Last minute preparations.

A wise woman once said: "The best minute to complete something is the last minute."

That wise woman is me.

And I like to practice what I preach.  When I talk about having some last minute preparations to complete, I'm not talking about turning off my thermostat, throwing together an emergency kit, or rushing around my neighborhood looking for someone to feed my fish because I've forgotten he existed.  No, by last minute preparations I mean all preparations.  Everything.

So, today being the last day possible to complete anything, I did everything.  

I started off my day by immediately coming to the harsh realization that "dry-clean only" does not mean you put the clothes in the dryer before you start to wash them.  And because I needed two dresses cleaned before um...well...tomorrow, I proceeded to call twenty two (no exaggeration) dry cleaning stores asking one question: "Do you offer same day service?"  Twenty of those twenty two stores said no.  Two left.  Store 1 said that if I brought it in right away, they could get the order to me by 4pm.  Store 2 said that I had the wrong number and they were a restoration company, not a dry cleaner.  I went with Store 1.  

While getting the dresses, I checked the weather for Russia and London and realized that the 53 degree low average for the month of July was not in Celsius.  And so I needed a coat that I could use over the dresses.  (To the Northerners: people in Florida don't wear coats with dresses.  When it gets cold out, we wear a tank top over a bikini.  Naney naney boo boo.)  So as I drove to the dry cleaner, I called my Aunt Kath, the queen of the bargain scene.  Aunt Kath can find anything if you give her about three hours and four Goodwills.  I mean anything.  She was the first one to take Macklemore thrift shopping.  So, I knew I'd be okay.  In three and a half hours, including a lunch break, we found two winter coats, three nice sweaters, three collared shirts, one purse, and two belts for less than the price of a Snuggie.  (You may be comfortable in your reverse bathrobe, but I can go out in public.)

Getting back to the house...it's around 4, so I figure it's time to pick up the dry cleaning.  Great, so all I will need is my wallet and the dry cleaning slip.  I'm sure it's in my purse somewhere.  

It wasn't in my purse.  I lost it.  In 4 hours.  Shocker.  And as I drive to the cleaners, I panic.  I'm gonna get there and they aren't going to give me my clothes.  I guess I could try the dresses on to prove they are mine.  Like Cinderella!  But, what if the dry cleaning shrunk them and then the dresses are too small.  Then they won't believe me and I won't ever get an invitation to the ball.  Oh no, I'll have to probably call Aunt Kath back and we will have to look for dresses at the Goodwill.  But what if Goodwill kicks us out for already buying too many things.  Is there a store limit?  Maybe if I start crying they'll let me in.

The dry cleaning employee didn't even ask for the slip.  Not a word.  She just brought the clothes out on a hanger and I paid.  Great.  I'll just have to head over to the doctor to cure the stomach ulcer that developed from my ride over.  At least I won't have to cry at Goodwill.

And after picking up laundry detergent and a book (it's important to smell good and look smart, even if you can't actually read), I went home to pack.  Oh, packing.  I'm the kind of person who forgets a toothbrush in their overnight bag.  Packing for two weeks for me is like cooking an omelet when you are five: you need a parent.  So my mom came and helped.  So did my dog.  Here's the thing about that: your dog might be able to play fetch or catch a Frisbee or jump rope, but mine can strategically place herself in the most inconvenient spot possible.  I may play the horn, but the dog is truly the artist.  About halfway through our joint packing (which was more along the lines of me launching clothes over the dog so that my mom could pack them), the unthinkable happened.  I realized I needed a button on my pants sewed.  So we brought out the sewing kit.

You have to understand, the ancient Greeks designed the Venus de Milo as a metaphor for my mom's sewing ability.  That statue could probably have fixed the pants faster.

A grueling half an hour later, we were done.  Finished.  Completed....Except for the list of things we have to do for tomorrow.  It's okay, I still have time, my flight leaves at 11:00am.  If I'm lucky, I'll be done at 10:59.  That sounds about right.  Now, I just have to move the dog off the suitcase.  Eh, I'll do it at the airport.

