random thoughts – Day 1,145 – (Saturday) – pageantry and monologues

The workweek wore me out and it was off to bed at 9:00 Friday night. It worked out, because one of the neighbors had a gathering and cars were parked three deep at the end of the street, blocking me in the driveway, so I couldn’t have gone out easily, even if I wanted to. History shows I probably wouldn’t have wanted to leave, but it still ticked me off.

That crown looks heavy.

Going to bed early almost always means being woken up more times during the night. True to the pattern, at 11, Winston wanted to go potty, and again a couple hours later. At 6:00 a.m., he sent the Winnie signal to go out again. That’s when I remembered the Coronation was happening. As tempting as it was to return to bed, coffee was brewed and the day began. 

The pomp! The pageantry! The symbolism! The wardrobes and jewels! I wondered if King Charles’ neck hurt from the weight of that nearly five-pound, jewel encrusted coronation crown. 

Dang, those "caps" look annoying.

The other thing I wondered about was the gigantic, fluffy bear skin cap worn by the Foot Guards. Yes, the “cap” (I looked it up) which happens to be a mere 18 inches high and sits low over the eyes, which would make me insane.  My bangs make me nuts when they are a  fraction of an inch too long and in my eyes. And it takes one black bear to make each cap, which makes me sad. It was better when I thought it was fake bear skin. Sometimes a little knowledge is a troubling thing.

And speaking of bangs – cripes, newly crowned Queen Camilla, could you not quit touching your hair after that crown was placed on your head? Maybe she and I share the same hair being annoying thing.

After all the fanciness on TV, it was time to reenter American commoner reality with a trip to two Market Basket locations. The first one had roasted chicken for Winston and mini cupcakes for an art reception, but no stuffed grape leaves, requiring the trip to the second store.

At The Brush Art Gallery and Studios, the associate artists’ show of painting, photography, fiber arts, and sculpture is displayed beautifully. Did I take a photo of my photo hung on the wall? Or maybe the lovely refreshment table a few of us set up? Nope, nope.

There was the usual reception wine and great refreshments, including the elusive grape leaves. There was banter and chitchat and at least one conversationalist I couldn’t seem to escape. A man asked me to show him my piece in the show. He never said his name, but I was wearing a name tag, so he had the unfair advantage. We were joined by another photographer, and first guy launched into a longwinded spiel about himself, his arts organization affiliation, and his recent sale of a sculpture. I was finally able to extricate myself.

Later, I ended up being in the audience to another longwinded recitation of first guy’s career. When he pulled out the cell phone photo of his sculpture at a show elsewhere to show the other audience member, I bolted.

Even later, as we prepared to take the remaining snacks to the back room and clean up, first guy approached and asked me to show him my photo display in another room. He barely glanced at it, said something like “oh,” and launched into another monologue.

Good grief, man. Don’t drag me to another room and then not even look at the stuff you asked to see. After too many painful minutes, I headed to the main gallery to help with the event breakdown. The guy (whose name I still didn’t know) was walking behind me, and asked if I knew some restaurant in Dracut. I said no, and that I rarely eat out. He said, “I could take you there some time.”

Finger food supper.

Caught off guard, the deeply rooted awkwardness responded, “oh, no, that’s ok.” I’m not good with spontaneous speaking. That’s why I’m a writer. Top of mind was how the dude couldn’t even try to pretend to care one whit about anything I do before launching into his lengthy recitations about himself. Maybe it was my fault for politely nodding during the earlier droning. Afterward, there was a combination of feeling like I had maybe been rude, but also like I dodged a bullet. 

Back at home, finger food reception refreshments mode continued. Supper was stuffed grape leaves, feta, kalamata olives, olive bread with olive oil and balsamic vinegar, and a glass of wine. Yum. Maybe not fit for a queen, but fit for me.