Saturday, August 1, 2015

I've been temporarily fired.

my destination

I'm under-appreciated. I'm not terribly competent in regard to child care tasks. No one here really think my efforts are in any way useful. They don't even care about me.

And so, because  I'm only in the way anyway,   they're sending me away . , , to Catalina, as in Santa Cantalina, the little island approximately twenty-six miles away from its nearest point on the Pacifici coast. I'll be gone for three days and three nights. My brother, my on-again/off-again relationship partener Jared, the second-year resident tim, my cusin Josh, Jared's cousin Alyssa, my friend meredith from pre-college days, my Taiwanese-American med school friend Caroline, Kal Penn-look-alike, Raoul, and Cool Guy and a few others from med school, and  Josh's friend Amy are coming as well. Perhaps there's someone else I'm forgetting. If so, I'll tell you about it later.

We're scheduled to board a chartered boat that will depart at roughly 7:05 a.m. Depending up the size of the boat,the degree of roughness of the waters, the punctuality of everyone involved in the trip,  how much of a hurry the captain (which seems a bit grandiose a title for  a person who guides a likely somewhat unimpressive watercraft across a tiny stretch of the Pacific and back) is in, and other factors of which I may not have thought, we'll reach the shores at Avalon somewhere between 9:30 and 10:30. 

Scott just woke me up and told me to pack. I'm a fast packer. i'm packed, dressed, and ready to go, with nothing to do for the next twenty minutes or so until we leave the house. The babies  are still sleeping, or i culd play with them or play the piano. When it was just Andrew, I played the piano while he was asleep. Right now, with two babies in the picture, I don't wish to do anything to upset the equilibrium around here. The new kid will eventually need to learn to deal with the flow as it goes in this house, in which basic environmental noises include someone pounding on a Steinway or screeching on a violin, but they're giving the baby at least  until somewhere around the date on which she should have been born to adapt. after that, I suspect she's fair game for whatever chaos they produce. It's not an act of kindiness on their part; they just don't want to listen to her cry any more than they must.

She is crying less in the past two days. It just seems to take preemies a little longer to adjust to life ex utero, and they compensate by crying. who can blame them?

In any event, we have no agenda for our time on the island. It's a small island without an over-abundance of available recreational opportunities; three days is probably the perfect amount of time for us to spend there.  the only thidoes, and she would've had  field day with that I will do for certain is parasail. Parasailing is to me the closest thing to heaven i can conceptualize. (Perhaos I'll re-sequence my activities in relation to their paradisiacal properties once i've experienced sex; then again, maybe I won't. Time alone will tell. [i made a rather odd miscue in typing that last sentence. It originally read as typed, "Tim alone will tell." I  can say with total honesty that the error was purely typegrahocal and not Freudian in nature, but still i'm glad I caught it before I published. Tim doesn't read this blog, but his sister does. she would have had a field day with the unedited version of the sentence.] )

For the next three days and nights, diapers, baby food, and other matters related to Irish twins well under a year old belong to someone else. I'm on holiday!

Hasta la visata. Carpe diem. Gung hay fat choi, or however you spell it.

Friday, July 31, 2015

Camille's high-tech baby spa

The system Aunt Allison ordered for Camille was a bit more portable, but it was the same  idea and by the same manufacturer (Thalasso, I think); Water is preheated; no water goes directly from the home's tap onto the baby, as such can be dangerous. Water that makes contact with the baby has been pre-heated and measured both by instrument and by touch.  I have mixed feelings. I got by just fine without it, but it surely seemed to shut Camille up.

One of my Godchildren's aunts is a director of nursing at a hospital in Utah. This particular aunt has been claiming that Camille is cold even though she's swaddled practically like a mummy except for when she's on the jaundice bed, which she still need to do for about two hours a day. (That's down from about six hours, so the parents are finding two hours of steady screaming until the poor tortured baby cries herself to sleep manageable as opposed to six hours. Anyway,  when the grandmother who is a nurse practitioner  was checking the baby's vitaals this afternon, the baby's temp was just a little low. The consensus was that the baby needed to be wrapped in warm blankets aand held close to mom. if mom were a bit warmer, more skin-to-skin contact might be better, but mom isn't warmer.

