybe I need more daily endorphins, or to just accomplish one activity a day that allows me to feel productive instead of thinking about the crippling feeling of doing nothing. I think there is more to it than a general tendency toward laziness, but as I mentioned before I don't care so much about the 'why' anymore. So, lately I've tried just doing one or two things on my grand list of necessary actions to motivate myself.

First, I decided that regular showering (no matter how irritatingly small my shower is) was a

good way to start. Water is cleansing and not smelling like a steel worker makes it worthwhile.

Second, came random fixes around the apartment.

It's surprising how gratifying it is to defrost

one's freezer - even if it is smaller than a Nike shoebox (literally, not

metaphorically).

Next, I really needed a haircut, but am trying to be disciplined with money and no longer have access to the generosity of my New York City hair stylist friends. So....yes....I opted for the "do it yourself" method. I had worked in salons and seen enough haircuts to where I thought I might be able to pull it off. Just to be smart - I looked up a couple of techniques on the internet.... They were all designed for the ability to move around the person's head and since I have yet to achieve the ability to split my own atoms and form two Kristens this didn't really help. Then I thought....there has to be someone who has wasted enough time to post this sort of thing on YouTube. I found several different videos, but licensed cosmetologist Carolyn Dickerson was my favorite.

I can't recommend it enough if you have the patience to watch the entire thing. Be on the lookout for the wildlife in the background, her clear diction, heavy breathing from the camera man and exquisite wardrobe choices. It is a difficult feat to endure all eight minutes, but if you can get through the first 1:05 seconds, try to stick it out until at least 2:05.

Toward the end she is sitting in her lovely denim skirt which begged the concern - I hope she is

wearing appropriate undergarments. The ending credits are sweet as she does thank her son Lars for keeping her young....I spent some time wondering what that meant.

After the tutorial, I decided it was time to jump in with both feet. I wet my hair, sectioned

it off, and went to work. I had remnants of a layered haircut which was way overgrown, so I wouldn't just be able to simply trim the ends and call it a day. I remembered a technique from a stylist I used to work with and used that as my model while trying to keep it simple. I got through the back, front, and right side before I started to lose steam. I have a lot of hair and this was taking forever! By the time I got to the left side, the sections I cut became a little larger and less precise.... Not the brightest idea I've ever had, but it was like 1:30 in the morning and I was over it. Admittedly the layers on the left are a bit shorter and less graduated due to my lack of patience, and it is slightly reminiscent of a beauty school drop-out's handy work. Nothing a curling iron and a little hair spray can't fix......I hope. It's only hair. It grows back. Especially on your chin if you're over thirty.

I wish this had solved my problem of taking care of my daily responsibilities but, alas it only allowed me to avoid them that much longer. So, onto the new fix. There is not enough sage I can burn, crystals I can empower, or books I can read that will give me a way around the only solution that lay before me. Just do it. (Nike's marketing efforts have truly stayed with me apparently......kudos Wieden & Kennedy). The thought of doing everything all at once becomes a bit overwhelming, so I am going to experiment by bringing in one new thing that I do routinely everyday for 5 days and then include an additional task alongside that for 5 more, and so on. Right now the only ritual I take part in without fail at the exact same time every day, is that of coffee in a French press. This has been going on for years, so I feel confident that now is the time to introduce it to some new friends. Like all new relationships, there may be difficulty in finding a proper rhythm once excitement of the honeymoon has worn off, but in the same vain it is in the establishment of a good foundation which will imbibe solidification for longevity. God, I hope I buy that.

KEEP OUT OF HEAD! Trespassers Will Be Shot.

I have been studying opera for more than 50% of the time I have been alive. Granny always said I could sing before I could talk (yes, just like the ABBA song) and I still have the "ABC" pillow she used to show for proof of my genius. I can't remember a time when singing was not a part of my life in some fashion. I grew up in a less than culturally dense town, and hadn't even attended my first opera until I was 18. Due to a relatively quirky and sheltered childhood, I really am a textbook "late bloomer" in a lot of ways and I have learned many things the hard - or more affectionately known as - dumb way. With that in consideration, it has taken me longer to find a sense of direction in this business. I have some friends in the opera world that continue to encourage, support and give me advice. They believe in the beauty of my instrument, the resilience of my persona and the tenacity I bring to the obstacles I face. There are others (some friends even) I've come across who feel the contrary and I admit that not having their approval really bothered me for quite some time. Perhaps, I was just allowing them to feed my own fear of failure until all of a sudden my goals became too large to digest. Due to a fairly sensitive skin, I had developed some serious complexes about my singing and faith in my own abilities. Mostly these were all lies told to me by a subconscious low self-esteem, which lately appears to be growing a pair and is trying to take over the helm of the ship. I suppose "knowing is half the battle," right G.I. Jane? The point being that there have been few things in my life where I have felt able to stand in full confidence.


