Because Emily Post Said So

I sang the Mozart Requiem tonight, as part of the Eastern Music Festival's 51st Summer Season.  EMF is based here in North Carolina, and is recognized as being a premier summer institute for young musicians throughout the country.  To my knowledge, this was the first choral/orchestral concert that the festival has produced, and I am honored that I was asked to be a part of it.  I even worked for the festival last year, producing their non-classical emfFringe concert series, and so it was nice to reunite with some of the staff and once again join in the legacy of the festival.  Plus, I mean, it's the Mozart-motherfucking-Requiem--come ON, y'all.  I'm not even a huge Mozart fan (don't get me wrong:  I get the genius and appreciate the importance, blah blah, but I'd rather listen to Britten or Mahler or Beethoven, who was after all, a motherfucker).  But the Mozart Requiem is on my bucket list of works I must conduct before I die, if for no other reason than I want to live through the Dies Irae and the Lacrymosa from the podium--and for all of you non-musicians out there, YouTube it.  Do it.  Do it now--it may take a few listens (or maybe a few years, as it did for me) before you get it, but one day these movements will take your breath away unexpectedly and you will finally understand.

Anyway, so I sang the Requiem--and sang it well, if I may say so.  It's not like I had a solo or anything, but I nailed the choral movements; I sang with expression and sound vocal technique (pun definitely intended), and even did much of it from memory so that I was able to really connect with the maestro and the audience.  Adrenaline was high after such a successful concert, plus it's Hump Day, which means only 2 more days working as a paper-pusher for midlevel bureaucrats in my own personal 10th circle of hell (also known as a "bank") before the weekend.  Can I get a "hell, yeah!"?  And, as is the custom in the music world, the players/singers leave the stage and file past the maestro so that we may all shake his hand and say thanks for the chance to make music together.  I was looking forward to shaking the maestro's hand, as I really respect his musicality (if not his conducting gesture, which would have been less clear only if he were conducting from inside a trash bag across the street at night, and I were blind), and wanted to express my thanks for such a meaningful experience in the middle of my semi-shitty work week.

I approach him, and stick out my hand.  He shakes it warmly and with a smile says, "Hey, good luck with the baby!" and then moves on to shake the next singer's hand.

Want to know how to piss off a woman beyond any measure you thought possible?

Yup.

So, here's my rule.  I encourage you, ALL of you--adult, child, human, amphibian, male, female, tranny, and undecided--take heed, because it might save you from one day humiliating yourself and really, REALLY pissing off an already-hormonal-mildly-emotional female (or even just the regular kind):

Unless you can physically see a human baby emerging from a woman's vagina AT THAT VERY SECOND do not under ANY CIRCUMSTANCES AND POSSIBLY UPON PAIN OF DEATH imply that she IS or EVER WILL BE pregnant.  And even then?  Let's be honest:  it's rude to be looking at a woman's vagina, unless you're a Lady Doctor, in which case you better be filing this as a claim with my insurance company.  So, really, just don't ever say anything about a baby.  Ever.  I'm pretty sure this was one of Emily Post's main caveats for social interaction:  "Always send a thank you note to your hostess in a timely manner and FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DON'T MENTION BABIES OR VAGINAS."  Look it up.

So what had been a musically and emotionally meaningful night for me, singing a work I love under a musician I respect, went drastically downhill in the span of 5 seconds.  At first I laughed about it.  Then I began thinking, "Shit, the diet starts TOMORROW."  Then I was all, "Wait, fuck that!  Fuck HIM for making me feel less than beautiful--I may be curvy, but I'm healthy and happy, so FUCK him and his motherfuckery (and NOT in the kick-ass Beethoven way, no sir)."  But now I'm just tired and cranky and dreading two more days at der Bank.  Basically, this week can suck it.  And so can the Maestro--because Emily Post said so.