Paulina Supper Club #1: Pork Chops

I have this weird reaction where after eating my brain literally shuts down once the digestion process starts; It's like I'm being plugged into my charger and getting my batteries renewed. I can't make conversation, I'm more distracted than normal and I just need to stare at something while things breakdown.

The boys and I (I should start referring to them as the youngsters) have devised this new adventure called the Paulina Supper Club. Basically, it's a Monday night dinner at the homestead but with all of us contributing. We have such different schedules but for all the right reasons our Mondays are free and sitting outside this Summer our plan was hatched.

For the inaugural dinner we made pork chops with sort of an apple chutney/compote and apple cider gravy and (boxed) stuffing. Mini pumpkin pies with cream cheese honey frosting.

Matt doesn't cook and Doug likes to watch cooking shows. It's one part creative, one part teaching and one part execution on the fly. I love it.

Next week: Pulled pork sandwiches with homemade slaw and some deliciousness on the side that I have not determined

State Farm's got nothing on this neighbor

Let's add "good neighbor" to my life resume, shall we?

Oh, you want to know what constitutes a good neighbor? Well alright. How about we start with having to live below the "doin' it crew." This is a term, coined by the Prah's who also have this issue, which refers to two people engaged in sexual activity at a decibel loud enough to be heard by the neighbors. Living under a "doin' it crew" means you just get to experience the whole thing a little more intensely. But since this activity is normal in nature, I don't hold this against them or slip notes under their door to politely (or not so politely) request that their love maybe not be expressed at 3am on a Tuesday. See? Good Neighbor.

Or cleaning the lint out of the dryer after I take my clothes out so that it is ready to go for the next person. Interesting that I also must do this BEFORE I put my clothes in. Who do you think removes the lint, neighbors? The Lint Fairy?

The building has a janitor who comes by weekly and picks up, changes light bulbs, etc... but does it really take all that much effort to get your junk mail into the waste paper basket that they provide? I've walked into my vestibule some nights and wondered if the postman didn't throw himself a ticker tape parade in it. And on a separate note to all the restaurants hiring people to walk around and rubber band their menus to doorknobs and gate handles.....really this is a terrible waste of resources. They don't make it into the apartments, just end up littering the floor or the sidewalk until someone gets sick of looking at them and throws them away. There's this thing called the Internet, you should really re-allocate your efforts online. I promise you, even if you drop off a menu, if I can't order online, I'll choose one of the other nine Thai places I can. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the free rubber bands.

Then there's the recently new efforts of picking up bottle caps, cigarette butts, match books, Cheetos and the occasional Miller Lite can on Sunday mornings. This I don't mind as it's nice to have neighbors that know my name and whom I enjoy their company. Since one in particular is a recent college graduate, the transition from the college living to post college living (aka the "jobby job life") isn't totally mastered yet; he's in the adjustment period and things look like they are settling (mah baby's growing up!). Until early this morning.

I made the very adult decision to turn in for the night (it was well before 11 o'clock....on a Saturday!) because I was basically asleep on the couch -- though the one side of me would argue I was just resting my eyes -- and so I tried making it seem to my other half that we were going to utilize Sunday morning and accomplish a great many things before the rest of the city even scrambled their eggs. And by "scramble their eggs" I actually mean breakfast. Except for the upstairs neighbors which then I mean, REALLY LOUD SUNDAY MORNING WAKE-UP SEX.

I fell right to sleep and so when there was a very loud knocking on the kitchen door I was totally disoriented, freaked out and a little pissed off. And when it didn't stop I figured it was either:
a) morning

b) an emergency

c) a really stupid criminal

d) one of my neighbors home from the bar and not ready to go to bed

If you answered 'D' you would be half correct. If you answered 'B' you would be more correct.