Until recently I had never considered anything other than what I've been doing for the last however many years, but at my tender age I've started opening up to the possibilities. Writing is always something I have done to take the pressure off the head. I was telling a friend of mine how I went through a terrible wanna-be-Emily-Dickinson-poet phase in my journals as a young girl (aww, so cute...maybe I'll find one and post it). I used to write every term paper the night before with very little editing and a ton of joy. I write when I feel inspired by the moment, when something funny comes to mind and I want to remember it, or to cure the evils of uber-deep thinking. I almost always use my first draft even though I'm a total freak about spelling, grammar and punctuation which causes me to re-read everything until my eyes bleed (obviously run-on sentences don't keep me up at night and I love the use of parenthesis). I am more terrified of a poorly edited document than to the likability of its content. The faith I have in this ability completely juxtaposes how I feel about everything else in my life. Maybe because I've never really tried to make a career out of it (other than a couple of fluke columns in the New York Press) or maybe because it allows me to hide out in my pajamas with a cold cup of coffee that I'm too lazy to reheat on the stove (no microwave in Paris). What it really has given me lately is another form of expressing myself that seems to take the pressure off the singing. I had to do something before I set up camp inside The Bell Jar. The permission to fail at something I've worked toward for what seems a lifetime, is a totally fun feeling. I once had a judge say to me, "you will be free when you stop caring about it so much." Damn, I hate it when old people are right.

And now, to show you why I gave up poetry at 16 (Julia, this is for you):


A poem.


By Emily Dickinson-wan. A. B. and her lover,
E. E. Cummins'



Shh!
To hear softness of Breath
In rhythmic patterns.
Know the sound
Feeling; flow through my Body.
Life brings all cause
For trouble in humanity.
Take part in generosity
Abandon greed.
Let me drink truth and knowledge.
More is never enough!*



*insert laughter

Self-reliance

The past few days have been, what I am told is, unseasonably sunny. I would like to try and take some credit to say it's because the sun follows me wherever I go. I haven't accepted the fact that I live somewhere that is grey for most of the winter, so I chose to believe otherwise and have yet to be disappointed. Truth be told I have not been outside enjoying it as one should when the sun is shining. I was feeling pretty down and not sure what to do about it. In the spirit of being honest with myself, I am trying to be more open with how I'm feeling as opposed to holding it together in front of everyone. Now, granted there are times and places for such discussions and I have asked for a bit of encouragement from some friends as of late (which is that prideful thing of asking for help...I've never been good at that). They have done their best to deliver what I asked for in the spirit of friendship and I am so grateful.

I still wasn't feeling quite right and there was someone I love and respect so much, whom I don't speak to often, but had been thinking of calling all week. I knew he would throw some heavy perspective my way, but perhaps I hadn't been ready to hear it until now. I waited until a decent hour, and when he answered it appeared I had woken him, but this was not the case. It's funny how circumstance can change your thought process in a split second. As it turns out he had had an emergency appendectomy on Monday that led to a poor urinary catheterization procedure and a tension pneumothorax (collapsed lung) (which one could speculate was due to carelessness or lack of medical experience) and these kept him in the hospital longer than should be necessary for a basic appendectomy.

This story did have some funny moments as he described waking up early from the anesthesia to find they had inserted a catheter. He could see blood in the area and asked why they thought a catheter was necessary for such a short procedure; to which they replied that they didn't want him to urinate during surgery.....so he concluded to them that they'd rather have blood than urine on their expensive hospital linens. I started to laugh and he begged me not to, as it would cause him to laugh and therefore a lot of pain. All I could say was, "dead kittens, dead kittens!" and that only made it worse.

Now, this particular friend has survived a spinal cord injury where he was never supposed to walk again; he has been the caretaker of a mother who has gone through two rounds of cervical cancer, complete with chemotherapy and radiation treatments and he has never once accepted or asked for my help. However, when I called him today, I heard the weakness in his voice that said how this was the one time he could have used the help I had always offered. Instead he took a cab by himself in total pain to the nearest (and least competent) emergency room and somehow got himself home a few days later. My heart immediately broke and I realized how self-indulgent I was being by stewing in my feelings of lonliness and insecurity. He gave me the perspective he always does, just without the use of words.

The one thing that never ceases to amaze me about the experiences he's had, is that he chooses to be wise and find the lesson of strength instead of self-pity. It is truly humbling. Each difficult situation only makes one stronger and more self-reliant. This time he was merely thankful that this hadn't happened two weeks before while working during a cave dive in Mexico. The final lesson for me came when he thanked me for the call because it let him know that he really wasn't alone. Funny how I originally called to selfishly seek out that exact sentiment. Irony, like karma, can be a bitch.