Carpe Dime

The other day I was watching What Not To Wear (aka The Pinnacle of Daytime Television) and there was this girl on who was truly a complete disaster.  Aside from her strangled-rodent nasal voice and her ability to identify matching color combinations almost as well as Ray Charles, she also was unable to make a decision on buying anything without first calling her mom.  This would have been fine if only someone had told her mother that the Cold War was over and she could finally come out of her bomb shelter.  Fortunately, no one did and so I got a good laugh at three-blind-mice lady and her mom's expense.  

On a completely unrelated note, I went shopping the other day for some clothes I that could take to NYO.  Shopping isn't exactly my favorite activity.  The only time I can remember having fun while shopping is when I hid from my parents behind a jeans rack in Wal-Mart for half an hour.  Ironically, that's the only time my mom hasn't had fun while shopping.  Since I couldn't exactly repeat that today, I brought my sister along to make the trip as quick and painless as possible.  Unfortunately, we were having trouble deciding between these two blouses that I had chosen. So I called my mom to--

Oh no.  I called my mom.  This can't be.  I am three-blind-mice lady.  Dang it.

But there has to be some differences right?  I can usually match clothes better than my colorblind dog.  My mom usually knows what decade it is, although the 80's do like to call from time to time.  But if I'm being honest with myself, I'm really not a very decisive person.  I can't decide which shirt to wear to school, which breakfast cereal to eat in the morning, or even what to put as the third item in this list.  And frankly, it's usually not too much of a problem.  If I'm already tardy, what's the difference between five minutes late and ten minutes late, right?  

Needless to say, I try to take all the advice I can get.  Other people usually make decisions better than I can.  I think this is because it's much easier to decide something when you're not emotionally involved.  Like on the Bachelor last year, Sean should have totally picked--I mean I totally don't watch the Bachelor so I'm just going to stop with this analogy.  

So, when I saw on the National Youth Orchestra of the USA Fan Page (shameless self promotion) that some of our supporters had been asked to give us some advice for our tour, I took out my notepad.  Reading through them, I found that my personal favorite was the "Carpe Dime" post.  For those of you who don't know, it roughly means "Seize the loose change".  Thanks Wikipedia.  Regardless, the woman who posted it, despite her lack of proofreading, was getting at something.  She wasn't exactly alone either.  Many of the comments were about enjoying "each moment" and having the "time of your lives" and getting "a credit card with a chip in it".  In short, Carpe Diem.

And I will.  Despite the fact that traveling entails a migraine of worries, a J.K. Rowling novel of documents to verify, and an entire Russian pocket dictionary to memorize, I'm so excited.  I'll be constantly gaping at the incredible architecture, marveling at the rich cultural traditions around me, and breathing in the history of where I am at that moment.  I'll try to send some of it home.  I'll try to stuff my emotions and happiness into a suitcase, try to sew all my memories into a T-shirt, try to shove all the places I travel into a snowglobe that I can throw in my bag.  But I know that some of them won't fit into these containers.  Some of them will only be able to exist within my memory. 

So I'll try to recount everything in perfect detail.  But I may leave something out.  I know that there will be many stories to tell other than the ones I can describe.  Unfortunately, that means I'll have to decide between the ones I can express in words and the ones I cannot.

There's only one problem.  Because of international calling rates, I won't be able to call my mom for help.  I only have one solution.  My foolproof last resort.  

Eenie Meenie Miney Mo.

Awkward.

There is a very fine line between funny and socially awkward.

It's the difference between being laughed with or laughed at, being a stand-up or a trip-down comic, and the only difference between Bill Cosby and me.  Trust me, I know full well which side I'm on.

When I was little, I was calling an animal shelter to ask what items they needed most from our elementary school's collection.  I was greeted by an employee:

"Hello?"

I took a big swallow and then spit out the following phrase:
"HiIWasWonderingWhatItemsYouNeededAtYourAnimalShelter".  

"Oh thanks for calling! What's your name?"

A question I did not anticipate.  I froze....and then burst into tears and hung up the phone.  Smooth.