The young neighbor was very adamantly asking me to open the door and I assured him (through the bedroom window which faces the same side as the back stoop) that I heard him and was working on it. Unbeknownst to him, I was trying to untangle the sheets, find my glasses and put on acceptable amounts of cl----I've started to sleep less involved, so I was trying to find my pants.

When I finally got to the door he was standing there bare chested with a tee shirt wrapped around his wrist and the palm of his hand bloody. He had had an altercation with a glass bottle and needed me.........not to dress his wound, or drive him to the hospital.....the words he used were, "I need you to cut this flap of skin for me."

Wait, what did you just say? I surely must still be asleep or there must be sleep still in my ears because I swear I heard you say you needed me to REMOVE A FLAP OF SKIN?! Oh, that is what you said? Are you F'ING CRAZY?! But as this past year has taught me many things, I am capable of a lot more than I thought. I do actually keep a level head, as long as it's not MY blood.

I'll save you the details but after arguing the pros of going to urgent care, I acquiesced and (ahem...) "dressed the wound." Since I am a worrier and a planner at my core, I made him promise to sit on the stoop with me for fifteen minutes so I could see if it was done bleeding. The last thing I wanted to add to my Sunday morning clean-up was a pool of congealed blood. Don't worry mom friends, I also made him promise me that we would re-evaluate it in the morning.

While I didn't get to start the Sunday morning the way I had promised my other half, I think the thrill of it satisfied her. It's good to be needed.

Hostile Hens

News Alert posted from The Washington Post:

The Iowa company that federal officials say is at the center of a salmonella outbreak and recalls of more than half a billion eggs has repeatedly paid fines and settled complaints over health and safety violations and allegations ranging from maintaining a "sexually hostile work environment" to abusing the hens that lay the eggs.

Hmmm......isn't that the same allegation? I mean, it is to the hens at least. I have to wonder who filed on their behalf.

This just isn't working

Dear Chicago,

We need to talk. You are beginning to get on my nerves. Every weekend this Summer has been like a non stop party to you. You constantly invite all your peeps over for a long weekend and trash the place. There's garbage piling up outside and it's not mine. You expect me to clean up after you and I'm so sick of it.

You have this skewed sense of right and wrong. You make up your own rules for what suits you and you don't play fair. You walk around like you are above the law, that rules don't apply to you and when you get caught you lie and bribe your way out of it. Sure I'll admit it, your bad-boy attitude is partially what I fell in love with way back in the day. Waking up in the morning to hear about your Robin Hood gallivanting the night before while everyone was asleep was seductive but I've grown up and you haven't. You are acting like a spoiled child and I'm over it. If you break the rules you have to pay the price.

I'm falling out of love. All you do is take and take and never give anything back in return. I'm sick of giving you money and it's never enough. I work so hard to keep up with you and I have nothing to show for it. Would it be so hard for you to go out of your way just once and do something nice for me in return? You are so damn selfish; even the neighbors are getting sick of your behaviour. You refuse to see what's right - it's like you are walking around with blinders on oblivious that your actions are hurting others. I don't want to be associated with you when you are acting like an ass. I've given you fifteen years of my life - some of the best times I've had have been with you - but I feel like I have nothing to show for it. Should I regret my decision? Don't you want me to be happy?

It's not me, it's you. Things are going to have to change around here or I'm walking out that door and not looking back. No forwarding address or phone number for you to try and get me back, if you lose me it will be for good. I'm not saying I'm perfect but if you don't make some serious commitments to me I'm not joking about breaking up with you. You are breaking my heart and there's only so much more I can take.

You should know, I have flirted with other cities. There are many that would love for me to belong to them. I've never cheated on you but I've had the opportunity. I have even gone so far as to meet up for a drink but it never went anywhere because I felt like you were there waiting for me and that deep down you still love me but I'm beginning to wonder. Could you please finish just ONE of the projects you've started? You promised me you'd have the road in front of the house finished up in just three months. It's been almost a year.

