All posts tagged: Arts

Come Hell and High Water AND High-Heeled Tap Shoes

I don’t know what to do with myself now that I’m not emailing my co-producer 63 times a day (I swear, if you took a look at my inbox, you’d think we were having an affair instead of simply directing a show together). Thirty six hours later, I am finally on the road to recovery (and yes, I do mean recovery.  I had such awful blisters by the end of the band rehearsal that I was literally slicing patches of skin off of my feet with a pair of scissors).  I slept through the night for the first time in approximately two weeks last night and I’ve got to say, it was absolutely heavenly.  Getting up at 4:30 to check my email and then running choreography in my head until 7:00 was starting to lose its appeal… So, how did it go? Well, of course I’m super critical so I could harp on the fact that I totally flubbed the end of our final duet in the first show but seeing as I was wearing …

Why Angry People Should Stick to Home Exercise

“You f*cking b*tch!” The blond chick with the chunky red highlights ignores me, so I add a curt “I hate you!” under my breath. Of course, she doesn’t respond to this either.  Why?  Well, she can’t hear me.  She’s on TV, and even though I’ve already done the “last eight” of my bun-toning squats, she tells me to do eight more. In keeping with my love of all things insane, I’ve decided to start a new exercise regimen in the hopes that I’ll see some “quick results” in time for my show on September 8th, and Blondie here has promised super-fast results with her 10-minute targeted toning workout (courtesy of Netflix). I initially thought I’d get to tone everything in ten minutes but no: its ten minutes for your arms, ten minutes for your abs, ten minutes for your buns, followed by a ten minute “dynamic power stretch.” (This far, I’ve been fast-forwarding through the ten-minute thigh workout.) Blondie, unfortunately, is a big fat liar.  Actually, she’s not fat at all—she has a rather amazing …

Who Knew a Hula Hoop Could Get You Fired?

Well folks, I still haven’t heard from Date #7 (and seeing as we’re supposed to be meeting for the first time on Friday afternoon and spending the entire weekend together, this is kind of a big deal).  Under ordinary circumstances, I’d be tempted to smash my cell phone against the wall and swear off men all together but I’ve got bigger fish to fry. It all began around noon yesterday.  I was at The School (where I teach creative movement five mornings a week) carrying props from the dance studio down to the auditorium to get ready for our end-of-the-year concert when my boss calls me over to her desk. Now I should pause briefly to explain that there are in fact two schools under my boss’s jurisdiction.  She rarely visits our branch, as it’s the smaller of the two, but every once in a while she’ll stop by to make sure we haven’t descended into total anarchy. I should also explain that the creative movement teacher at the other branch has been there since …

Gettin’ Crafty

Amazing what a morning off and a mocha chai latte can do for one’s mental state.  I am feeling better.  Zen even, despite the fact that I have my first official photo shoot this morning, a dress rehearsal for two of my classes this evening and just a few days left to come up with a catchy yet appropriately artsy 50-word description for the show I’m co-producing  for the Fringe this fall. You’d think 50 words would be way easier than the 500 or so I pen every day for this blog but here’s where you (and I) are wrong.  It’s not.  Writing 50 words is way HARDER than writing 500 and as most of you know, brevity is not exactly my strongest suit. Nonetheless, I’m confident that it will come together—it has to, and so it will. Furthermore, as I just emailed my co-producer: I’m here :) Left 2 hours early b/c I had to come up this way for my kids’ competition last weekend and the traffic was horrible but this morning was …

Tchaikovsky Bites Again

After listing my reasons for purchasing an economy sized-nutcracker for my preschoolers earlier this week you’d think that I’d be particularly careful with the linchpin of my Tchaikovsky lesson plans.  You’d also think that think that after dating seventeen different men I’d have someone other than my mother offering to take me to The Nutcracker this year, but nutcrackers have a curious way of hurling themselves onto the floor when you’re not looking, and men… don’t even get me started on men. Everything was going according to plan (by which I mean my $5.00 Rite-Aid nutcracker was still intact) until my second class of the day.  I unfurled my bedazzled American Girl doll in all her Clara/Marie glory and passed her around to the great delight of my students (“Her eyes open!”  “Her eyes close!”  “Can we call her Sally?”), but when I retrieved the nutcracker from his hiding place, he promptly ejected himself from my grasp and bounced across the floor. Wood, unfortunately, does not bounce.  He lost an arm in the process but …

Tis the (Nutcracker) Season

I’ve spent the past half hour brushing, braiding, bobby pinning and—last but not least—bedazzling the rather matted mane of my American Girl doll.  Why?  Because tomorrow I’ll be introducing my preschool students to the work of Tchaikovsky and nothing says “Nutcracker” like a bedazzled American Girl doll. In truth, my handiwork is really just a vehicle for the miniscule wooden nutcracker I purchased at Rite Aid earlier today: Mademoiselle Accidental Dreadlocks has been transformed from “Molly” (Pleasant Company’s tap dancing heroine) to “Clara” (or “Marie,” depending on which version you read), adolescent star of The Nutcracker.  Unfortunately, her Nutcracker Prince is vertically challenged (the full scale version would have cost me twenty bucks so I opted for a quarter-sized model) but the odds of a wooden nutcracker surviving an hour and a half amongst thirty preschool students are rather slim— I’m already budgeting for mid-season replacements. Why am I introducing my preschool students to Tchaikovsky?  It’s rather complicated.  At the end of September, I was offered a position as a teaching artist in a school …

(Dis)illusions of Grandeur

Author’s proofs suck.  It’s not enough that you’ve already spent months researching and writing your piece, and that you’ve responded to all of the editor’s queries or that you’ve wasted an entire week trying to track down the reference for a book you read nearly three years ago.  No.  Now that the editor has slashed apart and reassembled your piece, systematically ruining all of its good sentences, she wants you to proof read it. Hence author’s proofs. Sensible editors will generally just send a word document when a few last minute queries marked in bold, to which sensible writers such as Yours Truly can just respond using Microsoft’s handy little “Track Changes” feature.  Tech savvy editors, however, will send a PDF of the article along with an attachment entitled “All the Ways in Which You’ve Screwed Up.”  They will then send you the link to a secret, author’s only website and while the uninitiated might burst into a spastic celebratory dance at the sight of the words “author’s only,” I would strongly advise against this.  …

The Conversation

After the art gallery, the bowling alley, the sports bar and a few days in between to recover from my marathon five-hour date with the Man from Marshalls, I finally found the courage to mention my blog.  The ensuing conversation included the “f” word.  Shall I explain? We decided to meet for a coffee.  On account of his having come straight for work, he arrived to pick me up sans baseball cap but no sooner had I complimented him on his young professional look than he pointed out the ubiquitous baseball cap resting just a few inches away on his dashboard.  Oh well. “Are you hungry?” he asked. “Not really,” I confessed.  “You?” “Yeah, I could eat.” We spent the next five minutes driving around the block and debating the merits of Vietnamese vs. Thai cuisine, at which point he said, “My feet are kind of wet and I’d like to change out of my work clothes.” This did little to resolve the Vietnamese vs. Thai debate, nor did it bolster my confidence in terms …