The aunt who is a director of nursing in Utah talked to the chief of the NICU at her hospital about a bathing system that simulates the baby's experience in the womb, which they use particularly  on preemies who don't yet seem comfortable in their own skin. The aunt ordered one and had it sent here.  She told the baby's mom that she would stop at any point if the mom was uncomfortable with it. The nanny was familiar with the technicques and had used it with preemie twins simultaneously with positive results. 

They warmed the water to the proper temperature (I think it was 98.8, but I'm not certain) and  had the other hold Baby Camilles in the tub of water while the aunt direced the swirling water around the baby. Sounds simulating what the baby hears in utero were played  as the water was channeled over and around the baby's body. The aunt told the mom to talk softly to the baby. Baby Camille sceramed for about fifteen seconds, then gradually settled into it.. She'd already been fed and had already pooped, so she was just waiting to go back to sleep. after about fifteen inutes, the aunt had the mother dry her in soft towels, then diaper the baby and wrap her gently but not quite swaddled in soft warmed baby towels covered by a warm blanket. The mom rocked her for a few minutes before putting hr in her cradle.  They let the baby sleep a bit longer than she's usually allowed to sleep between feeding. When she woke up ninety minutes later, she nursed hungrily for almost twice as long as she typically does, then went right back to sleep after pooping.

The pediatrician is here checking Camille out now. She's two ounces up from yesterday, at 4 lbs., 10 ounces. Tthe pediatrician said the system should only beused once a day because too many baths of any kind will dry out the baby's skin, but to use the system daily  if it works.  And he agrees with the aunt that Camille was probably cold.

Baby Andrew saw all the attention the new baby was getting with the bath. Afterward, he kept saying, 'Adu, Adu' presumably meaning he wanted a turn next. The aunt didn't want to contaminate the system with another baby's germs, plus he's a little big for it, so she just found a larger plastic tub, filled it with warm water, and had the father hold him in it while she poured water on him and swirled it around. She played the womb sounds CD even though it probably had little effect on him after 8 1/2 months out of the womb.  It seemed to leave his nose less out of joint than if he'd been told no because he was too big. I'm glad everyone is being sensitive to Andrew's needs, as it can't be easy to have another kid show up to be the new  baby in your house when you're not even nine months old. Scott says it's better this way. He won't even know what hit him as long as he gets as much attention as he needs.

We'll probably have an easier day with Camilled today than we did yesterday.

Thursday, July 30, 2015

Babies bring such peace into the home (cough, cough).

The reading produced by this harmless-looking device determines the level of sanity that will prevail in this house on a given day.

New baby Camille Catherine arrived home yesterday at 11:05 a.m. Between Camille and her eight-and-one-half-month-old Irish twin brother, I'm reasonably sure there hasn't been one solitary second of quiet in this house.  As a rule, the medical establishment has concerns about the health of the lungs of premature babies. These two were both significantly (six weeks and eight weeks repectively) premature, but if the ability to make noise any way other than by wheezing  is any indication of lung capacity, I'd  say both of them are doing just fine in that department.

Camille cries almost anytime she's not eating or sleeping. She doesn't eat or sleep all that much, which leaves an abundance of time for crying.  She eats every hour on the hour, or at least someone tries to get food down her on that schedule.  

They (her grandmothers,  her father, both grandfathers, all the aunts and uncles, and the grand-Godparents) all worry about the amount of milk (mostly the real thing; she's being breastfed, and the supplementary feedings are from stored breast milk) she's consuming, but she must be getting something down, as she's up to 4 lbs. 8 oz., from a birth weight of 3 lbs, 13 oz., and from an all-time low of 3 lbs., 3 oz.  Both grandmothers are also concerned about the quality of nutrients in the breast milk, but what they're failing to ackowledge is that she lost the ten ounces on high-octane preemie formula. It wasn't until she  started getting some of her mother's milk that she began to regain her lost weight.

