The Rittenhouse Review

A Philadelphia Journal of Politics, Finance, Ethics, and Culture

Tuesday, July 27, 2004  

A Slice, a Sliver, of My Life

Did you know, because I didn’t until early last evening, that in this house, the house in which I am now living, there is something that some people call, or at least one person calls, a “rinsing sink”?

I’ve never heard of such a thing, but about sinks, well, I probably should know more. As a matter of fact, the second house in which I ever lived, a house located in Bergen County, N.J., had two kitchens, a rarity at the time. And, thus, the house had two kitchen sinks. We’re talking forty thirty-five thirty years ago, people, so I can’t remember whether the sinks were split or not, but, just let me say for now, for today: I know from sinks. (That’s a Philadelphia dialecticism.)

And yes, it was my fault that last night I neglected to carry a glass, a single glass made of glass, from the dining room to the kitchen, and I shamefully left said single glass, made of glass, on the dining-room table (the dining-room table that belongs neither to me nor my happy chastiser), for all of three minutes, I having been distracted as I escorted my bulldog Mildred from the first floor to the third of this house, she, Mildred, already exhausted after a lengthy and friendly chat with C.F., a pleasant and pleasing act of neighborliness for which I, we, have, at least here “at home,” been punished, rather than rewarded.

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