I don’t have much to say about our jaunt over to the hipster-infested Hamiltonian Gallery opening . It was a worthy outing, though we didn’t stay long. It was nice to go to an opening where we know maybe 10% of the crowd, 15% tops. The show was packed, which was great, but it was hard to see the art so I don’t have much to say about it right now. I’d really like to install Nao Matsumoto’s “8” but Husband won’t let me buy it. (Go here and click on the thumbnails of the big yellow and black insect heads in the sculpture section, you can’t miss them). We chatted briefly with the artist, who seemed like a nice guy. It was also nice to chat with an artist who didn’t use the conversation as an opportunity to tell me everything that’s wrong with the DC art scene and then stand there staring at me as though I could snap my fingers and fix it with my magic powers. OK, I could snap my fingers and fix it, I just choose not to. I think I’ll say that next time the opportunity arises.

So, instead of discussing the art I didn’t really see, I’ll mention something amusing that happened recently. Husband was gone for a week and, not an hour after I put him on the plane, I got the first phone call from one of our friends making sure I had things to eat in the house. I probably got two to three calls a day from people making sure I was eating. We have very nice friends. Polite ones, as well, ’cause lets be real – I’m not exactly going to waste away to nothing in a week. I’m apparently the human equivalent of Paris Hilton’s chihuahua. I just sit around looking adorable and waiting for food to appear before me. Most of the time, it works. Now if you’ll pardon me, dinner just appeared before me…