Take some time and think about what I've said. But don't take too long, I'm not going to wait around forever for you to change. Start acting like an important part of my life, remind me again of the good things you have and stop trying to impress the people that don't even live here, impress me. You can start by taking a shower, you smell awful.

I'm hurt and confused from trying to love you.

Me

Mrs. Miyagi and the Warm Smell of Leftover Sunshine

I'm going to do a little cursing. Don't say I didn't warn you.

I fucking hate flies.

I can't stand their damn buzzing and their little grotesque metallic green bodies.

I fucking hate flies.
I hate that they land on the rim of glasses and tines of forks. That they walk their dirty little feet over every surface forcing me to follow around behind and sterilize. I feel like a gang of rude offensive bikers have laid claim to my apartment and are inviting their friends to come crash. Where are they coming from?!

I've spent most of my Friday night sitting here swearing and swatting and missing. Cursing and swatting and killing. SPLAT! You would think I would feel better but I am grossed out. Itchy and sticky and down right ornery.

I should run my central AC. Yes, I have it. But I don't like it. I spend half the year being cold that when Summer finally comes around bringing its sunshine and warm degrees like gifts to a hostess, why the hell shut the windows and make it an artificial 68?! I suppose the flies are consequences of fresh air.

Erin and I didn't grow up with air conditioning. We had cheaper ways to cool down...window screens, box fans, sprinklers, slip-n-slides, Popsicles and Jello Pudding Pops, (what I wouldn't give for either one of THOSE right now), cool baths and sleeveless nightgowns.

We grew up in the country so when it was time to come in for the night it was dark. D-A-R-K. You could see glow-bugs everywhere -- for what seemed like miles across the corn fields. There were bullfrogs and cicadas that would start making noises at night fall; sometimes it would start to sound like high-pitched static and then it would abruptly stop. Silence. Dark wonderful, warm, silence. At those moments you could hear Ernie Harwell and the Tiger's game on the AM radio that Poppa would be listening to in the garage as we went in to get ready for bed.

We had two cats that were allowed to go outside and at night they'd come in from their day adventure, curl up next to us and bring the smell of sweet green grass and leftover sunshine from their wanderings. I can sit here now and faintly remember this if I concentrate. (It's the same way I can remember the smell of Great Grandma Myrtle's Avon hand cream or my sister's Tinker-bell perfume). Just around the time we were climbing into bed the humidity would start to break and the big Maple trees out front would filter the breeze and you'd feel it begin cooling off -- perfectly timed to fall asleep. Night time lullaby of bullfrogs and branches swaying in the wind.

I would never have chosen central air over any of those memories.

Let there be INTERNET

The modem wasn't taking my calls.
I think it was screening my connection.

So I made an appointment with a private eye.
Then it came back from vacation; passport stamp and dirty laundry and sunburned.
And the Comcast private eye I had made an appointment with politely called and thanked me for my business but cancelled knowing I would soon be reconnected with my long lost Internet.

I love you, Internet. Please don't leave me again. I promise not to take you for granted.

(Well, that will catch you up on how my past five days have been)

I have this theory: Tuesdays suck.

My favorite day of the week is Monday. It's a brand new fresh start, a new beginning....a venture into the unknown. Tuesdays are both feet in, too far to turn back now -- but miles away from Friday. Nothing good happens on Tuesday.

For example, I have two bags of laundry that I had all intentions of doing on Sunday but ran out of quarters. Got quarters yesterday and then got home and chatted with my neighbor until it was time too late to start, no time to finish, the reality of the work week ahead setting in.....and I staggered to bed with the overwhelming depression that Tuesday was lurking only hours away. Woke up this morning feeling like I was being cracked out of delicate warm egg shell into a hot frying pan.

Didn't wash my hair. Forgot my Kleenex for the commute (the AC makes my nose run). Drank all my coffee before I got to my desk. Didn't leave my desk until seven o'clock at night - a tiring ten and a half hours sitting - got home and ate handfuls of Peanut Butter Captain Crunch. And now I'm sitting here reconnecting with you folks. It honestly wouldn't surprise me, the kind of things I experience on Tuesdays, if there really wasn't anyone reading.