When I said that I was "little", I meant that I was about ten years old.  Eight years later, I still can't order a pizza in person and the reason I choose Domino's is not because of the crust or flavor, it's because they let me order online.  

So when I got an email saying that NYO wanted to interview me for an documentary that they'd be filming about the inaugural season, an opportunity that everyone would obviously want to jump at, I was less than thrilled.  I decided to confirm the interview not because it was a great opportunity, but because, if I didn't, my mom would have killed me.  I don't blame her.  After your child has been sitting in the back of the orchestra for her whole life, you get quite tired of picking out the top of her hair in the end of the year slideshow.  Although, the cowlick I have going on some days is quite adorable if I may say so myself.  Either way, I committed and picked a date.  

It was a Skype interview.  So much worse than a phone call.  It would probably be longer than 30 seconds, there would be questions that required intelligent thought, and, worst of all, they would probably ask me what my name was.  But this time, I decided would be different.  I trained harder than Oscar Pistorius and I didn't even have to kill anyone (too soon?)  I thought of questions they might ask, I tested and retested my internet connection, and completed the entire princess routine with Julie Andrews from The Princess Diaries.

And with all of that practice, I was woefully unprepared.  Due to the fact that I don't always check the calendar before making an appointment (Are you really that surprised?), I discovered that I would not be able to use my well-tested internet connection and the background for the interview that was just the right amount of class without the trying too hard part would have to be left at home.  Instead, I had to set up next to the classrooms at my church because my sister had a rehearsal.  On the bright side, it definitely didn't look like I was trying too hard.

"Are you at a school or something?"

It's a Saturday.  I couldn't really tell if she was joking or not because the video on her computer wasn't working.  Her profile picture, the inspiring New York City skyline, was not really helpful when attempting to decipher visual cues.  Skyscrapers, despite their giant glass facade, aren't the best windows to the soul.  But she had to be joking right?

"Ha...um, no.  I have this--well this function thing--and my sister--in the other room there's a rehearsal..so yeah."

So yeah?!? What are you doing?! Wait, stay positive.  It couldn't have been that bad, at least you didn't cry, right?

"Okay, sounds fun, ready to get started?"

As ready as the kids on 16 and Pregnant are for a baby.  But, we started anyway.

"Have you ever been out of the country?"
"Um...no.  This will be my first time."
"Oh, you must be excited then.  Are you scared?"
Of this interview...yes. "A little bit."
"What's your biggest fear."
"Losing my passport."

Oh my gosh, I didn't mean to say that.  Don't get me wrong.  It was the truth. But somethings, like your prison record at a PTA meeting, are better left unsaid.  She starts to laugh and I realize that she thinks I did it on purpose.  Quick! Laugh before she realizes that you made a mistake.  And thus I learned the most important rule of injury, gymnastics, and this interview: recovery.  And that lesson pretty much dictated the rest of the travel questions.

After that we moved into music.  And something really crazy happened.  My constant urge to casually move my mouse to the red END CALL button stopped for a minute.  The words started flowing a little bit and I found that I could take at least a few good strides in between my constant dance of stumbling and catching myself before I hit the ground.  We talked about how I fit in to the orchestra.  We talked about how my single line of notes can slide easily into the massive and powerful creation that can fill a concert hall but can also delicately handle someone's heart.  We talked about what music meant to me and how something so personal and introspective can reach the ears, minds, and souls of so many people.  We talked about how feelings so complicated can be so universal and widespread.  We talked about something I could hold in my palms and keep trapped in between my fingers.  Something that was mine and mine alone but also something that I was willing to give away to let other people experience, just for an instant, how it felt to be me.  Ha.  Cloud 9? More like Cloud 90.

That's really what I hope I said.  That's what I wanted to say.  If my mom had been listening she probably would have told me that I said 10 um's, 12 like's, and a rousing 16 "so...yeah's".  But for me, that's a record for a thirty minute phone conversation.  So, I'll take it.

