not-so-lazy sunday

I plan to split this day between rest and work. Rest, of course, comes first. Hence blogging.

I am currently enjoying a Cherry Coke, one of my rare indulgences in soda (or "pop," as I can once again call it, since no one in the Midwest has heard of soda -- take that, all of my non-Western-PA friends). The mood for said pop arose with another phenomenon unique (as far as I can tell) to the Midwest, which I must extol here: Nelson's Port-a-Pit Chicken.

Our church had a huge tent sale yesterday (and lest you think it was a sale at which people purchased tents, I will specify by saying it was a garage sale that took place under a tent) and the college ministry (my Sunday School) sold Nelson's Port-a-Pit Chicken as a fundraiser. I skipped out on the entire deal yesterday, preferring to stay at home, but helped sell the leftovers after church today.

Manager-and-friend Ashleigh told me about Nelson's months ago, so I've been looking forward to the advent of summer to experience this palatable treasure. I'm not sure how everything works exactly, but the idea is that you rent a Nelson's truck which contains barrels of chicken halves soaking in some kind of marinade, then you barbecue it in a white sauce and sell it. I took one of the leftover boxes home today and devoured half of it standing in the kitchen. It is fabulously good.

And of course one cannot have barbecued chicken without sodapop.

Ashleigh's good-bye party went well. I had the best margarita of my life at the Hacienda (this is the correct spelling; I was too lazy to correct it in my previous post) and met several of her good friends, who are loud, wild and fun.

Smoking Neighbor Ted is still alive (last week for a few days the stairwell between our apartments smelled funny and the smoke stopped, so I called my dad to ask how dead people smell, just in case; but then Smoking Neighbor Ted seemed to start showering again -- the odor was mainly that of Unwashed Aging Male -- and the smoke kicked back in, so he is apparently, if not alive and well, at least alive). He seems to be the kind of irritating person who posts notes from "The Management" on the door to the stairs leading up to our apartments, saying things like "This door is to be kept closed and locked at all times" and advertising to the world that Bell 2A is for Sarah.

Sarah is going to type up a revised version of the note from "The Management" changing her name to something gender neutral. I know that the landlord didn't write the note from "The Management" for two reasons: 1.) because the note appeared on Saturday morning, and when I called the landlord on Saturday afternoon to ask advice regarding the REALLY loud music of the other downstairs neighbor (who works nights and whom I've never actually met, but who apparently likes easy listening nature albums and the "Grease" soundtrack, all loud enough to shake my dishes) and learned that he was in Chicago for the weekend and 2.) because the handwriting of the note matched the handwriting on Smoking Neighbor Ted's mailbox.

Thank God for at least one good neighbor -- Colette.