Smithville Two

The Women's Club luncheon was at Smithville Inn, not where Aline and I had eaten on Tuesday.  I sat with Bessie, Barb H., Iris, Doris (who's on oxygen; I well remember what that's like) and her daughter, and a few others with whom I'm friendly.  It was the usual women's club-type lunch: not bad, the food edible if not unforgettable (I had salmon), the company pleasant enough, but so very, very--well, usual.
I've been to dozens, if not hundreds, of these gatherings.  Not only does the Woman's Club have luncheons twice a year, but all the other organized luncheons I attend are so much the same.  They comprise a group of older women, all dressed, coiffed, and jewelryed up, nodding and smiling and talking and laughing and I do the same, but on a certain shadowy level, I'm bored, bored, bored to tears.
I want to go places more interesting--even exciting--than southern New Jersey and its provincialism, and be with people under the age of 80.  No, that part doesn't matter, it isn't the age thing exactly, but with people who won't gasp in horror if you express a thought that isn't precisely a reflection of what everyone else they know has said and believed.  I want to converse with people who don't watch Fox News.  Who don't watch The View. Who don't watch.
Got home about 3:00 and found that my friend had left two containers and and I big bag of "peanut" foam, so I could pack up the breakables I'm taking to the flea market tomorrow--good!
Betty and I are meeting Frank and Marybeth in Philly today; can't wait to see them.