Embarrassing Confession #11: Operatic Hippy

I have a problem.

Okay, so that might be the biggest understatement of the year.  I, in fact, have multiple problems…like my obsession with hair flowers…or my personal vendetta against Saran Wrap…or my consumption of what might be considered to be disturbing amounts of tea….

Yes.  I’ve got issues.  I’m pretty sure everyone is aware of that by now.  I’ve made peace with it.  I really have.  I used to look in the mirror and think, “Wow…that girl is a frizzy-haired, freakishly pale basket case.  Like, I mean, a whole stinkin’ case of baskets.” 

The world of motivational posters and mid-afternoon Public Service Announcements gave me messages like, “Believe in yourself,” or some other nonsense that was supposed to make me actually think that I was not, in fact, a whole case of baskets.  But they didn’t work.  I never had one of those moments where I looked in the mirror and said, “Wow…that girl is awesome because she’s no longer a frizzy-haired, freakishly pale basket case.”  I’ve never been able to really believe in myself, and I’m okay with that, because I do believe in God.  And I figure that God made me to be a frizzy-haired, freakishly pale basket case, and He probably made me this way for a reason.  So now, I look in the mirror and still see the same person, only I kinda think she’s neato-mosquito, because God did (and is still doing) a good job with her.

I also use phrases like “neato-mosquito,” which is also problem, but it’s not the problem I want to discuss at this particular moment in time.

The problem I have has plagued me for most of my adolescence and all of my adult life.  I’ve been singing in church choirs and such since I was probably about three years old, but it wasn’t until I got to high school that I realized I had a problem.  Now, while I love to sing and often randomly burst into song in public…and in private…and pretty much all the time, the love of singing isn’t the problem.  Not at all.  People seem to like hearing me sing (I'm convinced that God gave me a decent singing voice because my constant singing would be even more annoying if I couldn't carry a tune), even when I’m singing at what others might consider to be inappropriate times (What? You don’t sing while you’re doing laundry?).  But…well…okay, so here it is.

Since I passed puberty and got my big girl singing voice, there has come a time in every choral or vocal experience when I’ve had “The Talk.”  “The Talk” always goes something like this:

Musical Person of Some Sort (or MPOSS—that sounds like a really cool rapper name, but I’m getting off track): Hey, Ruth, could you come here?

Me: (nervously…because I feel like I’m being called to the musical equivalent of the principal’s office) Um…okay.

MPOSS: I wanted to talk to you about your singing.  First off, you have a beautiful voice.

Me: Thanks you.

MPOSS: But…

Me: *GULP* (Here it comes…)

MPOSS: About your vibrato…

Me: *SIGH* (Oh noes! Not again!)

MPOSS: It doesn’t always suit the style of song we’re singing.

Me: I know, I know, I….

MPOSS: And there’s been some concern that your outrageous vibrato is causing earthquakes in Siberia.

Me: Harsh.

MPOSS: I realize you were probably trained to sing that way in voice lessons, but….

Me: I never had voice lessons.

MPOSS: (Pause) Oh.  Then you just like the way it sounds?? 

Me: No.  Look, I’m not TRYING to sing with vibrato.  I’m really, really not.

MPOSS: (Another pause) Really?  Well, I guess that’s a relief.  I thought you were doing it on purpose.  I thought maybe you were trying to take “Blessed Be Your Name” to a-whole-nother level or something.

Me: No, no.  It’s just the way I sing.

MPOSS: Well, can you sing...a little differently?  Without the vibrato?

Me:  I’ll try, but…I can’t make any promises.  I can’t seem to control the vibrato.

MPOSS: You can’t?

Me: I guess you could say that the vibrato controls me.

MPOSS: (Yet another pause) Well, keep trying.  Last week one of the deacon’s glasses lenses shattered during the offertory, right when you hit a wavering high note.

(Just for the record, it’s really not possible for glass to shatter just because someone sings a wavering high note.  They proved it to be impossible on Myth Busters.  Now you know.)

I’ve had more than one of these conversations.  I’ve also gotten random comments on my vibrato, ranging from, “Not so much vibrato, Ruth” to “Gee, Ruth, everything isn’t an opera.”  I can’t help it.  Ever since I got my big girl singing voice, I’ve had a big fat trembling vibrato that’s gone with it, astounding and perplexing spectators and fellow musicians, alike. 

A few years ago, I was playing a game called “Karaoke Revolution” with some friends.  The point of the game is to match pitch on all the notes at all the right times.  I confused the video game because it didn’t know how to process a vibrato of my caliber.  And I lost.

I lost hard.

Stupid vibrato!  Why must you torment me?!?  Why are you an ever-present thorn in my side…or in my vocal chords???

My friends were right.  Everything is not an opera.  Unless I sing it.  Because with all my years of singing, there are only two vocal styles I have mastered.  The first, of course, is opera.  Which is pretty much only useful if I’m pretending to be Christine Daae…which actually happens more than one might think…

The other vocal style I’ve mastered?  Well…I can’t bust out any contemporary styles, but give me a guitar, and I can break away from the opera curse for a while.  I can strum that guitar and start singing stuff that would make the Partridge Family jealous.  I can sing like a hippy, yo.  A bad hippy, of course, but a hippy none-the-less.  I’m sure the vibrato is still there, lurking in the shadows, waiting to come out, but I think it sulks and remains dormant for a while because it is offended by my horrendous guitar playing.  Also, I kind of think it gets annoyed when I sing about sunshine, flowers, puppy dogs, and rainbows.

