I Say Beatles Are Good Insects. Do You Say No?

Near the end of our trip to Edinburgh I asked everybody what their favorite part had been.  As it turned out, the conversation took a winding turn and I didn’t get a turn to say what I'd liked best.   That was actually a good thing though, because at the time, I really didn’t know what my favorite part had been.  I do know now though.   Hey!  Wipe that smug look off your face.   Drinking Strongbow or Magners or Guiness or Stella was not my favorite thing.  Well, not my absolutely, top of the list, nothing-in-the-world-is-better-than-this favorite thing anyway.  Geez.   I’m kind of hurt.

My favorite thing wasn’t the Scottish wildlife ...

or the Scottish countryside ...

or the architecture.

 

No.  My  favorite part was that we all came home together.  My favorite part of the whole trip was not saying goodbye to anybody.   Nada.  Aaon duine.   That’s right.  Not one person.  Nobody.     

 

I wasn't saying goodbye but I did say a lot of hellos.  I said an excited “Hi!” to Leslie when we picked her up for the four-hour drive to the airport.  The drive that took place a whole day early so we could miss the October snowstorm heading our way.

 I said a friendly “hello” to the British Airways lady who checked us in. 

 I said a very tired “hello” to the rude and cranky sourpuss customs guy in London.  He berated us all because we didn’t fill in an exact street address for where we were staying in Edinburgh.   “When that form says address it means exact address.   It doesn’t mean just a city.  If they didn’t want an exact address it wouldn’t say address.”   In my exhausted state I began searching for a pen to fill it in but he told me, “I"ll let it go this time but just make sure you don't ever do it again.”  He wrinkled up his nose like I'd been on a plane for nine hours without a toothbrush and dismissed me with a disgusted wave of his hand.   I did not say goodbye to him when I left his “kingdom”.  I just wanted to get away from him before he found something else to yell at us about.   It was a relief to finally get to say a “hooray, you made it! Hello!” to Abby in the London terminal after we escaped from the little dictator.

When we left Edinburgh on that last morning, the bus driver who took us to the airport said goodbye but I didn’t.  I said “thank you.”  The pilot on the plane said goodbye but not me.  I said, “thank you! (for not crashing the plane).”  The very friendly U.S. customs lady said hello AND goodbye.  I said “thanks!” for not being like Mr. London customs and wished the London guy had gone to the same customer service training she must have attended.  The shuttle driver who took us to the hotel where our car was parked said “bye bye” but not me, I said, ... nothing.  I was too tired.

When we got home I said hello to the kids.  

Some of the people I work with said hello to me in their own special way. 

 I really love saying hello.  So does Abby.  Look.  Even Dean is almost smiling.  He likes saying hello too.

 

But Friday I had to say goodbye.  And none of us like that.  Doesn't Dean look sad?

 
I tried to forget how to say that goodbye word –  juh ... ooo ... duh ....buh ... eee? I tried to remove it from my vocabulary.  Goodbye?  What?  What'd you say?  I don't understand what you're saying.  Never heard of the word.  I tried to pretend like I wasn’t going to have to use it.  I pretended like we were still on vacation together. 

 







But it didn’t work.  I had to finally say it.  And I didn’t like it. 
























So I pretended like I hadn’t said it.  And now I'm just thinking about when I can say hello again.  We’re all waiting.  Seven weeks and four days …

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I Say Beatles Are Good Insects. Do You Say No?

Emily Post Hates Peacocks

Saturday Dean and I donned our special clothing and made our way to the local high school to usher at the last symphony of the season. I didn’t really want to go. It had been a beautiful and warm (finally!) day. I’d opened all the windows to try and switch out the old, stale winter air with the new, fresh spring air. I didn’t want to spend my evening in an old stuffy auditorium while birds were singing their own symphony in my yard. I couldn’t imagine anybody else would leave their yards to show up either and expected the attendance to be poor, but I put on my black usher clothes and off we went.

Have you ever wondered why black is the color designated for usher clothing? I guess it could be because it might make it easier to get volunteers. The odds of a person not owning black pants, shirt and shoes are pretty low--probably about the same as my cat not finding and eating a free range rubber band and then throwing it up. So, yeah, I suppose already having the clothing would make it harder to refuse a person on bloody knees begging you to usher. However, after last weekend, I now think the real reason usher clothing is black is because it makes them invisible when they need to slink down the aisles, in the dark, with late arrivers. This last symphony not only proved me wrong in my predicted low attendance, but unfortunately, it was also attended by an incredibly large number of thoughtless concert goers.

Our conductor is very laid back as far as conductors go. He doesn’t get upset if people clap when they shouldn’t; he’s cheerful and friendly and genuinely happy people are sitting in the audience. He’s nothing like the guy who conducted a symphony we attended in Rock Springs once. I still feel bad for the woman who forgot to inform her baby of the proper conduct at a symphony. If only she would have said, “Baby, do not squeak, gurgle, or coo at any time during the concert. Not once.” Soon after the music began, the baby made a small sound. The conductor stopped the orchestra, turned around, and shot daggers from his eyes straight into the mother’s eyes until she slunk out of the auditorium clutching her baby, never to be seen again. But even a laid back maestro deserves better than the proliferation of unforgivably rude concert goers that crawled out from under rocks for the final concert. The lights were dimmed, the symphony had begun and people were still sauntering in. I’m not talking about slipping in just before the doors closed (although there were plenty of those folks). I’m talking about unapologetic, shameless people who showed up five or ten or even 15 minutes after the musicians had been playing.

I have never figured out why it is so hard for some people to be on time. Do their watches not work? Do they not own a clock? Are they so busy and important they just can’t leave whatever oh-so-important thing they’re busy doing and get to the concert on time? It’s not like they jumped up from planting their spring onions, threw down the trowel, gasped “I’m late for the concert!” and showed up at the door out of breath, covered in compost and apologizing profusely. No, these people were strolling in decked out in their best symphony duds. Is their genetic makeup part peacock? “Oh, look at me. I’m walking to my seat. I’ve fluffed up my feathers and puffed up my chest. Look at my big peacock feather butt.” Do they think they are more important than a stage full of musicians? They’re not only rude but they’re stupid. It’s dark. Nobody can see them anyway.

And as long as I’m on the topic of rude, I’m a bit annoyed at the other ushers who seem to feel they can carry on loudly whispered conversations at the back of the auditorium, during the concert, while sitting in the (albeit very uncomfortable) folding chairs. Isn’t that what intermission is for? Tell each other about your bunions and how your son can’t get a job while you’re in the VIP room eating cookies and drinking punch. Come on…..you who complained about the late-arrivers and their rudeness. Get a clue. Or next season I might feel compelled to stab you with a peacock feather.◦

Emily Post Hates Peacocks