The nanny (who holds a master's in nursing science), the mother,  and the pediatrician think the baby is doing just great and are only worried [the nanny and the pediatrician; the mother thinks she can do this forever if necesary] about the mother's ability to hold up and to produce milk at the rate of the grand-prize Holstein they're treating her as though she is. The mother has cystic fibrosis and does well to consume enough calories to keep herself from looking like an anemic  Eithopian refugee.  Beyond that, throughout the pregnancy and for as long as she breastfeeds, she's not taking the very best medications to control her own condition. She's compensating by having increased percussive repiratory therapy and alternate medications. She'll continue as long as the baby has to have breast milk, but the original plan was for the baby to be breastfed only for six weeks. 

This morning was the first morning in  several days that baby Camille hasn't put on  at least one ounce.  One would think from the collective response around here that North Korea* had actually produced a weapon of mass destruction that would travel further than its own backyeard and had
already launched it directly at the address of the home we're all currently inhabiting. The pediatrician's trying to put a bit of perspective on it by saying that if everyone gained an ounce every day of his or her life, we're be morbidly obese before we were old enough for preschool.

My job is mostly to keep eight-and-one-half-month-old Andrew happy. It's a relatively easy task. While he's not a quiet child, he is, by nature, happy. 

I actually think his sister is happy, too, strangely enough. I think she cries because she has to do something when she's awake and not eating,  and there's not much else she can do at this point. As soon as she is unwrapped enough  that she can discover her toes or learn to kick the noise-making toys hanging across the lower end of her cradle, she'll do that instead of crying all the time. Her cries for the most part do not sound like cries of distress to me. The nanny agrees with me. I mostly keep my opinions to myself, though, as were I to do otherwise, I would only be told how little I know, and I already know that.

Tuesday, July 28, 2015

Staring Down One's Demons

I've been obsessed with morbid crimes, particularly involving children or women as victims, since as long as I can remember. My mom agrees that I've always carried an unnatural preoccupation with true crime in general, and in particular with those crimes in which I could in any way relate to the victim.

I was barely two when Jonbenet Ramsey was found strangled and with her head severely damaged in the basement of her family's home. Shortly after the story broke, our immediate family was vacationing with my dad's side of the family at an over-sized cabin somewhere in the mountains of Utah. The cabin would have needed to be very large to accommodate my grandparents, their offspring and the spouses of those who were married, and the children of those who had already started families. The family is much larger now, but even then, there were probably at least thirty people in that cabin.

The cabin had some sort of dish network TV access. The men and several women were watching BYU's football team in a bowl game. (I looked it up: it was the Cotton Bowl, which would have made the date January 1, 1997.) During a commercial, Uncle Mahonri clicked the remote control to a news channel that was covering the Jonbenet Ramsey murder case. I toddled closer to the TV to watch and listen. From the kitchen portion of a huge kitchen that connected with an even larger family room, my  mother, who was spreading ricotta cheese across a layer of lasagna, hollered out loudly, "Change the channel now!" 

Mahonri  answered, "I'm interested in this!" and otherwise ignored my mom. My mother dropped the rubber spatula she had been using  into the container of ricotta cheese and quickly made her way across a family room floor strewn with toys and children. She picked me up, then reached down and turned the TV off  by pressing the "power" button on the TV. It's now a well-kept secret, but TVs can be turned off and channels can be changed not just with the access of a remote control device, but also by pressing buttons directly on a television set or on a cable or network box.

Mahonri, who held the remote device,  blurted out, "What in the Sam Hill did you have to go and do that for?  I was interested in that!"  Another uncle quietly made a joke about Mahonri being concerned about whether or not the feds were onto him yet, after which all the men but Mahonri laughed. Mahonri glared at the others, then started to turn the TV back on with the remote control.  My mother grabbed the remote device from his hand before he could turn the TV on again. "Hey! Who died and made you the TV monitor?" he yelled at my mom.

