I baked tonight, as anyone who has interacted with me at all via social media can tell you. And the thing about me is, when I decide to do something, it's rarely half-assed. In this case, a decision to bake in celebration of the completion of Boheme's iTunes recording and imminent opening (Saturday night! Saint John Cantius! Get yer tickets!) turned into nearly four dozen cookies and fifteen blueberry muffins. Another (little-known?) BS fact: I don't often eat much of my own baking. With the exception of loaves of bread, I generally make things for the sense of accomplishment it gives me, have two or three, and give the rest away. This was especially true during the rehearsal period of Hansel and Gretel last fall, when I lived alone and suffered from a significant amount of character bleed that led to much baking experimentation.
It's been a long time since I've shown my face here. Depression (in retrospect, probably circumstantial and due in large part to my state of unemployment) is to blame, of course, but I'm not going to go into that in any depth, as the brilliant Allie Brosh of Hyperbole and a Half recently dealt with the same thing and addressed it more brilliantly than I could ever hope to.
Very suddenly, though, I'm feeling all right. Last week I visited my parents--which is, let's face it, an excuse to see my grouchy sixteen-year-old cat rather than an expression of my desire to return to the small town where I attended high school--and it was nice to get out of the apartment for a while, however nice said apartment is (and it is--Stephanie just decorated for Christmas, so it's all very homey). I drank coffee and read a book and considered going to see a high school production of Phantom of the Opera before experiencing a return to sanity and subsequent decision to not see Phantom after all.
Oh, Phantom of the Opera. My relationship with that musical is fairly complex. Here's the thing--despite the fact that it is the bane of every single opera singer's existence ("What do you do?" "I sing opera." "Oh, like Phantom of the Opera?" "No. Not even."), I actually sort of enjoy it. The music is pretty and easy to listen to in the first half and, given half the chance, I would play Carlotta in a second because she's hilarious. The whole thing is written to be a complete spectacle, which is why I would have loved to see it in Las Vegas last spring had I not gotten so sick during my time there. But the writing is just cruel, especially to the Phantom and Christine--the approach to the Eb in the title song is about as difficult to sing as anything. Never mind the fact that I worry about a seventeen-year-old soprano singing a high E in the first place, even if it is within the reaches of her range. So I thought better of it. Also, my mom didn't feel like going, so we went to dinner instead.
To get to my hometown and back, I took Amtrak, and had the wildest of all possible times on both trips--at least as far as train travel is concerned. On the way there, I sat a few seats away from a toothless and possibly drunk man who had apparently fainted in Union Station while waiting to board the train, and who spent a good deal of the hours-long trip attempting to engage those of us around him in awkward conversation and having a very loud and vulgar conversation with someone who I believe to be his . . . girlfriend? wife? I know it isn't polite to eavesdrop, but, honestly, even with my iPod in I couldn't help but overhear him as he shouted down the phone about how, yes, he loved her more than his previous what-have-you, and that's why he was going to get a tattoo with her name, and he was going to get the tattoo of his ex-wife's name removed as soon as he had the money.
And then on the train ride back, I contracted what might have been food-poisoning and vomited in the train car's restroom. There are some places where no one wants to worship at the porcelain altar, and the Amtrak train's restroom definitely makes the top three. The girl sitting next to me on the train was extremely nice about the fact that I repeatedly had to get up and go to the restroom, and after we finally arrived in Chicago, a very nice man saw that I was exhausted to the point that I was completely unable to lift my suitcase and did it for me, asking me if I was feeling all right, but none of this makes up for the fact that a pair of nice-looking Amish (or possibly Mennonite, given where I was coming from) gentlemen undoubtably heard me performing reverse peristalsis and probably assumed I was some drunken young English suffering the earthly consequences of the previous evening's sinful behaviors.
And I would most definitely be asleep by now, but while baking I forgot that I was also doing laundry, so the dry cycle began much, much later than I had intended and now I'm waiting until I hear it finish so the sneaky Polish dental students upstairs don't steal my socks or, whatever, I know they actually would never do that, but I like to know where my panties are. There's so much more to tell, such as why I am actually paying attention to when I go to bed--which is that I am employed and it's a Guy Fawkes Day miracle. I won't say just now what it is I'm doing, but needless to say, it involves phoning both Russia and Italy on a semi-regular basis and, no, I'm not in the Mob.
I think I'll just let (those of) you (who don't know me in Real Life) wonder about that for now.
