"Excellent customer service is our goal!"

I try not to talk about work anywhere but work. By work, I mean my day job. Mostly I don't talk about it because I'll sound clinically depressed or deranged or homicidal. By day, however, I enjoy my co-workers and try to find the humor in the small things. In short, I laugh to keep from crying.

This was too funny to not share, however. It's an addendum to an e-mail that I received from a sales rep. If you knew this person, you would understand in an instant that this was written without a hint of irony or sarcasm.

"Please note, client is demented and may not be able to express her comfort level accurately."

Occasionally, for a split second in time, I like my job... and it's because of exchanges like this one.

Pleasant Surprises

...I was pleasantly surprised by quite a few things over the long weekend. In chronological order, they are as such:

1. Someone gave something back that didn't belong to them: The poltergeist in my house that has been stealing my stuff returned my favorite mascara on Friday when I got home from work. Granted, it returned it to the spare bathroom that I never use so it can't even depend on my assuming that I just misplaced it. I know you exist, you stuff-stealing poltergeist!

2. I saved a whopping $3.50 on beauty products: I had a EUREKA! moment on the way home. I never get manicures (much to my mother's chagrin) because they don't last that long since I abuse my hands on the piano at least 15 hours a week for rehearsal. I got one a few weeks back for a black tie I was attending. My nails then deteriorated into this awful state of half-crimson-enamaled for weeks because I couldn't find my nail polish remover. I tore my bathroom apart. I knew I had some last summer for the last time that I was on stage, but for the life of me couldn't find it when I actually needed it. I was being cheap and stubborn and refused to buy knew stuff when I knew I had nail polish remover sitting someplace, mocking me, ready to be used that once time a year when I actually needed it. And then, as I was driving home, the heavens opened and revealed to me that the nail polish remover had been sitting in a box (a BOX! not a bottle... no wonder I couldn't find them) in my bathroom drawer that I open every morning... going unidentified because I bought those nail polish remover wipes that you can use once for all ten fingers and then throw away. Elated, I removed my nail polish as soon as I got home... spared from looking like a spaz for the rest of the weekend.

3. Some things never change. As I posted earlier, I went out with some old college friends to see a mutual friend's band. It was seriously quite an amazing reunion. Old friends and new, expected and unexpected. Everyone was so happy to see each other. And even though the tickets were $14, the drafts were only $3.50 and there was a Smirnoff brand rep walking around giving away free shooters for the hour and a half that we were there. But all in all, seeing old friends lifted my spirits and the night was (mostly) just as it should've been.



4. Just like Monopoly: Because I was running late getting into the city (between applying my new found mascara and removing my spaz-tastic nail polish), I wound up driving into Federal Hill, contrary to my plans. Refusing to drive around, wasting gas, for an hour looking for parking (not like I had the time to do that), I decided to bite the bullet and park in the garage. When it came time to leave, I put my ticket into the payment kiosk, and the parking was free! All of that yacking and moaning and the City of Baltimore let me park in a bustling metropolitan area for free for a few hours.

5. Old traditions with new friends: I still remember all the words to Moulin Rouge.... and I found a friend who will sing along with me.

6. Some things will always make me melt: I still haven't found a flavor at Pitango that I don't like. You should go and try to find one that doesn't make your mouth water, too.


7. Luckily some families are even more dysfunctional than mine: We onDemanded The Savages on Sunday... both having wanted to see it since it came out in the theatres. First of all, I think whomever does the opening credits for all Fox Searchlight films just goes out of their way to be obtuse. Laura Linney (as always), however, made my heart sing... especially when she called herself a "theater person" when the Nigerian man asked her what she did for a living.

Here's to all of the other "theater people" out there... who have no other words to define themselves.

Friday Night Exploits

One of my dear friends from college (whom I don't see nearly enough) has an awesome band. They're playing tonight at The 8 X 10 in Federal Hill. If you have nothing to do tonight, are in Baltimore, and for some reason are reading my cute little attempt at a blog, you should definitely come out and see them.



Fed Hill definitely used to be one my dream neighborhoods. I used to go with a little more frequency immediately after I became legal to hit up places like dog-friendly flavored beer brew pub Thirsty Dog and chic martini pad Sky Lounge. As I get older and less tolerant of life's minor annoyances, however, the parking (or lack thereof) has really hindered my ability to even attempt to enjoy Federal Hill. It's sometimes hard for me to believe I actually used to daydream about living there. It also doesn't help that people are, apparently, getting the shank for being good citizens in the neighborhood.