By this time, my grandmother had left the kitchen to mediate the dispute. My mom handed the remote control to my grandmother. "Mahonri clicked onto  coverage of that little girl in Colorado who was found dead, " my mom whispered to my grandma, but not quietly enough that I couldn't pick up on the gist of what she was saying. "Alexis was watching, and I didn't want her to see it. I don't think it's good for any of these children to see it." 

"We were watching the football game," my Uncle Steve explained to his mother,   "and he [nodding in the direction of Mahonri; he couldn't point because he had nachos  in one hand and an Orange Crush bottle in the other] clicked it off the game. No one else wants to watch that either, Mom." My grandma handed the remote device to my Uncle Steve, who had by then downed the nachos remaining in his hand. Steve turned the TV back on and quickly changed the channel back  to the one carrying the Cotton Bowl.

My mother carried me into the kitchen, telling me that I could help her cook. "What happened to that girl?" I remember asking my mom. "Nothing," she lied to me. "They were just showing a picture of her because she's so pretty." It was probably right after the media had made the connection between Jonbenet and the baby beauty pageant circuit, as I recall the TV screen having been filled with the image of a beautiful blond child in formal attire with a tiara atop her head. 

"Are you going to put blinders and ear plugs on her until she turns 18, Erin?" Mahonri hollered out to my mom. "This is the real world she lives in. You can't shield her from everything."

"She doesn't have to know about everything ugly in the world when she's two," my Aunt Cristelle muttered to my Uncle Mahonri."

"Shut up, Cristelle!" Mahonri muttered back. "You're every bit as stupid as Erin is." For the record, my dad was outside gathering firewood to bring inside. Mahonri would not have spoken of my mother in such a manner had my dad been in the room.

"Mahonri," my grandmother admonished, 'We do not speak that way at family gatherings. Go outside if you cannot control your mouth better than that." 

Mahonri sulked through the remainder of the Cotton Bowl, in which, due to the magic of the Internet, I can tell you BYU went on to defeat Kansas State  19-15, leaving most of those with any interest whatsoever in a good mood. 

That's my earliest memory (and some of the details are sketchy to me; my mom filled in what I couldn't remember) of an encounter with true crime.

The kidnapping of Elizabeth Smart struck me hard. One set of cousins  had grandparents on the other side of their family who lived just around the corner from Elizabeth's grandparents in Salt Lake City. Elizabeth was considerably older than I but, I had played with her younger sister on more than one occasion.

The disappearance of Laci Peterson bothered me deeply though she was much older than I, in particular because it happened not terribly far from where we lived. The killings of Carole Carrington Sund, her daughter Juli, and their foreign exchange student Silvina Pelosso were a source of great anxiety to me because my family had stayed at the hotel where Silvina and Carole were killed and from which Juli was taken. I've since then refused to vacation anywhere near the vicinity. 

Polly Klaas was kidnapped and killed before I was born, but some misguided teen-aged relative babysitter watched a made-for-TV movie on the topic with Matthew and me in the room when we were not quite four years old. We both had nightmares  -- Matthew for weeks and I had them for months, and probably still have an occasional nightmare based on something I saw in the movie.

I didn't have a direct connection to the Martin and Michele MacNeill case, but during summers that I spent with Uncle Scott and Aunt Jillian, the case against Martin MacNeill was being made. One of Scott's brothers lived very near the home where it happened, and his parents were not terribly far from the location, either. The other children were told to mention nothing about the situation to me, but I eventually picked up a newspaper and discovered that I was spending some of my nights within a literal stone's throw from a heinous crime scene.  Having  seen in person a man who drugged then drowned his wife in a bathtub has interrupted my sleep too many times.

In the aftermath of my own personal near-miss in the form of an attack that injured me but in which an all-out rape or sodomy was kept from happening, I received treatment not just for the physical injuries but for psychological ones. One of my counselors suggested that at some point when I have time (and when that might possibly be in the next few years is difficult to pinpoint) I might choose to focus upon perhaps just one of the true crimes from which I was impacted by the fallout to research and write about in depth. 