My stomach hurts.

Ten hours at work, three hours of leisure, seven hours of sleep --- somehow that seems all kinds of wrong. I haven't had a true vacation since Calistoga, California four years ago. I have good intentions of doing something and no means. Or means and then no intentions. It's a vicious circle. Put my ass in a camp chair with a cup holder, a fire and a lake Michigan in front of me and call me stupid giddy.

Nothing poignant or well crafted tonight, just a girl sitting on her back stoop pleased that her internet is once again returning her calls and the Pandora is flowing like smoke from a tiki-torch. Have your best shot Tuesday, you've got thirty more minutes before I stop taking YOUR calls.

Wednesday, be kind to me. I've had my confidence tested and my intentions squashed by your nemesis, Tuesday.

Ya big FAKER

Best advice I've recently been given, "fake it 'til ya make it, baby doll."

This works in a myriad of ways but I'm talking about one. Attitude. Yes, the big "tude." Mine is as meek as a Jabberwocky, timid as a striptease. Stings like whiskey. Soothes like a thunderstorm.

I can tell when I'm nearing the tank being empty, the short fuse approaching. Things that normally would roll off as easy as raindrops on window shields become boulders in the driveway of my life. I got bit by a mosquito or something this weekend and my answer to solving this minor inconvenience was to scratch it until it no longer looked like a tiny little red dot but rather a large red-hot scorch mark. What would have taken a day to heal is now a 56 hour reminder to put things in perspective.

I try to have a carry a decent attitude for the sake of those around me. Yes, the strangers I come into contact deserve a smile, a door held open, a seat given up on the train when they seem to need it more than I. But more than the strangers I meet, I do it for my friends. I believe that my friends validate my existence.

Hang on, hang on....I'm not saying I live for my friends, I'm saying I love my friends. Truth be told, I choose to keep the number to about that of a baseball team but I love these folks to the depths of the Pacific Ocean. I try to have something special I share with each one, too. Sometimes it's easy to come up with the bond, other times it's hidden like the needle in a haystack. That's the fun in it for me....trying to uncover the hidden feature.

Occasionally though it can be misleading. Season. Reason. Lifetime. Sorry to say, the little saltwater fishes of my friendship come with the Lifetime subscription. I don't like kicking someone off the team, but I'm strong enough to know a painful goodbye is better than a lifetime of disappointment. For those that get the uniform, we may share the strangest common denominator or even seem a fallacious pair at first glance but peel away the layers and there's a reason.

So here's why I love you: For telling me not to wear the duct taped jeans, reminding me not to be silly - that we are best friends and "that's why." For correcting my creative use of the English language, helping me embrace the PIBE theory, for future schemes that include both of us, for sharing history and making memories, laughing for the 976th time about that one day, giving meaning to randomness. Nicknames and pseudo family titles that mean something. Sharing family members before they're gone, not holding grudges, trusting me to find the best secret hiding spots in plain sight. Creative cooking when we should have gone to bed, big plans that fizzle into the best ideas ever. Co-creating Porch Counsel for the purpose of hearing what has to be said and not caring how it sounds. Eating acorns and fast forwarding commercials. For biting and forgiving. For showing up and opening the door. Listening throughout the night to the sad and frustration and never judging. For doing something even though it makes no sense whatsoever and not needing it to. For showing me places I'd never discover on my own. For always having an invitation even when you know I may decline. Taking the good with the bad, the awful with the fantastic. Truly loving my cats when you know you'd rather they be dogs. Challenging me to be better. Recognizing when I struggle to ask for help, congratulating me when I succeed.

You all give me the reasons I sometimes feel the need to fake it. As with the other myriad of ways to fake it, I hope you can never tell the difference ;-)