Pierre et Suzanne

Two more ballet classes down! 

I had the Pierre Experience again last Tuesday, where he showed signs of a sense of humor (“It’s okay if you’re on the wrong leg.  You only have two legs – you’ll figure it out eventually!”) and even admitted that he wasn’t teaching a beginning-level class.  He explained, in his delightful Stueyesque voice, that he just wants us to keep moving, and we should keep up as best we can.  That’s all fine and dandy, but when you have about five people shuffling cluelessly across the floor everytime we danced a new combination, I’d say that’s a sign something’s not quite right.  But even though I was stuck at the front of the barre again, I did much better, and Pierre even smiled at me – twice!  Maybe it was my newfound sense of I-Will-Not-Let-You-Win-This-Standoff-You’re-Completely-Unaware-Of,-Pierre! or maybe I just got my ballet legs working again. 

I’m starting to find Pierre fascinating.  At one moment, he’ll be laughing at himself for momentarily forgetting the combination, and then the next moment he’s shouting, “WILL NO ONE HELP ME MOVE THIS BARRE?” I think I might love him.  Once, after my group had finished our pirouette (turn) combination, Pierre looked in my general direction and said, “It’s very disappointing to see you do a single pirouette.  Especially someone of your training – what a waste.  Please, you must always try double pirouettes.”  This is the problem with not wearing glasses in dance class – I have no idea if he was talking to me or not.  I have definitely had some training, and I suppose it shows, but then I looked to my right, and saw another girl who also definitely had some training.  I didn’t even know if I should nod or not, so I just gave Pierre a vaguely affirmative expression.  The next time around, I did double pirouettes, and I heard a loud, “YES!  Very good!”  But of course, the other girl was dancing right next to me.  Either way, I’m never doing a single pirouette in Pierre’s class again, and I suppose motivation, even when caused by extreme near-sightedness, is always a good thing.

Then Saturday I went to ballet yet again (coupled with Moo’s frequent demand that we “eggersize,” a.k.a. I do sit-ups while she dances to Beyonce, I’m getting in great shape!), and discovered Pierre’s antithesis – the easy-going, normal-sized Susanne.  Suzanne greeted almost everyone in the class by name, asked about their kids, and cranked down the thermostat (always a big plus in a dance teacher – some teachers seem to consider dance class an opportunity for torture-by-sweating).  I didn’t even realize she was the teacher until she signaled the pianist to begin playing.  Suzanne reviewed every combination multiple times and kept the pace easy-peasy.  I must admit, it was a sweet, sweet feeling to be the best one (along with a few others) in the class.

Between Pierre and Suzanne, I think I should be able to develop a fairly healthy ballet ego, and maybe even a flatter stomach.

Glissade, Jete, Glissade, Jete

I went to ballet last night for the first time in over a year, and I came home wincing and angry.  I’ve attended Ballet Arizona’s adult classes off and on since moving back to Phoenix, and my most beloved teacher, Joe, got fired for some unknown reason when I was pregnant.  (Too funny?  Too freckled?) After I got too big to bourrée, I took a break from ballet until last year, when I started attending regularly for awhile.  But they just haven’t been able to find that Joe magic again.

The last class I attended was taught by a member of the Ballet Arizona company who clearly thought it was far, far below him to teach a bunch of hopeless adults.  He lazed around the studio, trying to keep from rolling his eyes at us and every so often showing off his incredible extension, remarking, “You know, like that.”  That last day, I was unable to make it through class because my inner thighs were completely destroyed from doing the Mommy Crab Walk while helping Moo learn to walk.  When I gave up just a few combinations into the barre, Monsieur Snob saw me limping out and drawled, “Remember to stretch…”  I couldn’t figure out if it was an admonition or a helpful suggestion for rehabilitation.  Either way, I couldn’t stand the guy and stayed clear of ballet, nursing my sore muscles, which improved as Moo got her sea legs working.  With my two shows, I got some great exercise, but as soon as The World Goes Round ended, I fell victim to that familiar self-delusion: I’m in great shape!  I can eat anything I want!  Weee, I’m going to bake banana bread and blackberry turnovers every week!  Then, suddenly:  big ol’ tummy, flappy arms.

