Voices

"Come home, come home, it's suppertime. The shadows lengthen fast."

Ala Goldilocks

    We walked into the new local restaurant.  The restaurant and the bar area were pretty much filled, at about 6 o'clock on a Friday evening.  The hostess promptly approached and escorted us to a seating section that was unoccupied, several tables located across from the bar area and near the dining room.  "Will this be all right?" she asked.  Now I don't like to be uncooperative, especially on a first visit to a new restaurant on a busy night, but I took one look and had to say no.  The tables were of the highboy type, and, considering our situation, the tall stools appeared to loom up like one of those climbing walls.  If we had made the climb, there wouldn't have been much of a ledge to grasp onto, either, as the table was about the size of a standard checkerboard.  The hostess asked us to wait while she went to check with somebody, and after a short while came back and seated us in a booth in the main dining area.  There was only one step up to get to that table, and the booth was large enough for at least six people.  As we left, I noticed that the series of  high-altitude seats  was unoccupied, as they were when we'd entered.  I assume no one else wanted to eat dinner in the nosebleed section either. 

Horticulture

I planted a few pumpkin seeds today. I'm not exactly looking forward to harvest time though.  I fear  an overabundance of pumpkins and the approach of winter.  I attempt to be positive but that damn negativity keeps rearing its ugly head...

SDF

   There is evidently a new day of recognition----according to Facebook, Google, Twitter, Instagram, YouTube and Tumblr.  SIBLINGS DAY   The Siblings Day Foundation is soliciting  funding so it, the SDF, can continue its work, which is "dedicated to celebrating the sibling relationship, and the bond that is forever a special gift."  The SDF has solicited support from 49 state governors (Damn that California) as well as many other prominent individuals and entities.  A jubilant and worthy celebration to be sure----most people have brothers and sisters, in  numbers  likely greater than of mothers and fathers.  Any donations to this worthy enterprise can be mailed to a post office box in Grand Central Station.  How the money will be spent is the issue---there are so many to share the glory.

Conflagration

   Just thinking, the area near the intersection of State Street and Route 67  must be the Bermuda Triangle of burning buildings:  Jensen's house, White's Funeral Parlor, the Valley Inn, the Village Tavern,  the James Thompson Mill, and now 6 State Street.  The others were total losses, but maybe there's hope this time.....

Waterfall

     It is said that a  man's wallet holds his driver's license and credit cards, but a woman's pocketbook holds her life.  If that is so, I drowned today. 
     It goes without saying that you never want to put your pocketbook on the floor of a public restroom, no matter how sanitary that bathroom may appear.  Apparently most public bathrooms have been designed by men, because in most cases there are no provisions made for where to place one's purse.  A hook on the wall would be nice, but seldom found.  So the go-to location, and often the only place available, is the bathroom sink. 
   Now of course I mean the side of the bathroom sink, but again the lack of consideration for sufficient space rears its head.  A hook, a shelf, enough room on the side of the sink---it's just not going to happen.
   Today, in the ladies' room of a medical office, I placed my pocketbook in the only available space, along the side of the sink.  In the best of all worlds, that is where it would have stayed, but, alas!   When I returned to the sink, my pocketbook had slid down into the sink proper.  And as modernity would have it, one of those automatic sinks where the water runs when you place your hands beneath the faucet.  Stupid sink, not to recognize the difference between hands presented for washing and a pocketbook accidentally slipping in from the too narrow side of the sink.
    The water pressure in the building must be excellent, and the water flow optimal, because in the brief time period of its immersion, the pocketbook, which had landed in an upright position, and of the type not closed on top, was filled to the brim with water.  Enough water so that I upended it and poured it into the sink, but the leather bag and its contents were totally soaked through, and dripping.  I had only a few minutes to get to my appointment, not enough time to return to my car with the seeping, oozing bag.  I certainly didn't want to have to explain what had happened, so I took the only course available.  I grabbed handfuls of paper towels out of the wall, dispenser ( a fortunate alternative to the blower) , and layered them into my pocketbook.  I hoped I would not have to delve into my purse for insurance cards; I would not relish being pointed out as the crazy old lady stealing a whole bag full of paper towels.  Wish granted---everything was on the computer. Phew!

Torture Defined

    In retrospect funny maybe, but I didn't laugh when Hoda Kotk related the nightmare incident of dance class when she was 6 years old.  Her mother had enrolled her in  tapdance class, and she wasn't very good, she said.  One day during a recital, she hadn't had a chance to use the bathroom before she had to go on stage, and as she started to tap, she peed her pants, which made her cry, as she was slipping on the pee.  I can relate to that incident because my daughter took dance class,with  about a dozen other four-year girls, almost  all of whom were constantly running to the bathroom, and running back out to have their mothers pull up their tights. I must say that my daughter  rarely if ever had to use the bathroom at the studio, but if she had, only she and one other girl could adjust their leotards afterwards.  So Hoda would have fit right into the category of putting off going to the bathroom because of the complications of readjusting the dancewear.  She had been embarrassed and could laugh about it now, but at the time she'd felt terrible.  Nothing there to make me laugh.
       Then this from the inimitable Kathie Lee:  "Tapping, crying, peeing, slipping--that's me  getting out of my Spanx."