The issue is not resolved.  I still get embarrassed when buying a pair of sunglasses for the third time or when calling the Apple Store for an appointment.  But I am getting better.  Watch:

My name is Nikki LaBonte and I--nope, I'm tearing up.

I lost it already.

I currently have no idea where my passport is.

Like not even the usual "Oh I'm sure it's somewhere in my room along with that dive computer I lost and my MIA favorite pen."  I'm not at all exaggerating when I say that it could literally be anywhere in the country, or world for that matter.  I might need to buy it it's own passport so it can get back in the US.  (Is that even possible?)

So, to help me track it down, I'm going to retrace my steps.

Step one:

Carnegie Hall had informed us that they would be sending Russian Visa applications out that we would have to complete.  Unfortunately, these visa applications require their own pictures.  I don't know why I expected that maybe the US passport photo would be okay in Russia.  We can't even standardize a system to measure milk, why would we be able to standardize an international travel picture?  Have no fear, the differences are tremendous.  Instead of the much too large and perfectly square US passport dimensions of 2 inches by 2 inches, the Russian passport photo must be the exceedingly more stylish and precise 35 mm by 45 mm.  Thank goodness, because I look much better in a rectangular frame.  Secondly, there can be no smiling.  None.  Which logically leads me to believe that people in Russia never smile and wouldn't be able to recognize someone who was smiling.  Because I can't even manage to fit 3 people in a selfie on an iPhone, I went to Walgreens to get that picture taken.  A very friendly, yet non-Russian, Jeremy patiently stood there attempting to take my picture as I would constantly burst into laughter and thereby completely ruin the visa photo.  (On a side note: the photos of me laughing were quite stylish and I may have to change my Facebook profile picture very soon.)  Finally, I bit the bullet and just drank a glass of sour milk, which explains the pleasant face I'm making.  We moved to the computer to crop and resize it.  But of course, we ran into problem number two--the fact that Russian passport photos are different than Russian visa photos.  And because that would make things way too easy, Walgreens only has the format for Russian passport photos.  I find this ironic for very obvious reasons.  So, we attempted to format the picture with the correct dimensions of the head and shoulders by using the sub-par Walgreens editing software and the position of the collar of my shirt to determine where my head should be.  It's just as fun as it sounds.

For some reason, I brought my passport along.  However, I do remember sheepishly putting it back in my bag after being told that you don't need proof of residency in the US to get your picture taken.  Awkward.

Step two:
I returned the passport to my usual place.  My mom said that I should find some place in my room that isn't constantly cluttered so that I will remember exactly where I put it.  I have tried this before with my bank account information.  And it was effective--so effective that I didn't lose the information in the clutter of my room, but instead forgot the secret place that I put it.  So this time, I decided to revise the method and change the location.  I took the passport from my bag and put it on the bookshelf next to my favorite book, East of Eden by John Steinbeck.  I figured that this would be a great spot because East of Eden is my go-to book for all my AP book reports.  It's like the all-purpose WD-40 of literature and so I like to use it.  A lot.  Then I remembered that I won't be writing AP book reports because I don't go to high school anymore.  So, to help me remember the new secret location, I've now posted it on the blog.

Step three:
Carnegie Hall finally sent the Russian visa applications that were supposed to be sent in "mid to late May".....on June 12th.  I would like to take this opportunity to point out that one of the most renowned and professional concert halls in the world has procrastinated just as much as I have.  It then became my responsibility to complete the application that night.  Most of it was pretty straightforward, I described in detail my legendary valor and dedicated service to the Russian KGB and why I should be chosen as the next Czar.  Then, I read the directions provided by Carnegie Hall. (Now that was one of the best ideas I've had in a long time.)  Although it was less fun, the process became easier.  After signing a NO-SMILE agreement, I completed the application and printed out the forms.  I got the necessary accompanying documents to mail with the application and threw everything in an envelope.  I remember my mom made me hand deliver it to the mail-lady because my passport was in there and she didn't want it to get stolen.  Wait.  My passport was in there?

My passport was in there.

Found it.

Hello. Is it me you're looking for?

Hi. I'm Nikki.