So I returned to ballet last night, hoping for a new teacher, and happily I discovered a long-limbed, elegant, grey-haired fellow, let’s call him Pierre.  Unfortunately, I arrived a few minutes late, so I didn’t have to warm up, and I got stuck at the front of the barre, which meant there was nobody in front of me to follow.

Normally that wouldn’t be such a problem, except that it turns out I was way out of shape, and way out of practice.  Also, Pierre seemed to be teaching the class to the two advanced students poaching the beginning/intermediate class.  Ballet has never been my strongest suit in dance, and I have never been able to remember all those damn épaulement positions – effacè, croisè, ecartè – even though I’ve been tested on them many times.  Pierre had us do complicated combinations at the barre, constantly changing directions and adding in lots of  port de bras and blah de blah.  I struggled to keep up, and at the end of one combination, in which I was supposed to have released the barre and balanced in arabesque but sort of forgot what the heck I was doing, and OH GOD my aching muscles, Pierre came up to me.

“I need to see you release so I can tell where you stand technically,” he said.

“Oh – okay, sorry!” I said.

And then I thought: “????”  What the heck is going on?  Why does this feel like an audition, and why am I so concerned with impressing Pierre, when I am here for me, because I love dancing, and I need to exercise?

I wrestled with that question for the rest of the class.  I pushed my body far beyond it’s out of shape limits, at the same time reprimanding myself, “Just do what’s right for your body! You’re here to have fun!”

But there was no fun in that room, no joy of dancing.  Just Pierre quizzing us, “Where does the line of the arabesque end?”  Apparently, it ends with an alien eating out your intestines, since that is the gesture Pierre provided as an answer.

When class finally ended, I stalked out, convinced I’d have to resort to Jazzercise.  But today, my muscles are delightfully sore, especially my booty – and you know you’ve had a good workout when both booty cheeks ache.  So I guess I’ll give it another try, do my best to remember why I’m there, and perhaps just review those épaulment positions.  (And yes, I did have to look up how to spell all those ballet terms.)

More Auditions?!

So, my new show (“The World Goes ‘Round”) has hit a snag already, and rehearsals haven’t even started.  When I spoke to the music director on the phone last week, she let it slip that one of the actors who had been cast hadn’t returned any of their phone calls.

I immediately suspected Sweeney, Sweeney Todd – the demon barber of Fleet Street.  Theater Works had auditions for Sweeney Todd at the same time as Desert Foothills (and apparently they did not think so highly of me, but ah well, I’d rather sing “All That Jazz” anyway).  I felt sure that this fella was holding out to see if he got cast in “Sweeney.”  Then I found out we lost another one!  Suddenly, Desert Foothills announced a second round of auditions to replace both a male tenor AND a female soprano.  First of all, why didn’t you cast my brilliant friend who tried out in the first place?  Second of all, I don’t know exacly which female dropped out yet, but if by any chance you, reader, have been cast in “Sweeney Todd,” and there is a “Shnoby Flatso,” or  “Shnary-Shnancis Flowman,” or “Flannon Shnawlace” in the cast, please convey that I am greatly displeased.

And worried.  Especially about replacing “Shnoby,” who had a voice from the heavens.  In my short time being involved in local theatre, I have already learned that the male talent pool here in the Valley is, well, barely deep enough to get your ankles wet.  I should specificy that I’m talking about singing actors -  there are lots of great actors in town, but, it would seem, not so many that can carry a tune, and even less that can sing in the upper range (a.k.a. tenors).  Put another way, dudes who can hit the high notes and make it sound pretty are in terribly short supply.

For about a week there, I felt so confident that our show was going to be fabulous – with such great songs, a strong cast, and the freaking Sound of Music Lady, how could it not?  But now it’s just a big question mark.  I much prefer exclamation marks over question marks.  I mean, I much prefer exclamation marks over question marks!!

Resist! (I cannot…)

Last night as I roamed our kitchen looking for something to sweet to eat, I came up empty-handed, and felt greatly relieved, what with the whole tiny-shorts-and-a-halter-top issue.

And now tonight, this is sitting on our kitchen counter:

 

Let’s take a tally: 8 GIANT Costco cupcakes, one-half of a chocolate sheet cake, another slice of chocolate cake for good measure, and a piece of pecan pie.  How did this happen? 