So, there you have it. 

I’m an operatic hippy.

In fact, I’m a frizzy-haired, freakishly pale, operatic hippy. 

And also a whole case of baskets.

And I still think God did a pretty good job.

Neato-mosquito.

And, oh, what the hey…

Awesome possum, too.

SAA Ep.# 46: Stereotypical Stoplight Guy

Stoplights are probably some of the most interesting things ever invented, and they were invented by a black guy (from central KY, because people from central KY are awesome).  History is full of intelligent black men and women who have done some amazing things.  I also happen to know several hardworking black men and women who are upstanding citizens with amazing families.  So don't think I'm being racist when I speak of the stereotypical black guy who seems to be at every stoplight I encounter.

He drives some kind of souped up hooptie car.  I'm not even sure if that's how you spell hooptie, but that's what I'm going with.  He's wearing a muscle shirt and/or wifebeater.  His hair is either in awesome dreads or covered up with some kind of doo-rag...sometimes both at the same time.  His windows are rolled down.  His license plate says something like, "GNGSTALV."  Oh, and he's playing his angry rap shouting music so loudly that every car at the stoplight is shaking in time with its obnoxious vibrations.

And maybe I'm not speaking for everyone, but I think that a very small part of most of the other people at that stoplight wishes they could be as cool as stereotypical black guy.

As a hopelessly white girl, there's no way I could ever be as cool as stereotypical black guy.  I wish I could say that that kept me from trying. 

I drive a Taurus.  There's nothing hooptie about a Taurus.  I mean, despite the sunroof and spoiler on the back, my car still screams "SOCCER MOM!"  I have entertained the idea of getting a vanity plate, but I've got some personal convictions about spending $30 bucks a year just so people will be able to sit at stoplights and puzzle over the meaning of the cutesy saying I've legally plastered to the back of my car.  But if I did get a vanity plate, it wouldn't say anything cool with the word "GNGSTA."  I know what it would say.  It would say "BADHIPPY."  The reason it would say "BADHIPPY" is because I am, in fact, a bad hippy.  And I am a bad hippy not because I'm a hippy that has been naughty, but because I'm a hippy, and I'm very bad at it. 

But since the NC DMV only allows eight letters on their vanity plates, I can't get a vanity plate that says, "I'm a bad hippy because I'm a hippy, and I'm bad at it."  So I can see a vanity plate that says, "BADHIPPY" leading to all sorts of misunderstandings. 

Some people might assume that I'm a naughty hippy who likes to protest war and smoke various substances and do all the things that naughty hippies do.  That's not the case.  The very reason that I am a bad hippy is because I don't do all the things that hippies are supposed to do.  I mean, for one thing, I take showers every day.  But people who read my vanity plate wouldn't know that, and they might hate me for being an unpatriotic pothead, which isn't the case.

Then, on the other hand, I can see some actual hippies reading my actual vanity plate, and they might assume that I'm insulting hippies.  If my car were parked somewhere--let's just say the Wal-mart parking lot--and some hippies saw my vanity plate and were offended, they'd probably call up all their hippy friends.  So when I left Wal-mart to return to my car, there would be a full blown hippy protest party going on on top of my car.  Hmm...on second thought...that might be pretty amazing....

But even if I did have a cool vanity plate that led to spontaneous hippy parties, I still would not be as cool as stereotypical black guy. 

I do like to roll my windows down when the weather is nice.  Lately, the temperatures have been near or over 100 degrees here, so I've actually used my common sense and utilized my car's air conditioner.  But when the weather is closer to 60-80 degrees, I'll roll the windows down.  I have several reasons for this.  1) I really like the feel of the wind on my face and in my hair.  I'm a bad hippy, after all.  2) Despite all the google articles I've read that state the contrary, I really do feel that I'm getting better gas mileage if I don't use the air conditioning.  3) I like being obnoxious and blasting my music for everyone to hear it.

Only, I don't like rap music.  I don't even like what's popular on the radio these days.  I listen to Christian radio.  And most of the cds I listen to are also Christian artists.  The ones that aren't Christian artists are artists that are closer to my grandfather's age than they are to mine.  The ones that are Christian artists are either dead or so obscure that even other people who listen to Christian radio haven't even heard of them.  So if you happen to drive up beside me at a stoplight and we both have our windows down, you might just be treated to some Rich Mullins.  So instead of hearing some obnoxiously loud reverberating cool rap, you're gonna hear some obnoxiously loud hammered dulcimer.  Oh yeah.  I'm awesome. 

Maybe I should just get some dreads.

SAA Ep. #38: What Century is This, Anyway?