So for tonight, to see some college friends and hear some good music, I'll probably park at my beloved's house and take a $7 cab ride to Federal Hill to avoid the grief.

The butt of all jokes = me

Despite my gruff exterior (especially when behind the piano screaming, pulling my hair out, and tearing my garments in despair when people refuse to sing what I JUST. TAUGHT. THEM.), I have an uncanny knack for making people overly comfortable around me. This results in what me and my friends at the production company call "too comfortable." All of those people who think that they're going to get a phone call begging them to be in one of our shows instead of being expected to show up at auditions just like everyone else. All of those people who call themselves close, personal friends when I haven't seen/spoken with them in years. And lastly, and worst of all... all of those people who barely know me from Adam asking me when I'm getting married.

I think this last one is the mortal sin of all social faux pas. It's uncomfortable. It's annoying. It's rude. And most of all, it's none of your business and you're probably not invited to the wedding anyway. Being happily un-single to the same person for the past three years, however, all of humanity thinks it's cute... funny... remotely appropriate to ask me this last question whenever the notion strikes them. Like I'm knocking on death's door. That combined with the fact that about 75% of my remaining close single friends are getting married this summer has put me a little on edge to say the very least.

So that brings me to an amusing exchange I just had with one of my co-workers, whose wife is about to explode with the birth of their first child any day now.

Me: You're going to be a daddy-pants any day now. Wow. You're old.
Him: Yeah, I know.
Me: No, seriously... do you plan on living to be 100?
Him: No, not remotely.
Me: Then a quarter of your life has already come and gone. Isn't that crazy to you?
Him: No, not really. Probably a quarter of yours, too.

So then I remind him that my family (well at least my mother's side) lives until it's ridiculous. My great-great-grandmother lived to be 117. My great-grandmother, who lived with us until I was almost 18, lived to be 104. People in my family just refuse to die. So once I jogged his memory of this fact, I declared the following:

Me: I want to live to be like 105... old enough to have a few chances at being one of those Smuckers people!

and after a brief pause...

Because it's not like I'm going to be on Smuckers for being married for 75 years or something crazy like that.

Him: YES! I can so see it now. ::in a Willard Scott-like voice:: "Downbeat Diva, at 105 years old, hails from Baltimore, Maryland. She loves the theatre and writing songs. She used to teach the theatre to children. And after all of these long years, she just six months ago tied the knot to her college sweetheart!"

We had a good laugh. He decided that he now wanted to live a long life. Just to see me be a Smuckers poster child for the Today Show (because, you know, they'll still do that in 2089). And then the fluorescent bulb in his office flickered a little brighter. I think even God was laughing at us... at me... just like everyone always does.

Good morning, Baltimore!

Ben Pillow over on b, the site just wrote this cool piece on selling Baltimore as an awesome city through the Broadway stage. The Baltimore Area Convention and Visitors Association (better known as BACVA) will apparently be running an ad campaign in the Broadway Playbills for both Hairspray and Cry Baby stating "You've seen the musical, now visit the set." Things like this warm my heart, and cancel out that time that Oprah told the entire world that she'd never invest in Baltimore City schools because they were beyond hope. What a bright ray on an otherwise gloomy morning.

Source: Boosters for Baltimore [b, the site]

I thought gentrification was when you brought yuppies into a bad neighborhood

Apparently North Avenue market used to be hot stuff. I wasn't alive, but I get the impression that it was like a Lexington or Cross Street Market for midtown Baltimore back in the day. Now, if you know the whole North Avenue corner of the universe, it's the reason that I can't walk any farther north on Charles Street than Tapas Teatro without a taser. Well apparently these developers are now attempting to restore the North Avenue market and transform it into a multi-purpose arts-focused area for shops and restaurants. Their intent is to use this space as a continuation of the Station North arts district.

I, personally, hear the word gentrification thrown all over the place... usually in the context of revitalizing some neighborhood that Hopkins has bought and is slowly developing luxury housing for the young, rich, kind of suburban set to move into the city be chic. Don't get me wrong... I think it's wonderful when new development in the city has an arts focus. It helps to validate my existence as a musician in Baltimore. My cynical mind finds it hard to fathom the transformative powers of an arts venue in the depressed corridor that is North Avenue, however. I really, really hope I'm wrong, though, because if it works, it will be awesome.

Source: Bringing back city landmark [Baltimore Sun]
Further reading: Baltimore's North Avenue Market Past and Present, Maryland Daily Record (login required), Developing Midtown - bthesite.com

"Do you find it hard to type on your iPhone when you're %&$#ed up?!"