Partly because we attended a birthday party today, and the parents threatened to throw away the leftover cupcakes if nobody took them home.  You cannot make this kind of threat in front of Herbie – he’s the Don’t-Waste-Food and Remember-to-Recycle Czar in our family – so he rescued the cupcakes and plans to take them to work on Monday (on his motorcycle??), but I doubt there will still be eight cupcakes by that time.

And to be honest, there’s already a little less chocolate cake.

Tinyshortsandhaltertoptinyshortsandhaltertoptinyshortsandhaltertop!

The Six Most Inspirational Words in the World

“Tiny shorts and a halter top.”

As in, “I think you’re going to be singing “All That Jazz” (dream come true!), you know, probably wearing some tiny shorts and a halter top (um, NOT a dream come true!).”

Goodbye ice cream, hello sit-ups.

Say Cheese!

It’s official!  I’m a wannabe actress.  The Great and Powerful Rosalind kindly took pictures of me today, so now I’ll have a headshot to hand over at auditions.

I haven’t had my hair done in three months and my eyebrows are dancing to their own beat, but I think our final choice turned out great, in no small part due to Rosalind’s handy-dandy Magic Photoshop Pen, which swooshes away dark circles and sun spots with a mere flick of the wrist! 

Here are a few pictures that didn’t make the cut:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Please, sir!  Please cast me in your stage extravaganza.  I’m just a poor, lonesome stay-at-home-mom who likes to wear tights and warble show tunes…give a lass a chance?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 ”Hiya!  I’m a fun-loving gal who will make sure everybody in the show has a GREAT time, if you know what I mean!  Do you know what I mean??  Lookit my boobies, weee!”

And finally, Mama Rose’s Official Headshot:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thanks Rosalind!  I wish that Magic Photoshop Pen came in purse size…

Second Round!

Oh, by the way, I have an audition next week.

I thought I’d take the month of December off, but although the idea of baking cookies every week, flipping through catalogs, and watching and re-watching “Elf” sounds divine, I started to feel a little guilty at the idea.  I mean, I’m on a friggin’ QUEST, right?  Er, right.  So I’m auditioning for a Neil Simon play (no singing? no dancing? eep!), “Last of the Red Hot Lovers,” for Desert Foothills Theatre.

What does this mean?

1.  I don’t have a headshot yet, so I have to bring a snapshot of myself instead.  “Hey, do we have any pictures of my head lying around?”  I asked Herbie.  “Uhh, probably not.  Do you want me to take a picture of your head?” he asked.  So sweet.

2.  I need a resume.  I have no idea how to write a resume with one item (Kiss Me Kate) on it.  Maybe I could use really big font.  I just googled “theatre resume no experience” and found some advice from good ol’ Yahoo Answers:  “Put on ur resume your acting classes if u dont even have that then u better take some classes and get some experience cause lots of places dont want to deal with u unless u have experience.  P.S. I am a casting agent in Nevada.”  Lemme guess, in Reno?  Very helpful.

3.  I have to prepare myself for another potential nervous breakdown at the audition.  No singing at this audition, though (whew), just “cold reads,” which means reading from the script.  Not a whole lot of preparation I can do for that, beyond reading the script.

4.  I can ask more experienced theatre professionals about dealing with auditions.  Let’s ask Kate, the star of our show!  Kate, what’s the key to getting the part?  Kate:  “Here’s what you do – after your song, you pump your chest… just push out your boobs for a moment.  Always works.”  Well!  I won’t be singing a song, but I just may try that trick anyway!

Next Step?

Well, I don’t have any auditions on the immediate horizon, so I guess I need to think about other ways I can prepare myself.  Here’s what I’ve got so far:

1.  Beg Rosalind to take pictures of me so I’ll have a headshot that isn’t 12 years old.  Bribe her with baked goods and a “Pride and Prejudice” (Colin Firth version) viewing.  You want to see the old headshot, don’t you?  Oh, fine:

 2.  Write a lame-ass resume filled with theatre experiences from 10+ years ago, because apparently being honest didn’t work.

