A Visit to the Asylum

"Surely nothing has to listen to so many stupid remarks as a painting in a museum." -Edmond and Jules de Goncourt

Day three.

I did not think it could get much more tedious than writing hundreds of condition reports on prints of dead cardinals' tombs. This thought was quickly overturned when my Friday afternoon was spent painting the trim of the McClellan House. Painting the trim grey, no less. Poor Minerva and Carinne. They had to stay for more than my two hours.

Day four.

I pretentiously stumble (if that's possible) from church to the 9th Annual Art Gala in excruciating heels I haven't worn since senior prom. Candles line the walkway, a string quartet is cycling through the same four or five songs in the hallway, and I'm assigned a tray of deviled eggs to pass around. Minerva is standing in the gallery, looking bored, and holding a tray of hors d'oeurves that include something wrapped in bacon and something with shrimp. When the tray of deviled eggs is sufficiently depleted, I sprint (well, more like quickly limp, with very good posture) to the kitchen, where everyone who wants to avoid Geneseo's elite is munching on appetizers and massaging their sore feet.

President Dahl begins his address and all the sophisticated adults turn their attention to the various speeches in the gallery. Minerva and I take this as our cue to steal apple cider and food from the tables, while silently cursing Lockhart's creaky floors.

The rest of the evening is spent alternately snitching cake, making pleasantries about the exhibit, and teaching an older man with a British accent how to eat a deviled egg. (Shove the whole darn thing in your mouth, turn your head away from polite company, chew, swallow. Lather, rinse, repeat.)

After saying my goodbyes and avoiding the distribution of leftover food, I head home. I decide that the next time I waitress for a gala, I will wear better shoes and force everyone to eat whatever foodstuffs I've got on my arm. I will also eat beforehand.