Esther’s Chest

This is Halloweeeeeek, my favorite time of the year. In glassland right now, the winter rains haven’t quite settled in, the leaves shimmer with color and the winds rise just enough to blow the clouds away.

It’s also the week of the Pilchuck auction which, given the elections, current economic climate and all the scared rich people out there, may be in for much rougher weather than usual. So this year, my Halloween story combines auctions, ghosts and what happens when, as now, fear runs away with common sense. (BTW, if you want to read past Halloweek stories, like the one about the dead chicken ghosts or my candy story, feel free.)

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Feeling flush

To the list of things you can do in a bathroom stall (and believe me, it’s an extensive and varied list), add: Job interviews.

I kid you not.

This morning at work I headed for the ladies room to do standard bathroom stallish things. I’m sedately ensconced when someone enters the stall next to me and (I presume) sits down. A few seconds later I hear the dink-dink-dink-dah-dink of a phone call being made.

“Hello, it’s XXXXXXXXXXX.” And the woman in the next stall launches into what is clearly a serious job interview on a mobile phone. She sounds like an impressive candidate, except for the problem she seems to have with choosing appropriate interview venues.

Meanwhile, I’m ready to leave and realize that standard bathroom stall exit procedures will likely create an unfavorable and highly audible impression for our job candidate. So I stand there, pondering: What is the correct protocol in such cases?

Should I wait for the interview to be over? Should I clear my throat loudly? (didn’t work) Should I sing something appropriate, like maybe TLC’s “Waterfalls?” (didn’t work) Should I slip a note under the stall suggesting that she put the phone on mute so I can make my escape? (no paper, no pen). Should I knock on the stall and quietly explain that there will shortly be a giant whoooooshing noise…

Forget it. I’ve got stuff to do, and anyone who chooses an interview location without considering potentially negative acoustical qualities… well, deserves what she gets.

I flush.

As I head for the sink, I hear the woman in the stall: “Oh, that’s the TV. Hang on, let me go turn it down…”

Rain on a tin(nish) roof

Woke up this morning to the drumming sounds of rain on the skylight, lingered a moment in bed enjoying it, and in its usual convoluted meanderings, my brain dredged up my old neighbor Mike and his tin rooflet.

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Burnoutting

The elevator took a very long time. I debated taking the stairs instead, but the conversation behind me was too fascinating. (And yes, I’m a shameless eavesdropper. Ex-journalist; what do you expect?)

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Mammarian musings

(Warning: Squeamish waters ahead if you’re the type who avoids intimate girl gabs)

They say a skillful beater can pound and pound on an ounce of pure gold until it’s so thin that it can cover an entire church dome.

Obviously, they borrowed that concept for mammograms.

“Are you trying to cover the whole damn cathedral?” I gasped, through gritted teeth. The mammo technician checked the current state of my breast as it tried to spread molecularly thin between two flat plates. “Not quite thin enough,” she grinned and impishly cranked some more.

My breast closely resembled a cheese pizza. Thin crust. [Read more]

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