Of the twelve units in my building, five of them a filled with people who like to get together and get drunk. This hasn’t happened in a while. And the night is off to a worse start than usual because I’ve already had one of them head for the wrong apartment (or at least I hope that’s what happened) and end up trying to get into mine. Now they’re all out in our back yard having a grand old time and freaking me and my cat out. What’s even better is that with all the slamming around they’ve done up here, my downstairs neighbor seems to think I’m having a party and has banged on her ceiling to get me to stop. Sounds like the start of a wonderful night.

At least now I’ve learned, from the last three or four times this has happened, that it’s ok to call the police if they get too loud. I’ll be going to bed with my phone and the police’s number ready by my bed.

Small-town life is kinda new for me, even after living here for a year. First I had to get used to the idea that anything I say in a restaurant or coffee shop would most likely be heard by the second-cousin of the husband of somebody I know from work.

I also had to get used to being one of the few people in town who haven’t lived here since the signing of the constitution.

But now I’m becoming an expert at acknowledging and even greeting people I pass on the sidewalk. Believe it or not, people here expect you to make eye contact, smile, and say “good evening” (or “good morning,” as the case may be) as you pass them. This is a far cry from walking swiftly past and pretending you’re the only one on the sidewalk, which is pro forma in other places I’ve lived (not counting Mequon, where there were no sidewalks on which to pass other people).

This evening, as I walked to and from the coffee shop, I got to practice this evening greeting not once, not twice, but three times. And I kind of liked it. All of a sudden I started picturing myself actually knowing these people I was passing, or other people like them. I imagined having neighbors that I actually know and do stuff with.

Some day.

There’s a nice little eatery in town with wonderful ice cream and good lunch offerings. My co-worker and I went there recently, and I asked if they put eggs into their bread. I wanted a sandwich, but I’m allergic to eggs (they make me crazy for four days — a little dyslexic and a lot moody). The answer came back, yes. Bummer.

We were just going to leave and find another spot for lunch when one of the little ladies that works there came flying out of the kitchen to say that there’s normally egg in the bread, but they’d forgotten it this morning. Wonderful! We decided to stay for lunch.

The little lady behind the counter was so excited that things had worked out. Was this our first time stopping for lunch? Accidents sure could work in our favor, couldn’t they? What luck they weren’t always perfect. The bread really wasn’t any worse off without the egg. She’s not quite sure why they always put the egg in there. But people will follow recipes… Oh, and as to the specifics of the sandwich: “Would you like egg salad on that?”

(Oh, and yes, I’m feeling a little better, thanks. Chocolate and a good cry can work wonders.)