Filling In

When you work the 11pm newscast, you don't want to get a call at midnight when you're 10 minutes from home after doing 2 live shots on the meth lab in Pleasanton. Because that call never ends well.

But this time it did. I was asked to come in this morning because our morning anchor, and mother of triplets, that's onetwothree babies, was sick. How Laura Garcia-Cannon isn't sick more often with her workload is an unsolved mystery.

I catnapped between 12:45am and 3:30am, one of those naps that party people swear by. I won't say Lindsay Lohan because I don't want to become the subject of a 100 million dollar lawsuit like the E-trade babies. But I did a soft reset of my mental computer. Power dowwwwnnnnn...And we're back!

Make up intact, hair carefully swept up so it rested on my pillow instead of going through the typical night time cyclone, and a light sleep on my back, no side-sleeping mascara smearing sheet ruining positions allowed.

I used to work mornings in my first job in Orlando. It was BRUTAL. No matter how much you try to combat your Circadian rhythm with special lights or extra sleep or crack cocaine, it is never natural to wake up at 3am. That is the DEFINITION of middle of the night. And it also slowly poisons your brain, turning the lobes into Swiss cheese. That's what I would tell my producers if I garbled my liveshot. Which I did, quite often, in those early virgin reporting days. 

This morning was light years ahead of my Orlando days. But not without some fill-in anchor FAILS.

Including what I said to Bob Redell after his live shot at the airport where Alaska Airlines launched its new service to Maui.

Me: "Bob, you need a lei out there!" The second it came out, I knew it sounded W to the r-o-n-g. But no time to correct it. Just move on with the school cuts story. Flog yourself later. Mercifully the control room cut off Bob's IFB so he didn't hear me.

I also thanked Brent. Randomly. In his own newscast. Right after he read a story, for some reason, I added a "Thanks Brent" before doing my read. Douchery! He is such a gracious man and kindly waved off my apology. Napolean Dynamite would have rightly called me an "IHHHdiot! DUH!"

Between segments and after the newscast we caught up on Brent's Life With Triplets. His kids are one month younger than Emmy. But, as with earthquakes on the Richter scale, each additional integer adds at least 10 orders of magnitude. In their case, it's mind-boondoggling. The round the clock schedule, the domino effect of crying, snuffling babies in the middle of the night, the three mouths to feed, three butts to wipe, three carseats to tote. I told Brent we have to do a "Day in the Life of the Cannon Triplets." That would easily be five parts of must see TV.

Now anytime I think Emmy Pearl has dialed my last digit, I will picture the Cannons in their car with three rows of seats, Brent at the wheel, two babies in the middle row, one baby in the back, and Laura climbing between all the seats to keep everyone from losing their minds during a long car ride. And I will kiss Emmy Pearl and see the diaper as half full. 

A fun morning with Brent, Mike, Craig, Bob and Christie. Next time, I won't reference Bob getting lei'd, and we should be all good.