Happy Monday! This blogisode is brought to you by David Benoit, who is sitting next to me on the couch backstage during Act One, entertaining me with his impersonation of Little Edie from the documentary Grey Gardens. His impersonation involves an upper crust New York/Massachusetts accent (although the documentary is set in Long Island, they are relatives of Jackie Bouvier Kennedy and they have an accent that is distinguishable as wealthy, yet is indistinguishable by region.) David's impersonation involves talking to me constantly with this accent, while adding "Mother Darling" to the end of every sentence. For example, "How much longer until your entrance, Mothah dahling?" Or, "Mothah Dahling, how is your husband's pancreas feeling?" It may not seem funny, but he is dressed like this and sitting about a foot away from me, so it's cracking me up.
We've reached the point in the summer where rehearsals are over and the show is running at night. It's a glorious thing, and fun, fun, fun. Afternoons at the pool, and work at night--pure pleasure. A word about pools and Vermont, because I personally find this fascinating. No one has a pool in Vermont, although there is a pool at a local Bed and Breakfast, called The Frog's Leap. They allow Weston Playhouse company members to swim for free. This is the only pool I've ever seen in Vermont.....although everyone and their brother has a pond in their backyard. For years I've thought it was the strangest act of nature that everyone had a pond in their back yard--like a giant had walked through
Vermont and left foot prints that filled with rain water--but my Jack In the Beanstalk fantasy was cut off at the knees when I found out that people actually dig their ponds. As in, they are all man made....like pools in Florida. It's chic to have a pond. And often, you have to add a water source to keep it full. People put in docks and diving boards and then the snakes and turtles and frogs show up and people get in and swim in those leech infested waters. Disgusting. Sorry for all you pond lovers (including my children), but I'll take a pool any day. This, by the way, is coming from the daughter of Chuck Wheatley, former owner of Poolmaster swimming pools. David just said, "Mothah darhling, blog about your father's businesses and inventions. They're funny." Now he's parading with an American flag.
Back to our story, although I would like to add a video of David as Little Edie. He refuses, Mothah dahling.
Light your pine scented candle, we're back to Quisisana. We left off with Charlotte, Beatrix and Sister Wife Amy Rogers at Treble toys. Rob's rolled in a ball on Jane's couch. I'm worry-cleaning Jane's immaculately clean cabin while trying to keep things secret. Which is hard for me. As you can tell from this public tell-all blog.
After waiting about 45 minutes, watching Rob stay about the same (while he said he was getting better), I decided to leave him resting by the phone while I went and packed him for the hospital. As I walked to the cabin, I encountered Amy running down the path without the kids. I asked her if everything was okay and she said, "Everything is fine, I'm just running to your cabin for a diaper and a maxi pad." I had to laugh. Welcome to having kids who are thirteen and three.
I packed Rob (NOT a diaper and a pad), and headed back to Jane's cabin. It turns out that in the 10 minutes I was gone, the doctor had called and suggested we could to an emergency room to get his pancreas numbers checked although, as he said, "It might just be a stomach flu." Dr. Wheatley here, authority on all things pancreatis-y, weighs in--this was no stomach flu. I called the general manager of Quisisana, Larry Hall(Because he’s discreet and a native of Maine), and got directions to the small hospital in nearby Bridgton, Maine. I packed Rob in the car and off we went. Rob, I should add, was in pain, but moreover completely over it that he was sick again. I, on the other hand, was happy he was well enough to be so furious. This confirmed what he was saying, that he wasn’t as sick as he’d been in New York, but he was definitely relapsing.
Unlike the frantic drive to the ER in Manhattan, the drive to Bridgeton was peaceful. Okay, okay, maybe I did ask him 1,247 times if he was okay, if I needed to pull over so he could throw up, and to rank the pain level from one to ten (One being, "Hey let's go ride horses!" Ten being "If you don't give me the strongest pain medicine you have I will strangle you.") In New York his pain hung out at about a nine, in Maine he got to a five. Regardless, my worry level stayed at Shirley MacLaine level at all times.
(Or Code Red, if we are in Dick Cheney post-9/11 speak).
After a beautiful 25 minute ride along country roads (no moose sighted), we arrived at the Bridgton Hospital. And the real fun began.