Pipe Dreaming

Shortly after I posted last night's entry, I was putting pans away when I discovered two of them had some water in the bottom. I keep the pans in the area under the sink; the pipe for the sink is above them. I ran my hands over the pipe; yes, it was wet. It was too late to do anything last night. First thing this morning, though, I called my next-door neighbors to tell them about the problem.

I alternated between trying to wipe down the pipe and make breakfast. I just had simple Blueberry Buttermilk Pancakes. For all the trouble, they came out pretty well, nice and moist. I filled a deep pot with water and used it to wash off the dishes. I just barely used the water in the sink. It didn't help. The leak just started to get worse.

Listened to Hello Dolly to cheer myself up during breakfast. I love the late 60's Pearl Bailey-led cast album. She makes a wonderfully pushy matchmaker. Cab Calloway isn't bad as her cranky Horace Vandergelder. I'm especially fond of the versions of "Ribbons Down My Back" and "Put On Your Sunday Clothes" here, as well as the opening number that introduces Dolly and her matchmaking, "I Put My Hand In."

I just barely had enough time to write out the rent check and a letter explaining about my lost outside keys (I think Charlie may have accidentally blown them off the porch when he cleaned the other day) and leave it next-door before hurrying to work! Once again, work was busy when I came in, steady-to-quiet the rest of the afternoon. It was so quiet by 4 PM, I was able to shut down without a relief. (Mine was the college boy who is always late coming from his second job.)

It was too hot and humid to be hanging around outside. I went straight home. Richard popped his head out of the McHughs' side door. He ended up calling a real plumber and settled for taping the pipes for now. The plumber will be here around 9 tomorrow. Richard did end up fixing the handles on the front screen door that have been coming off since Christmas, though.

After I got inside, I spent a blissful hour and a half in a cool bathtub. Ahhhh. I needed that so badly. It felt wonderful to kick back and relax while listening to jazz and reading Can't Help Singin'.

Put on my original cast LP for The Music Man as I had quick leftovers for dinner. Robert Preston and Barbara Cook headline one of my very favorite musicals, the tale of a con-man (Preston) who comes to a small Iowa town to sell non-existent boys' band uniforms. Like Scott Sherwood, the con-man learns a lesson in love and telling the truth when he falls for a smart lady, in this case the local librarian (Cook) who has been ostracized by most of the locals for stocking intellectual novels the townspeople find too shocking. The two think they have nothing in common, but when a real salesman comes into town ready to give the game away, it's the librarian who helps the con-man bring the band and the town together.