While it would seem in some ways to be counterproductive to what I would be trying to accomplish, I can also see the logic in it.  I suppose it's a way of facing down one's demons once and for all. I do not yet know which crie upon which I wuld choose to condense my efforts, or even if I might choose to write in great detail about my own experience. the disadvantage to using my own experience is that it is so very close to home that reliving it might be all the more painful. An advantage to using my own story as opposed to someone else's is that I've already been exposed to all the details. There won't be any new details to haunt me.

The particular counselor suggested that on nights when I've been awakened by an especially bothersme nightmares, I should assess my circumstances. if possible, my first course of action should always to be to go ack to sleep, with the assistance of others around me or even with pharaceutical assistance if it's not too soon before I must be awake.

If going back to sleep is not a possibility, I should assess my circumstances. If i'm feeling unsafe, i should do what i need to do to feel safe, whether than means calling someone  to come spend the rest of the night at my house, sleeping in a blanket on my brother's bedroom floor, moving to my parenrs' room, for the remainder of the night if they happen to be around, or something similar.

If I've assessed my sitaion and feelperfectly safe yet cannot sleep, and if I'm unable to concentrate on any other reading or studying project, that is the time at which I should work on the true crime story on which I've chosen to focus. I would be doing that right now except that i've decided it wuld be best for me to choose a subject for my focus in the light of day when I'm a little less spooked by the nightmare that just woke me. 

Tomorrow when Baby Andrew is sleeping, I will make a decision as to which true crime shall receive the benefit of my focus. 

P.S. Tomorrow may be the final semi-quiet day around the home where I'm working for awhile. Baby Camille Catherine, who weighed in at 4 lbs, 7 oz, on Monday morning, is slated to make her very first trip home tomorrow (Wednesday). I'll be up at the crack of dawn helping neighbors and relatives to decorate the house with welcoming signs, ribbons, and balloons,  for the entire family. (Even though he's too young at almost nine months to really know what's happening, we do not want little Andrew to feel slighted in the least.)

Monday, July 27, 2015

Bye Bye, "Bye Bye Birdie"

In addition to Saturday night's performance, which went off without a hitch, I ended up being Kim McAfee one last time in the Sunday matinee performance. If I ever do any show again, whether it's as an actress or a musician, remind me to be sick or otherwise unavailable for the matinee performances. The really old people come to those. They talk loudly to each other while we're supposed to be saying our lines, then complain loudly to each other that we're not speaking loudly enough and they can't hear us. I'd rather deal with a teen or young adult texting or otherwise playing with his phone  than talk over old people's voices. They have no clue just how loud they are.

My mom filled in last night, then helped the regular pianist, who was at about 60% capacity during the matinee. He had to run out twice during songs, and my mom was right there to take over. My mom worked with him on playing Rosie's notes in her most difficult songs without losing any of the accompaniment. He seemed to get it. My mom was happy to help, but she, too, is about as happy as I am to say goodbye to "Bye Bye Birdie."

They're all off tomorrow, as the company does no shows on Mondays.  That will give piano player's gastric system almost forty-eight hours to recover and will give the real "Kim McAfee" time to get over jet lag, grief, or whatever else ails her.

As far as Bye Bye Birdie and I are concerned, I'm essentially entering the witness protection program. My cell phone number may have to be changed anyway, as my cell phone is defunct. I'm getting a new plan with the new phone, and I'm not sure I'll keep the same number. To those of you who need my number, remind me who you are, and I'll let you know if there is a change.  

If I hear that the real Kim McAfee is sick, injured, catatonic, or otherwise impaired,  I'll probably change my appearance dramatically. Perhaps I'll purchase a fat suit and color my hair Lucille-Ball-red. Then again, maybe I'll have a so-black-it's-almost-blue dye job done. I'll cross that bridge if and when I come to it, but one thing is for sure: I'm not going to be on a stage pretending to swoon as Conrad Birdie sings that gawdawful "Honestly Sincere" song again.