Those who know me will vouch for the fact that my life actually isn't that interesting.  If you are looking for a fairy tale with dragons, dungeons, and magic, you might want to double check your URL.  Despite the fact that I have met some fire-breathing people, I don't know any dragons, the only dungeon I've been in is the tuba locker in the band room, and no one has ever come up to me and said "Yer a wizard, 'arry".  Although if they did, I'd ask them to put their contact lenses back in and call a cab for them right away.

Although I'm not a wizard, I am many other things.  Forgetful is one of them.  In the past month, I have lost two pairs of sunglasses, a pair of headphones, lots of valve oil, several pieces of music, and now with this blog post, my dignity.  I think I'm on a roll.

Aside from that, I play(ed) varsity soccer and was a goalkeeper, mainly because it involved less running, which I am always a fan of.  I like to write mainly because I make myself laugh more than the people around me.  I am a Christian and I recently delivered a sermon that was surprisingly not met with the boos and rotten tomatoes I was expecting.  I love the beach, especially at night, love biking when I can, and love the forest.  However, if there is any way that the frogs, spiders, snakes, worms and fungus could be eliminated, it would be much appreciated.

I'm also a musician.  I've been playing the horn for almost 9 years.  However, I was not one of those people who immediately picked up an instrument and could play Flight of the Bumblebee in seven different keys.  My mother likes to describe my playing initially as "dying elephants" which is an odd, yet extremely accurate depiction.

But even if I couldn't play every piece in the repertoire by age 10 (cough Mozart is a jerk cough), I strangely enjoyed missing all the notes.  At first, I loved the grimaces of my parents who tried their best to hide the traumatizing effect of an elementary school band concert.  But eventually, I stopped looking at my parents and started looking at myself.  What I found surprised me.  I discovered a mirror and a telescope, a breath-taking sunset and a melancholy drizzle, a tender embrace and the searing pain of betrayal.  I discovered the emotions of music.  And I couldn't be more in love.

This relationship has yielded some incredible experiences.  Recently, I've been extremely fortunate in my acceptance to the Eastman School of Music, where I will be attending in the fall, and with this amazing opportunity of NYO-USA.  I auditioned in November for the program and was miraculously accepted (they must not have been paying much attention to my recordings).  My mom and I celebrated in the hallway of the University of Illinois campus where I was auditioning for their music program and were subsequently scolded for disturbing the other audition candidates. (If any of you are reading, I am truly sorry but from what I heard you sounded wonderful and I'm sure it wasn't a problem for you.)

This summer from June 30th to July 23rd I will have a once in a lifetime opportunity with many other young and talented musicians.  We will begin with a two week residency in Purchase College to rehearse and get to know the other orchestra members.  Although, after two weeks, because of my aforementioned poor memory, I may know the names of about 5 of them, including myself.  After that, we begin our tour with a concert in Purchase College on the 11th of July, and a performance at the Kennedy Center in Washington D.C. on the 13th.  From there, we fly to Moscow, perform at the Moscow Conservatory on the 16th, take the train to St. Petersburg and perform at the Mariinsky II theater on the 18th.  The tour is concluded with a performance in Royal Albert Hall as Prom 13 in the BBC Proms on the 21st (I don't think you understand how much I am fangirling right now).  If you want to learn more about the program, check out the Carnegie Hall page http://www.carnegiehall.org/Education/National-Youth-Orchestra-of-the-United-States-of-America  or you could always ask me, although I may have to look it up myself.

Throughout this incredible experience, I'll be posting here (with some pictures) to let you know how I'm doing and what I'm doing.  I am ultimately truly honored by this experience to do what I love while traveling to these marvelous places with other incredible artists. I will try my best to post in detail all of the events that happen to the best of my memory.  Although, knowing my memory, I'll probably have forgotten what I ate for breakfast by the time lunch rolls around.  Maybe this blog is more for my own records than yours...

So, thank you, in advance, for reading as I chronicle my fairly mundane life.  I will try to keep it as interesting as possible but there's only so much I can do.  After all, I'm not a wizard, just a musician.