An opera singer meets her greatest teacher in a Manhattan pet store. In Learning to Live with Fritz, author E. Rawlins tells the story of her chaotic relationship with Frizbee, an eight pound nut case who is in reality an ill-tempered angel in a hairy disguise. In her humorous and self critical memoir fifteen years of non-stop travel take the dizzy diva and her high maintenance mascot to Paris, Brussels, Tokyo, Vienna, Salzburg, Milan, London and back to the Big Apple. Along the way they captivate a handsome young baritone on his personal journey to international operatic celebrity. As the drama unfolds, the idea of love at first sight reveals itself to be anything but a romantic illusion. Fritz upstages and controls his mistress through his rigidly enforced rules and regulations, his antics, his irascible charm and oftentimes through his bizarre otherworldly connections. This is a memoir of a narcissistic would-be diva and a dog who is dead serious about teaching her to give up her illusions, to live authentically . . . and above all, to learn the meaning of unconditional love.

LEARNING TO LIVE WITH FRITZ

DISGRUNTLED ANGEL IN A HAIRY DISGUISEBy E. RAWLINS

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2012 E. Rawlins
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4759-3236-2

Contents

Introduction...............................................................................ixPart I Learning to Live with Fritz........................................................xv1 The Making of One Dizzy Diva............................................................12 Meeting the Big Guy.....................................................................53 Frizbee's Predecessors..................................................................84 The Beginning...........................................................................165 Name the Puppy, Train the Puppy.........................................................206 Professional Puppy Training.............................................................297 Meeting Dr Del..........................................................................348 The Fourth Rule.........................................................................389 Analyzing the Boss-Dog Personality—Early Contributing Factors.....................4110 Boss Dog I—Precious, Precocious, Precarious......................................4811 Boss Dog II—Fishpond Psychic.....................................................5212 A Devilishly Clever Disguise...........................................................5413 Approaching Pedestrians................................................................5914 Frizbee Meets His Master...............................................................6115 Our Adventuresome Lifestyle............................................................6416 One Crazy Little Dog...................................................................6717 Frizbee's Virtues......................................................................8918 Emotional Entanglements................................................................9719 Frizbee Stories........................................................................10420 Final Countdown........................................................................14221 Exeunt Omnes...........................................................................152Frizbee's Photo Gallery....................................................................157Part II Learning to Live without Him......................................................16722 Abhorring the Vacuum....................................................................16923 Signs and Signals: Metaphysics or Wishful Thinking......................................173Epilogue Cathedral Rock Visitation........................................................185Acknowledgments............................................................................195

Chapter One

The Making of One Dizzy Diva

Let's talk about love at first sight. Sometimes it is real, and other times it is an idea that can get you into lot of trouble. I was born impatient. I had swept out of Ohio at age eighteen into the wide world of opera. I was in a hurry to make a name for myself and escape what I thought would be a dull, humdrum life in the Midwest. After winning many vocal competitions, completing studies in two prestigious music schools, and with a Fulbright-Hays Grant in my pocket, all I wanted was Europe. I wanted stardom! I had the looks, the talent, and the will to win a fabulous career for myself. I did win for quite a while. Singing was my life, and I had little room for anything (or anyone) other than musical scores, practice sessions, rehearsals, and performances of the operas I loved. I left a string of broken hearts (oftentimes my own), always feeling the necessity to sacrifice all for my art.

Yes, I was a would-be diva with a very good start on an operatic future, a chance to grab that golden ring, true diva status—if I could only hold to the course I had set out upon. My star potential looked promising; already quite successful and engaged for a leading role at the Salzburg Festival, I had contracts with the San Francisco Opera and two full years of guest engagements in Germany, France, and Belgium. After years of sacrificing my personal life for my art, and at the peak of this upward swing, L'amour sauntered up the aisle and settled in beside me on an airplane ride neither the enchanting businessman nor the enchanted soprano would ever forget. Mr. Right chatted me up for twelve full hours on the long overseas flight from Zurich. He wrote a clever limerick (extolling my virtues) on a soggy cocktail napkin. I gave up. I gave in. I could not resist him.

