On my way out of the driveway this evening I was flagged down by my niece who suggested I take the pail and shovel off the back of my car before driving off. She also told me to drive carefully because there was a bunch of drunk people at the end of our street.
When I rounded the corner I saw a 5 year old girl with curly red hair dashing across the grass. I do not know if she was drunk. It's so hard to tell with children.
When I got all the way around the corner I saw everyone else. Lots of families, lots of regular normal people. There was a tent, banquet tables, and folding chairs all over the place. There was a game of frisbee in full swing. People were laughing and chatting together.
As it turns out, it was a funeral.
For the record, I'd like something like that, please.
Because oh boy do I love parties. Tonight I went to Gallery Night in Wellfleet, where all the art galleries stay open a little late and have receptions. I forgot to wear my Birkenstocks, which was too bad because I would fit in better in Wellfleet with them on and also because you have to park and then walk from gallery to gallery and there many, many galleries. A sherpa would actually be a good idea. Especially since, if the truth must be known, I don't own Birkenstocks.
Chickens, yes. Birkenstocks, no.
Gallery receptions are perfect for shy people because you can look as though you are there for a purpose other than being around other human beings. You can talk to people about art. Or admire their hats. Or you can just show up, eat the Spam cubes and leave.
I would like to write an art column for a newspaper and review the openings based on the food.
There have been times in my life when I have offset my grocery bills with gallery reception suppers. I always appreciate it when they have fresh fruit - to keep the scurvy at bay.
Tonight was not one of those nights because I got to go out to dinner with some friends and a couple new aquaintances. One of the new acquaintances told us about how she may be singlehandedly disrupting the horseshoe crab life cycle. Apparently the wading boots she wears to go fishing are the shape and color of female horseshoe crabs and the males find her simply irresistible.
I didn't talk to her after that. Not because of the horseshoe crab thing, but because it turns out she is a writer and writers intimidate me.
We all have our thing.
During the course of dinner we all made plans to do this and that. I hope that we do actually follow through on the plans because as much as I want to have a big party when I die I think I'll enjoy them more alive.