My newest Godchild, Camille Catherine, weighed four pounds, six ounces Sunday morning. Her prognosis for discharge on Wednesday is excellent.

Saturday, July 25, 2015

Separated at birth???

Has anyone other than I noticed  the at least slight resemblance between Brody Jenner and serial killer Cary Stayner? I'll post a link to Stayner's story below, as there are now  officially too many mass murderers for everyone to keep track of them all. I've had  more than a passing interest in the Stayner case because one of my aunts is marginally acquainted with the Stayner family and because my family  vacationed in Yosemite that year, thoroughly traumatizing me,  and because it all went down not that far from my neck of the woods at the time.

I say this at the risk of  publicly raising my personal morbidity index from marginal to fully gruesome,  but I actually believe Stayner is the better looking of the two men in this specific head-to-head comparison. This is  particularly salient when one considers that Jenner's picture is probably some sort of photo op set-up,   and more likely than not he spent ten to fifteen minutes in a cosmetician's chair  having his mug made maximally attractive,  versus Stayner's  literal mug shot, before which  Stayner, in all likelihood,  was given neither the time  nor a washcloth or a comb with which to tidy himself up prior to the photo op.

When I have a bit more time, I'll share my own saga in relation to true crime  and the killings that caused me to need a night light in order to sleep most nights to this very night.  For now, however, please simply  note the resemblance, real or imagined  on my part,   and wonder, as do I, just how it is that a man who had been living practically under a rock in order to evade law enforcement officials can emerge from beneath said rock, have his picture snapped, and come out of the photography session looking even in the ballpark of  comparability to a Jenner / Kardashian  in terms of overall handsomeness if not in actual physical facial  resemblance.

Don't worry, Mom, Dad, Uncle Steve, Uncle Scott, or Judge Alex: I have not developed a sudden affinity for and/or attraction to "bad boys." I have no intention whatsoever of hooking up (in any sense of the term) with  a gem of a pen pal from one of the state's or nation's many high-quality correctional facilities. Instead, I'm merely noting what I perceive as a rather  unlikely resemblance between an inmate currently housed in San Quentin's famous Death Row Wing and a Kardashian by association.

Opening Night: Does it ever go off as planned?

This is how  quintessential nerd Harvey Johnson will always look in my mind, although I would have made his hair a few shades lighter.

I know my few readers are tired of hearing about Bye Bye Birdie, but this is a journal of sorts. Right now I'm up to my neck in diapers by day, and in Bye Bye Birdie by night. Twenty years from now I may wonder just what it was I did in the summer of 2015. This is for me a written record. For you, it's mostly just boring. I apologize.

This evening we were within less than half an hour of curtain opening when the guy who plays piano for the production (the only one out of all of us who gets paid to the best of my knowledge, though that's neither here nor there) developed a colossal case of Montezuma's Revenge. When he took Immodium, he couldn't keep it down.  We could have gotten by without virtually any other musician (we're just using a combo, with a guitarist, bass player, drummer, clarinetist, and pianist; why they chose a clarinet as the sole wind instrument is anyone's guess), which is probably why the pianist is the one who gets paid -- that and the fact that the pianist has to come to most of the rehearsals for the duration of the run, while the others don't come in until the final few rehearsals.

The clarinetist plays piano, but probably not well enough to play an entire score she hasn't really played on piano. I could have easily done it with minimal cuing in regard to cuts and repeats, but I obviously had other responsibilities. The director did consider moving the "Ursula" character to the "Kim" part and putting another of the screechers into "Ursula's" part, and having me play the piano, but just as in a team sport, the more people who are out of position, the greater chance there is for a breakdown somewhere. 