Believe it or not, the charming and charismatic man persuaded me that I could easily continue my career from California, and by the time we landed at the San Francisco Airport, I thought this sounded like a perfectly reasonable idea. He had not yet proposed marriage, but my fantasies were flying. I could be married and sing too! I could live happily ever after in sunny California. I was sure I was in love. Twelve hours of hard sell from one of the West Coast's most successful investment advisers had turned my life around. Yes! Life was good. What could go wrong?

What could go wrong? Plenty, as it turned out, but that story is too involved to tell here. Let's just say that both parties had acutely overestimated their good fortune and leave it at that. This wild infatuation and eventual marriage took me far away, stopped the thrust of my discipline, and sabotaged the hard work it had taken to establish myself in Europe as a respected young soprano. Magic thinking carried me off on wings of delight to my optimistic future. The initial two years were filled with exciting activities. I enjoyed the laid-back California lifestyle while alternately buzzing (sometimes twice a month) back to Europe to sing. My life was looking good, although adjusting to my new and (surprise!) subordinate role as the wife of a busy executive was not easy. Flying solo for so many years and then being suddenly thrust into a "Honey, where are my socks?" situation, well, no diva gives up her place in the pecking order without a battle.

Combining this wifely job with my contractual obligations turned out to be far more complicated than I had imagined, but still I was able to convince myself that I was living a full life and, most of all, that I was happy. Each singing engagement required a flight to Europe. Jetting back and forth kept my brain in a sort of suspended animation. The nine-hour time warp severely limited the concentration I needed for practicing my singing technique regularly. A thoughtful old opera director had once reminded me, "You can't sit on two chairs, darling. Being in love is a breathtaking experience, but forgetting to practice is the beginning of the end." This proved to be all too true, but I continued on my collision course and hoped for a miracle.

As those first two years drew to a close, my life was so inundated with problem-solving situations that I hardly noticed that the offers from opera houses where I had previously established myself were no longer forthcoming. When I woke up nearly ten years later to the fact that my life in California was just about to give the coup de grâce to my diva ambitions, I became exhausted and depressed. The forward motion of my career had slowed to a few offers for world premieres written by elite but relatively unknown composers. These events, although highly publicized, proved to be a dead-end career street. So I, the would-be diva (once having experienced Andy Warhol's fifteen minutes of fame), became a has-been before I ever really got going. I had accomplished the relatively effortless and thoroughly successful beginning of my operatic career by the ripe old age of thirty-two.

The move to my native country had proven disastrous to my well-thought-out and hard-won career beginnings. To say that I was frustrated about this is quite an understatement. I was heartbroken. By removing myself from the continent where I had built my career, I had, for all intents and purposes, committed career suicide. This realization left me, the ambitious soprano, dizzy. It left me in a state of eye-blinking shock.

My state of shock continued for a few more heart-numbing years with dwindling singing engagements sandwiched in between social events and company-sponsored trips to Hawaii. This life was a far cry from what I had imagined. My inner emotional upset sent repetitive subliminal messages of Help! Get me out of here! to my psyche. Nevertheless, I was an excellent actress. I reacted as a Stepford wife might have to almost every situation. I had my actions and responses perfectly under control. I was amiable. I fulfilled my obligations precisely as expected. The actress in me triumphed, but I was no longer emotionally alive.

One blessed day my New York manager (who was by this time pulling out what little hair he had left over my distressing lack of engagements) insisted that I fly to Switzerland to audition for a role that promised to be a vehicle to recapture what I had lost in European prestige. I took his advice. I won that role. I returned to California, and with a patient and devoted pianist, I learned it. I dedicated months of hard vocal work to revitalizing my voice and my psyche. At long last, after months of stage rehearsals and a huge success with press and public, I realized that I had made a good start on reestablishing my credibility as a serious artist. If nothing else, I had the necessary rave reviews to make a new start.

When I returned to California my heart was on fire. It was not only the success I had experienced that was calling me back to Europe. I had fallen hopelessly in love with my younger leading man. The irresistible idea of becoming someone special in my profession combined with the electrifying feeling of being in love pushed me over the edge. I decided that the only way to save myself was to divorce the man with whom I had shared a lovely fantasy and at the same time ... experienced the most disheartening years of my life. I had to return to Europe, where opportunities still beaconed. It was time to leave my naïve California dream behind me and squarely face the future, come what may.

