Feeling: amused... and proud
Listening to: KT Tunstall - Miniature Disasters
Reading/Watching: homework, always always always.

Yesterday, during four hours of Rosh Hashanah, my voice did her best. She's championed over a year of hollering at middle-schoolers, allergies, heartburn, and stress, and now she's trying to rise above the petty troubles of an ulcer and its killer acid reflux.

She was promised an end of work-day at 1 p.m. so that she could retreat and remain sedentary for a few hours afterward, while attempting to repair the wear and tear.

One o'clock approached, a solid four hours after our warm-ups and practice began, and I was in the middle of tab 23 out of 30 in our songbook. I pumped out Uv'shofar Gadol, complete with four soprano solos and a total of eighteen measures spent on ledger lines. My voice finished, and whimpered. I gave her a cough drop and promised it would be over soon.

Then came a call-answer prayer, which included echoing the cantor's high F phrase and jumping minor sixths and sevenths to notes that were, once again, above the staff. My voice whined. I promised, nothing but congregational pieces from now on... nothing showy.

But I tricked her. She was already filling out her time sheet and picking up her purse at 1:20, and I dragged her back front-and-center for Haven Yakir Li, placating with the fun harmonic minor and ooh, looky, augmented seconds, we love those... and sneaked in the fortissimo high Gs.

"Seriously, lady, what the eff?" she snarked, and huffed back in place, saying she could last for five more minutes, but that was it.

Kim sang her portion of the cantillation, always beginning on a solid D, and I echoed a fourth higher. Then came the big bad... sliding up and down chromatically and gliding past an A. The A popped. My voice was filing her formal complaint.

I ignored it, inwardly begging, and busted out one last glissando up to a B-natural, trying hard to breathe deep, press in for support, loop the air above of the swelling... and land. It soared, and I finished with the A, slumping onto a slightly shaky G.

My voice slunk to a corner and glared, saying, "It's on now, bitch."

I kept things simple, murmuring my way through the final folk song, until we reached the last Amen. I tried to go for the optional high A one. more. time.

That was when my voice's lawyer showed up, handing me a notarized letter: "On behalf of my client, I must ask that you cease and desist all abusive actions immediately and compensate with overtime wages in a timely manner."

The A cracked, wobbled, and dribbled into nothing. The voice had gone on strike, and was going to let me tough it out on my own.

The congregation stood, walking up to greet the singers, stopping to tell me how lovely I sounded, and of course, my speaking voice was a cross between Kathleen Turner and Jimmy Durante.

I rewarded her for four and a half hours of good work, drinking about three gallons of water at lunch and throwing in a mango sorbet for good measure. She grumbled, but accepted the bribe.

We are back on for Kol Nidre (shh, don't tell her about Yom Kippur).

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