I asked my mom if she would mind filling in as piano accompanist. She would have been capable of playing the score  with her eyes closed even though she's never accompanied for this particular musical. The only possible difficulty for her would have been that everyone's version of any musical has cuts and repeats for various reasons where they're not written in the score  -- a scene change takes longer because the scenery is more complicated than it's supposed to be, a wardrobe change takes more time, a particular part of a song just isn't working, the director doesn't like the particular music written for a given scene change -- all sorts of possibilities can arise. 

Sometimes last-minute glitches come up -- someone's wig has been misplaced or someone else's brain freezes and he or she is nowhere to be find when it's time for him or her to go onstage -- and the "orchestra" has to kill time until it's found. Those things my mom could deal with as well as anyone. It's the cuts and repeats that happen every time that she needed to be told.

We moved the bass player right next to my mom,  as he's the sharpest of the lot and was the most able to cue a new piano player in on alterations to the score. It's "Bye, Bye, Birdie," not a Rachmaninoff piano concerto that my mom was dealing with. She has a doctorate in vocal and piano performance, and is a university piano and voice professor, and is considerably more skilled than is the poor sick guy even using unfamiliar and slightly sub-standard Roland digital equipment with its own idiosyncrasies. my mom says whether she plays tomorrow night or not, she's bring one of our digital pianos for whoever plays to use. we have more than we need, so she'll probably donate one to the theatre, as our worst digital piano is far better than the one owned by the theatre company, and there's a limit to how many digital pianos we need to keep around the house. 

I don't know how the change in piano players impacted anyone else, but for me personally, it was distracting in a good way. i was on auto-pilot mixed with a bit of adrenaline in terms of my own part. My mom picked up on Rosie's musical issues and was able to play most of Rosie's melodies in the accompaniment without leaving accompaniment licks out, as she's a literal professional. The original accompanist had tried substituting Rosie's melody for the treble piano part in several areas, but it left the accompaniment sounding too bare-boned. The accompaniment as written was needed in addition to Rosie's melodies. 

When my mom got home, she used her computer program to play the part the way she played it tonight, so that the real piano player can play it the way she does when he returns. She could have written it out by hand, but it would've taken an hour or two versus the fifteen minutes it took to play it into the computerized keyboard and print it out.

Rosie did well, and I didn't even need to back her up after about two lines of her hardest song. Overall, it was the single greatest discrepancy between a final dress rehearsal and the subsequent opening night performance that I've ever seen, and I've seen a lot of both as an accompanist. I haven't acted that much, but I've played piano for more musicals than I can recall off the top of my head.

The worst thing that went wrong was that someone in props thought it would be a good idea to use actual broken glasses taped together at the bridge for the nerdy "Harvey Johnson" character as opposed to putting tape on any old pair of horn-rimmed glasses and letting the audience assume they were broken. The glasses kept actually falling apart on the poor guy, which was rather distracting as he tried to sing his solos. It was only distracting to him. I think the audience thought it was supposed to happen that way. Now that "Harvey' is used to it, they may leave the broken glasses in.

We don't know yet if the original piano player will have recovered enough to return tomorrow.  I hope nothing is seriously wrong, but I also hope whatever is wrong is not contagious. If half the cast came down with similar symptoms, the production would be in a world of trouble.

Neonate Update: Baby Camille Catherine weighed in this (or technically yesterday) morning at a grand total of 4 lbs, 4 oz. All signs are pointing toward a July 29 discharge date. It's a bit of an old wives' tale that a baby under five pounds will not be released from the hospital. If the baby has made good growth to get to the weight he or she is at, is continuing steady growth,  is otherwise strong and healthy, and has competent caregivers, doctors don't use five pounds as the automatic discharge weight.

I'll try to post the song, "The Telephone Hour," with poor Harvey Johnson's solos. 

For the record, I think  Allie Trimm in the 2009 Broadway revival of Bye Bye Birdie was much more suited to the role of "Kim McAfee" than was Ann-Margaret in the movie version.  Ann-Margaret seemed too sophisticated, like a 28-year-old pretending to be a 15-year-old. Maybe there's something I don't know and that's how young teens really looked and talked in the early 1960's, but I find it hard to believe.

Sleep well.