One of the questions I like to ask little kids a lot is, "Can I be YOU when I grow up?"  They all kind of look at me like, "Um...?" and then say something cute like, "NOOOO!  Your name isn't the same as mine!" or "NOOOO! You're a girl, and I'm a boy!" or "NOOOO! You're already a grown up, and I'm just a little kid." or "SURE!  We can both be ME!"

The thing is, I don't want to be any of these kids when I grow up (and yes, I do realize that I'm 31 years old--it matters not).  I know what I want to be when I grow up.  I know exactly what I want to be when I grow up. 

When I grow up, I want to be a Medieval Princess.

I mean, when I first start thinking about it, it all sounds awesome.  I would get to wear those awesome dresses with the flowy sleeves, and my pale skin and my untamed poofy-curly hair would be the envy of all of those peasants with natural tans and bone straight hair.  I'd get to hang out with knights and/or Dragons all day--even if the Dragons wanted to eat me, that'd still be pretty cool--because I'd still be hangin' with the Dragons.  Incidentally, if I have a choice in the matter, let the record show that if I can't die painlessly in my sleep, I'd like to be burned and/or eaten by a Dragon.  If I have to die painfully, I'd rather my death be really stinkin' awesome.  And what's a more awesome death than being devoured by a fire-breathing Dragon?  Nothing.  That's what.

But I really start thinking about the whole Medieval Princess thing, and then the voice of reason kicks in.  And I realize that if I were a Medieval Princess, I probably wouldn't be literate.  And that's kind of a deal breaker with me.  I've gotta be able to read and write.  I also would very much appreciate having some freedom.  I'm no feminist, but I kind of like having some basic rights, you know.  In Medieval times, I probably wouldn't have any say in a lot of matters in my life because, princess or not, I'd just be a woman.  And women back then were only good for one thing (or so the mutton-eatin', mead drinkin' men thought).  Women were only good for birthin' the babies.  And I don't know nothin' 'bout birthin' no babies.

I have shared my thoughts on childbirth before, but I don't know if I've ever just spilled them out here in this lovely blog.  See, I love kids.  If I ever get married one day, I'd love to adopt.  I'm just not too keen on the whole getting pregnant/giving birth thing.  I mean, it's cool to see pregnant women being all cute and "glowing" and all.  I just don't want to be one of them.  The thought of something GROWING INSIDE ME for nine months doesn't make me feel warm and fuzzy.  It makes me feel like Sigourney Weaver in those movies with the aliens (what WERE those movies called??--note the sarcasm).  I mean, I'd be going about my business, then all the sudden this little creature starts moving around inside me.  I'd expect it to just burst out of me and start dancing and singing "Hello, my baby!  Hello, my honey!  Hello my ragtime gal!" 

I think I'm getting off track.

Yes.  Well, carrying a child inside me doesn't really appeal to me.  Nor does the thought of actually giving birth.  The thought of squeezing out a baby doesn't fill me with happiness and warmth.  And I'd be one of those women who would want to do it all without an epidural, because there is NO WAY I want anyone sticking a needle up my spine.  And I know they would have to do that if I had to have a c-section--and the thought of being AWAKE while having a needle stuck in my spine AND THEN WATCHING THEM CUT ME OPEN doesn't really fill me with happiness and warmth either.  So if someone can devise a transporter beam that could just get the baby out of me without any pain and/or needles in my spine, I might consider this giving birth thing.  Otherwise, I'm not really for it.  And even then, would a transporter beam be safe?  I'm reminded from a scene from ANOTHER movie.  "But the creature is inside out.  ...AND it exploded."

So yeah.  Not really into the whole "only being good for childbirth" thing.

Then there's the whole not having indoor plumbing and central heating stuff.  As annoying as technology is, I do kind of like most of it.  I guess it wouldn't be SO bad if I had servants.  I could deal with being a Medieval Princess if I had people who would do all the tedious work--like laundry, but how often did they actually DO laundry back then?  Once a year?  And how often would I be allowed to bathe?  I kind of like taking showers every day.  I wouldn't be too happy about all those quack doctors telling me that bathing was unhealthy whilst covering me in leeches.  I'd want to say, "HEY DOCTORS!  YOU STINK!  AND GUESS WHAT!  I STINK, TOO!  BECAUSE NONE OF US TAKE BATHS!  TAKE YOUR LEECHES AND GO BALANCE SOMEONE ELSE'S HUMOURS!"  But I wouldn't be allowed to say that, because I would be a woman who was only good for birthin' the babies.

Then there's the plague.  Um.  'Nuff said.

So maybe I was born in the right century.  I thought for a long time that I wasn't.  I thought that I was supposed to be born in a century of Dragons and knights and poofy dresses and equally poofy hair.  But now that I think of it, I kind of like light bulbs.  I kind of like being able to write a blog on a magical glowing box of happiness.  I kind of like having a purpose other than restocking the population of unwashed, uneducated, plague-ridden masses.  Maybe I was born in the right century.

But maybe I was born in the wrong decade.  Because if I can't be a Medieval Princess, I've always thought I'd like to be a hippy.  Again, the long unkempt hair and pale skin wouldn't be too awful if I were a hippy.  I'd get to voice my opinions in protests and be able to read and write and everything.

But hippies don't take baths.  So I guess that wouldn't work out for me so well, after all.