My new life awaited me, and the specter of divorce was looming hard on the horizon. I was a diva hopeful again, but the situation was far more precarious than I wished to admit. I was clinging to both ends of an emotional teeter-totter. Optimistic bliss and abysmal fear were equally governing my mental state. Add giddiness (bitten hard by the love bug) to my drama queen tendencies and, well, there you have it—a perfect recipe for lunacy.

I was at the peak of insanity thinking that any successful operatic endeavor in Europe would somehow open doors for me in my home country, the United States of America. This was my mind-set as I rushed toward an ill-fated meeting with my audition coordinator in Manhattan. That was the day Frizbee, mini Maltese macho, asserted himself as my traveling companion, teacher, and guru. From my perspective now, I can see a picture of myself dashing up that New York City street with a sticker pasted on my forehead—"Dizzy Diva"—and from this retrospective, offer my biased analysis of one crazy little dog, who was more than ready to accommodate me by mirroring my madness perfectly.

Chapter Two

Meeting the Big Guy

Essentially the idea of starting a new life in Europe was born seventeen months before the fated—or ill-fated—encounter at a Lexington Avenue pet shop. It was in Switzerland that I met the courageous man who would later share my future and happily suffer the exhilarating consequences of adopting one crazy little dog.

I know. Don't remind me. I am quite aware that in the introductory section I described a situation one could interpret as "love at first sight" when I met Mr. Right on a flight from Zürich to San Francisco. When I experienced the real thing, I realized that love at first sight does not take twelve hours. It is instantaneous. So much has been written, sung, acted out, and described ad nauseam about the phenomenon of love at first sight. I am here to tell you that it is all true; as banal as this might sound, it does happen. The French call it le coup de foudre, and it does not always have to end tragically, although Juliet and her Romeo might disagree.

I have to set the stage for this extraordinarily romantic event that most people passionately discredit or deem improbable. Auditioning for the role of Marie in Alban Berg's difficult opera Wozzeck, I was hired on the spot and invited into the director's office to sign my contract. I remember this scene very well. I was ecstatic! This was a high-priority role I had yet to sing on stage. It had been a long dry season; my engagement calendar had been nearly empty since exuberant fans in Spoleto, Italy, had carried me through the streets mistaking me for their idol, Marilyn Monroe. I had experienced an unprecedented success in a world-premiere opera based on the life of the legendary film diva. I did not let that go to my head. It was Marilyn they were wild about, not me. However, this contract I was about to sign marked a real change in fortune and a chance for me to try out a more dramatic repertoire in a role I yearned to sing.

Signing a contract is an exultant ritual for any singer. I don't think one ever gets jaded enough to be unhappy or bored when the contract, with its legalese and fine print, is slipped across the table and you, as the artist, get to sign on the dotted line. There I was, flourishing my name across the page, when the director leaned across his desk and, with a sidelong glance at the door, said, "I hope you notice that we are able to pay you your full fee. Our budget has also allowed us to hire a tenor from the Vienna State Opera for the Drum Major role, but, Miss Rawlins, you will have to be satisfied with our house baritone as your Wozzeck." With this comment and its furtive presentation, I thought, Oh no! This will be amateur night at the opera. What am I getting myself into here?

All this buildup and background material is necessary to introduce the new man in my life, who was indeed the singer that the sly director tried his best to reduce to amateur status in my mind. Looking back, I ask myself why—and the answer is clear. The director did not want anyone to recognize the exceptional talent the young bass-baritone possessed. This is a theater smoke-screen policy used often to keep young singers from knowing their potential. Later in the day, I had the opportunity to hear the singer in question firsthand. I attended the final dress rehearsal for Fidelio. I can only say that the ridiculous costumes thoroughly disguised the young man singing the role of Pizarro, but nothing could hide his stupendously beautiful voice. No, I was not a goner yet because I hadn't met the man. Soon thereafter I had the pleasure of being introduced to him backstage.