I'm obsessed with the blog culture. I read blogs all day at work... and evenings on my phone. I am addicted to the intelligent writing and spot-on witticisms that come from some of my favorite online authors. That being said, I'm a horrible blogger. It's one of my dream grown-up work-from-home jobs, and I'm mock-terrified that my dream will never come to fruition because I'm just so freakin' bad at consistently updating a blog. I'm even more mock-petrified at having nothing to say that is of any interest to anyone other than myself. In real life, however, (some) people at least seem to think I'm interesting and funny. So as many of my other posts have started, I'm going to try to get better at posting when I have something of note to actually say.

So I just started rehearsals for TOMMY a few weeks ago. I've unfortunately been taking way less initiative with the production company in the past few months as I went on a mother-daughter holiday to Italy with my crazy-but-loveable mother, a girlfriend, and her less-crazy-but-still-equally-loveable mother. When I got back, I had to hit the ground running at my day job in a new capacity. There are so many things I could possibly say about my day job, but I'm going to take some advice from a blogger that I look up to and not say anything about my day job that I wouldn't say to my boss' face. That leaves very little that I can say about it here. Long story short, I've felt divested from theatre after my brief hiatus and have placed more priority in maintaining professional contacts and personal relationships than getting any non-profit administrative work done. At our first rehearsal a few weeks back, my theatre boss/adoptive sister told me that we got the rights for one of my all time favorite shows and we'd be doing it in the fall instead of Sweeney Todd (and anyone who knows me knows that I have a hate-hate relationship with Sondheim based on some college experiences in my musical theatre classes). So the compound news that we'd be producing one of my dream shows and NOT (at least immediately) producing one of my least favorite shows has placed me in a dream-like trance for the past few weeks. I feel like I'm cheating. On TOMMY. With A Chorus Line. Show infidelity is really bad. It's like an emotional affair. I'm teaching "Pinball Wizard" and in my head I'm humming "Dance 10. Looks 3."

So at any rate, all of this to say that I went out to Brewers last night with my brother from another mother after my rehearsal. He was auditing the BTA auditions at CenterStage and met me immediately afterwards... with a stack of headshots and resumes in hand. We're awful people. We openly acknowledge it. We pored over these headshots and resumes with reckless abandon... judging... criticizing... laughing a little sometimes. That's the one saving grace that we have personality-wise in theatre-- we're allowed to judge people completely subjectively in theatre because it can all be justified and explained away.

As we finally found (out of a stack inches thick) ONE promising candidate for our fall show, I finally finished the Resurrection (the best microbrew ever if you haven't had one) I'd been nursing and we started preparing to go. I pulled out my phone (we call her Tydaisia) unceremoniously and checked Facebook statuses. It has become a tick of mine. I don't even realize I'm doing it. I'm trying to get better, but I might have to go to rehab. These two slightly inebriated (probably Hopkins) guys were sitting at the table next to us, and one of them leaned over and asked me how I liked my phone. We iPhone users are total elitists, by the way. We wink knowingly at fellow iPhone users when we see them on the street, and judge you if we catch you chatting someone up via a Blackberry or a Treo. I gushed, told him I loved it and couldn't imagine life without it. He then asked the most hilariously dim-witted question: "Isn't it, like, hard for you to type when you're #%&$ed up?"

Me: No, I don't really get that way... but if you haven't had your phone for that long, it takes awhile to get used to.
Guy: Yeah, I've only had it a few weeks, and I'm starting to get the hang of it, but when I get hammered, I can't type.

Then Troy (my friend) volunteered that he has large thumbs and finds it hard to type on said iPhone keyboard. Which, thanks Troy, just egged on drunk Hopkins dude #3 from the left even more.

Guy: Yeah, that's it. I just have huge thumbs.

and after a slight pause... "We'll let you guys get back to your drinks."

So we finished up, packed up the stack of headshots and resumes from the night, and I started to pull on my leather jacket. Because it was approximately -12 degrees outside. On May-effing-19th. And as I pulled on my outer layer, aforementioned drunk Hopkins dude #3 from the left grabbed ahold of my leather-clad elbow and said, "Have a good night." And then to Troy, "You take care of that lady, now."

Dude. It was a Monday night. If there's anyone that needs to be taken care of, it's you. I'll call up my friends Amy Winehouse and Lindsay Lohan... they'll take you to rehab with them for summer vacation.