Frustrating Neighbors and Lost Opportunities

The photo on the left shows potting soil on my deck gifted to me from my upstairs neighbor while re-potting some plants on her deck above mine. I cleaned it up and the next morning it looked the same. I cleaned it up again and two hours later---you know what’s coming. The forth time I found dirt on my deck I could see her moving around up there and I called out, “Rose, what are you doing? You’re making a mess down here!” 

“Oh, I’m sorry. Do you want me to come down and clean it up?”

“No,” I replied. “I want you to quit doing what you’re doing because I’ve had to sweep my deck three times in two days and I’ll have to do it again.”

She’s in her mid-nineties and weighs about the same as her age and this isn’t the first time she’s annoyed me. She annoys me almost every day with her obsessive vacuuming and furniture moving. Her apartment has no carpeting; she had it all removed and put down vinyl flooring because, she says, it’s better for her allergies. Her allergies are why she vacuums daily as well. I swear a herd of wild horses would make less noise than her dragging that old canister vacuum around. 

And she falls out of bed often enough for it to be a 'Thing' which has me staying awake wondering if I should go up and check on her after it happens. “Nope,” you don’t need to check on me when I fall,” she told me. “I never get hurt.” Ya, sure there’s always a first time. If I fell out of bed on regular basis I'd get a little rail to prevent that. Heck, I have one on my bed and I haven't fallen out of bed since I was a kid. I got it after I broke my ribs and it helps me get in and out of bed. Best $27 I'd spent in a long time. I don't understand why some people resist getting the products that can help us old birds stay independent. Several women here asked management to remove the safety bars in the bathrooms because they don't like the way they look. Big deal! They look better than having blood from a concussion all over the floor.

Rose and I occasionally get seated at the same dinner table and wouldn’t you know it, the same day I had to sweep my deck several times we got paired up and I wasn’t quite sure I could pull off an act---pretend I wasn’t totally annoyed with her. My usual M.O. is to brood about something like that for a day or two before I’m ready to let it go. But by the time we walked back to our building after dinner I was over it and she promised she’d tell me the next time she re-pots her plants. “Better yet,” I snapped back, “put a drop clothe or plastic bag down before you begin.” It all started because a deck plant fell because its hanging bracket wasn’t screwed on tight enough and she thought as long as she had to put more dirt in that pot she might as well re-pot her house plants at the same time. It will probably fall again. How tight can a ninety something elf of a woman install a  bracket for a hanging basket? 

At least we had something new to talk about. At dinner Rose usually repeats the same story and when she starts I daydream about filling my ears up with wet cement. It’s about why she didn’t get her master’s degree in biology. Every time she tells the story of how her professor thought her experiment in the lab refrigerator was someone’s left-over lunch and he threw it out---thus she couldn’t finish her thesis---I want to point out that the accident was on her for not labeling the project. But that would be starkly on my part and I try really hard to keep my ‘snark’ inside and put it to use as blog fodder instead. Trying hard didn't help the one time when I did ask her if the experiment was labeled. She let her snarky out when she answered, "It was the only one in there and he knew it was mine!” I then I asked, "Wouldn't he let you do it over?" "Oh, he would have but I got married soon after and left the state" which kind of feeds into the stereotype back then that girls only went to college to get their M.R.S. degrees.

Enough about Rose. Let me tell you about another resident here in the Independent Living part of my continuum care complex. I’ve written about the college professor who taught art before. I’ve been fangirling her since I discovered what she did before retiring. She’s very busy with outside-the-complex friends and former students so I don’t see her often. But she’s in our book club and my Tuesday Discussion Group (Formerly known as the Secret Society of Liberal Ladies) so we do have some contact. A few days ago she asked me if I’d like to go on a day trip with her, to her cottage up north very near to where my folks once owned property that they gave to my brother. He built a cottage on it and it was sold to my great-nephew recently. 

Anyway, at first I was happy about the invitation to see the lake I hadn’t been to for nine-ten years, but the next day Ms. Professor asked me if I’d be comfortable driving her car---it’s a five hour round trip and she has macular degeneration. I don’t even like driving my own car more than 30 minutes and all the negatives about going were adding up including her cottage doesn’t get cell service---you have to climb up a hill behind the house. What are the odds that two 80-something year old women would need to call for medical attention? But the cherry on the top was the fact that she was proposing we go on the Forth of July. Anyone who lives in Michigan knows what the bumper-to-bumper traffic is like going up to the northern part of the state on a holiday weekend. I lied and told her I had plans for the Forth. Now I have to remember to lay low on the 4th. Note to self: Don't lie to people who live close enough to catch me in it.

We’d been carrying on this conversation about going up north through e-mail so my last reply was: “I was looking over the book club selections this afternoon and noticed that we'll be discussing Finding the Mother Tree in September---which was your book recommendation. I'm going to throw this out there: have you considered hosting the club up at your cottage that month like <so-and-so> did with at her cottage? Would it be practical or feasible? In early September the trees on the trip up north would be spectacular and everyone seemed to enjoy having an excuse for a road trip.” 