Just over six feet of broad-shouldered utterly Teutonic good looks in a green leather jacket approached me as I was presented to him as his newest leading lady. He half-smiled at me in a crooked sort of way and raised his eyebrows in greeting. His eyes sparked a question in my direction. For me, instantaneously the world disappeared. He did not say a word. I was struck speechless staring into his translucent green eyes and wondering what had hit me. I was thunderstruck and outright tongue-tied. Still, neither one of us spoke. The situation was beginning to seem awkward. Out of nowhere, I heard a song I had sung years before from Robert Schumann's song cycle Frauenliebe und Leben (A Woman's Life and Love). The song I heard plainly was "Er der Herrlichste von Allen" (He the Most Magnificent of All)! I laughed out loud. I was home.

It was a moment that decided the rest of my life. Everything that followed was working out the emotional, tactical, and geographical along with many hurtful and clumsy details. I don't remember if I spoke to him then; I only remember laughing—it's all a blessed blur. I went back to California to learn my role and arrived for the twelve-week rehearsal period tremulous with anticipation. What happened was not a love affair. That came much later. We developed a deep friendship as only colleagues working day and night on an impossible project with an exacting stage director can.

We had fun in the rehearsals. We laughed and joked at the idiocy of trying to portray profoundly haunting emotions we hoped we never would have to experience. All the while we had to count out beats of intricately constructed rhythms while singing and acting disturbing scenes over and over again. Most of the time, hilarity took over, much to the chagrin of the ultraserious stage director. This happened especially every time Wozzeck had to slice his unfaithful wife's throat with a razor and six liters of stage blood spurted from a contraption affixed to my neck. It took innumerable attempts to achieve a flawlessly gory result, and we nearly always dissolved in laughter trying to get it right. That is just one of the cozier details of this production we were trying to get to premiere level.

Always and ever present in all of this was the romantic attraction. There, stalwart and unchanging, an irrefutable fact from our first eye contact, it pushed us inexorably to tough decisions that changed both of our lives. I traded my life in California for a chance to continue my career, but a huge contributing factor in this decision was my fascination for the heroic young singer, who would soon establish himself as one of the world's most distinguished bass-baritones.

Chapter Three

Frizbee's Predecessors

Frizbee's dramatic entrance into my life requires a preamble, a painted backdrop for the play in which one crazy little dog is the main protagonist. Frizbee's predecessors were few. Nevertheless, my happy experiences with this small cast of canine characters may have subliminally persuaded me to purchase the pup when all circumstances surrounding my impetuous decision spoke vehemently against it.

Family Dogs

Until my encounter with Frizbee the Furious, I had experienced only the joys of animal companionship. Most of my happy memories came from a succession of family dogs. What I expected from a canine cohort is tallied up neatly in my dog ownership history. All the dogs in my life had been "good dogs." Beginning with family pets, number one was randy Rastus. No sofa pillow or distinguished guest's leg was sacred. His tedious welcoming exercises became legendary. Rastus was an intelligent, bouncy rat terrier whose disposition was loyal and entertaining. His main trick was chasing his tail; he would hurl himself around our living room in circles until he fell over into a heap of frustration, much to my family's amusement. However, Rastus would have bitten off his own tail rather than threaten a family member or make anyone feel unwelcome.

It was the aging Rastus who brought us family pet number two. This was the magnificent Yogi, an abandoned wolf cub our rat terrier had somehow discovered. Later, the pup was identified as having border collie ancestors too, but it was the wolf in Yogi that made him so very special. It was a sticky Ohio summer evening, and my dad had taken us all out for a root beer in his nifty Chevrolet convertible. Returning home and swinging up our steep driveway, my father suddenly stopped and yelled out, "What the ...!" The headlights struck a small form. It was Rastus, still as a statue with a furry something nestled between his two front paws. He stood there risking his own life, obviously daring us to run him over! My mother and all three of her delighted daughters jumped out of the car. The stair-step sisters began squealing and begging: "Oh, Daddy! Can we keep him?" My father had no choice. He was outnumbered and was actually quite impressed by Rastus's intrepid and courageous act. The family adopted Yogi, who grew up huge and gentle, weighing more than one hundred pounds. This dog was a wrap-around schmoozer without an irritable bone in his lanky, wolfish body. He too would never have bared a tooth or growled a warning or reprimand. This would have been far beneath his dignity and would have indicated a lack of gratitude to the family who saved his life.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from LEARNING TO LIVE WITH FRITZby E. RAWLINS Copyright © 2012 by E. Rawlins. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.