3.  Get my eyebrows waxed. (See #1)

4.  Continue on Secondary Quest – clean my office by the end of the month.  Here’s an update on my progress:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yeah, no progress. 

5.  Continue on Tertiary Quest (yes, I looked that up) - try to find perfect hairstyle.  I think every woman has this quest, and I’m beginning to think it might be a lost cause.  But I’ll make an appointment with Rosalind’s hair guru nonetheless.   What I really want is a perm, cuz I just FEEL curly, but when I mention this to stylists they back away in horror.  If I was Victoria Beckham, and I showed up tomorrow with a poodle perm, by the end of the week everyone would have perms! But when I mention it, they just give me the crazy-lady look and politely suggest a bob. 

6.  Exercise. I saw a friend at a restaurant today and waved hello, and that’s when I felt it – bloob blub bloob - arm fat!!  I think it just showed up in the past week, probably due to all the cookies that go hand-in-hand with blogging.  My problem is I flat-out refuse to do any exercise that isn’t dance-related.  I most recently took classes at Ballet Arizona, but I was turned off by the I’m-too-good-for-this principal dancer they had teaching us.  Lately I’ve been thinking about jazzercise – I’ve heard it’s cool again in a retro-chic way, or Nia – which according to my friend is a mix of modern dance, yoga, and martial arts, and makes everybody look like flailing goofballs, but in a delightful way.  

7.  Acting/singing classes?  Yes, taking some classes would probably be a good idea.  I think my singing voice could really benefit, in particular – I had voice lessons in New York, but my teacher and I were not a good match (Her:  “Make your mouth a broom!”  Me:  “Whaaa?”).  And acting is really a lifelong learning process.  I learned so much in New York, but I wonder if a lot of those lessons have slipped away. 

I would only want to take acting classes from one person – Carol Macleod at Theatre Artists Studio.  She’s a legend, as far as I’m concerned, and I love her.  Of course, she’s also pricey – and worth every penny! – but we don’t even have a working oven.*  

As for singing, I am tempted to look into taking some voice classes through our church.  Actually, I think I’d be taking voice lessons taught by students of a woman who teaches voice lessons…?  Anyway, they’re free.  Free!  And it can’t be worse than broom-face, can it?

*I know Herbie is going to comment on this, so I will add: yes, yes I knowwwww we can go ahead and buy a new oven AND a new microwave, but for some reason this job has been handed over to me, and I think I’ve made it clear that I have issues with follow-through.

Some Pertinent Questions

1.  How am I supposed to practice at all with a sick, screaming baby on my hands who refuses to sleep except for 20-minute intervals and only then if she’s cuddled in my arms?

2.  Should I lie about my age?  I bet I could pass for 30…

3.  Seriously, what the hell should I wear?  And what does, “dress for movement” mean? Leotard n’ tights?  Anything but a skirt?  Maybe I’ll just wear my pajamas.

4.  On the application, under “Experience,” should I just write, “Not much?”  Cuz I really want to.

5.  Whose stupid idea was this anyway?

Crappity-Crap

Okay.

Okay.

Okay.

Shitsticks.

I think I might die.  Like just keel over.  At the very least, I definitely have a cold, which I know sounds psychosomatic but Moo has a cold so no, I’m not crazy. 

Moo and Herbie went to Costco (the traditional weekend outing for all American families) so I’ve been pacing around singing my chosen song (“Will He Like Me”) and this was my rational conclusion on how I think this audition will go:  &#$@*#$*&%!!%#*$!*!*#*%&#%*&$#@&@#%@&%!!!  

I would just prefer not to be completely humiliated, that’s all.  But it’s the very first audition, so of course it’s going to be rough, right?  Of course!  So I’ll just go, and sniffle, and suck it up and sing, and maybe people might snicker at me – I mean, who knows! Maybe I’m that bad and they’ll snicker and I’ll want to die – but, I won’t ACTUALLY die – I won’t burst into flames.  No.  I will not burst into flames. 

I’ll just keep repeating that.

And if I’m tempted to just drive around aimlessly and then come home and make up a story about how it went – well, Herbie is already onto me and says he will KNOW.  So apparently I’ve got to toss out that fiendish plan.

&%*#&@*&$*@!