Last week's Rosemount Town Pages carried a story about local residents who have created a contest to select regal representatives of our fine town. For a brief moment, my childhood dream became a reality as I pictured myself outfitted in an ermine trimmed, red velvet cape. Atop my head was a golden crown. I was Andrea, Queen of Rosemount. During Leprechaun Days, I would ride on the royal float, dazzling loyal subjects with my majestic smile. I would represent my principality in parades held in other kingdoms--Eagan and Apple Valley, perhaps.

    When I reread the article to get the details, I was quickly brought back to reality. Aside from the fact that the queen candidate must be a high school student, she will have to audition for the title. Audition, as in talent. I would have a better chance of marrying into England's royal family; stealing Prince Charles from Camilla's clutches.

    Anyone who has heard me sing knows I can't carry a tune. I can't even whistle "Dixie." My tap dancing would be as clumsy today as it was back in grade school and would certainly result in an unmajestic fall. Those of you who have heard me play "The Melodic Waltz," my second grade piano recital piece, would lock me in my home the day of the tryout. It's a shame, too, because I have the courtly wave down pat: my right wrist held steady as my hand moves slowly from side to side.

    The age qualification aside, we all know pretend patricians who act as if they've already won this courtly contest-those who feel entitled to act as nobility and treat the rest of us like subjects. You know who I mean: the lone occupant of a car who eases aristocratically into the Car Pool Only ramp. We've all met Her Majesty, who slides a full grocery cart into the 10 items or less lane at the supermarket, explaining to those around her, "I'm in a big hurry." Or the Baron of Baloney, who parks in the handicapped spot in front of a business, while he "Just runs in to drop something off." C'mon, be honest: you've met these people and their kingly cousins, too, who expect to be waited on hand and foot; rude people who never say "Please" or "Thank you."

    Last week, the staff of Pony Express, Stillwater High School's newspaper, sleuthed out an imposter in their midst. The young detectives became suspicious when a man, posing as a prospective student, tried to pass himself off as an English Duke(27th in line to the throne) and ordered the student body and faculty to refer to him as, "Your Grace." Hmm . . .

    I don't want to make light of the Stillwater scam, but I can sense how this title thing could spiral out of control. I think it's a good thing I'm too old to enter the Rosemount royalty contest. The crown could easily go to my head. Surely, I would get carried away with delusions of my own grandeur. I can see myself sweeping into local coffee shops, demanding free lattés.

    Then there's the matter of how the populous would address my husband. As it is now, my friends call him Poor John. But that, I'm afraid, is the subject of another column.