I’m really hoping Ms. Professor likes this idea because when we carpooled to Lake Michigan for our May book club all the 70-somethings (and presumably safer drivers) in the group drove. I'm turning into an old fuddy-duddy aren’t I and that mind-set lost me an opportunity to spend one-on-one time with someone I admire. But a road trip on the Forth and coming home after the fireworks when every hundredth car gets a dead deer for a hood ornament? Thanks but no thanks.

Until next Wednesday… ©

Meet the Neighbors

 Robbie, the Cutie Pie Scottie dog who lives next door, is the one with the mom who is on the Arts Council here that picks out art for our public areas. We walked home from the cafe’ together one night and I invited her into look at my floating shelves to stack and rotate artwork because she’d never heard of them before. Her most memorable comment was that my place has a fun, playful vibe and she got the cottage theme without me telling it to her.

Then she invited me next door to see her place. She and I have the same floor plan but, boy, our places couldn’t look any more different. If I had to put a one word label on her place it would be ‘happy’ or ‘classy’ or ‘cool’. Okay, that’s three words but the first view of her space reminded me of a Paul Cezanne still life. She’s got an ancient carpet that covers most of the living room area that has a wide, bright blue border with a solid, "old gold" center and accents of red and black dead center and on the edges of the blue border. It’s spectacular! One red club chair is the next thing you notice, then your eyes are directed to a gray, mid-century modern couch along a wall with a red throw cushion with a black Scottie dog on its face. Two other club chairs--one in black, one that matches the couch completes her main sitting area. Over her couch is an large abstract with primaries---red, blue, yellow, black and lots of white.

In her window bay, where I have my art easel, are two of the finest examples of mid-century modern antique Eames, Herman Miller fiberglass shell chairs I’ve ever seen and I've seen the ones in the furniture museum (see example in the photo above). They'd been in her family since they were new in 1950 and they are a rich, vibrant blue, in perfect condition. Eames chairs were a huge deal when they were first manufactured and they are still a big deal in the history of furniture making because of its then unique use of fiberglass. 

If you haven’t picked up on it, I’m impressed by my neighbor's  decorating taste. She was a psychologist and social worker and is pure class in her dress, her home, the way she carries herself and her taste in dogs. By the way, I’m going to kidnap Robbie someday. I haven’t told her that yet but I did offer to dog sit should she ever have a need. 

Another notable person I’ve met lately who lives in my building is also into art but after listening to her drone on and on about how much she loves painting religious icons I decided it’s best not to sit near her in the future. She’s been doing them for years, has even spends several weeks at religious retreats to do them in silence. She goes to church nearly every morning, sometimes goes back again later in the day and I just can’t find any common life experiences to relate with her. And to make it worse her soft, angel-like voice reminds me of an episode on Jerry Seinfeld so even thought she's a nice lady I have trouble making small talk with her. And wouldn't you know it, last night the only seat left at a dinner table for eight was at her right.

After dinner she invited me to stop at her place to see her paintings, new Shoji screen and fireplace. I’ve been thinking about getting a Shoji screen to block off my art easel area so I was eager to go. She, too, has the same floor plan as my place and she, too, has bold colors like Robbie’s mom. Only her colors were gold, black, turquoise and orange. If you’ve been reading my blog right along you know I hate the color orange. But she had her furniture arranged in a good configuration that makes her space look larger than mine; I might be moving mine and my area rug after the holidays. 

 

Her religious icon paintings were done on polished wood slabs with lots of gold leafing. Quality workmanship but certainly not my cup of tea. She talked about the saints she depicts like they're guys I’d know…and probably I should have, having had an aunt who spent her entire life scrubbing floors at a Catholic hospital and had dozens of religious icons up on her walls. My soft-spoken neighbor rotates them on her walls according to the holidays.

But the most curious thing in Icon Lady’s space was the fact that she had red cardinals tied to all the cupboard door handles. Twelve cardinals. Are they still "spiritual messengers from God" when you buy them yourself and mount them in your kitchen? Either way they did give me something in common with her since I have a red cardinal in the wreath on my door. ©

 

 

The Angel Triangle

view off deck looking toward the main building

Exciting things are happening here at the Daydreamer’s Den. Let’s qualify that. It’s only exciting if you’re into getting new furniture delivered. The Amish built desk came this week and I have a promised delivery of Monday for my mid-century La-Z-Boy chair. I didn’t expect that chair until closer to Christmas! And you know what that means, don’t you? Yup, you get a Kewpie Doll prize if you guessed that I can finally order an area rug for my living room. It feels like an Angel’s Triangle is coming my way---kind of the opposite of a Bermuda Triangle---because the IT guy (the third angle of my triangle of good things) was here shortly after the desk arrived to hook up the TV, WiFi, printer ad other devices. I’ve been using the guest WiFi and living without cable TV for a week now. 

I do have a 20" TV hooked up to one of those tiny $10 antennas and it pulls down a surprising number of channels, especially if you like all the old shows like Barry Miller, Gun Smoke, Friends, Miami Vice, The Brady Bunch, Magnum P.I., Johnny Carson plus some live court and popular game shows. That TV will be moved to my den and I’ll get a smart TV for my bedroom if they ever get unloaded from the ships parked in the harbors. Apparently the TVs under 32" are in short supply which may or may not explain why I saw a TV get delivered today that was as big as a movie screen. They walked it by a pickup truck and the truck completely disappeared behind the giant box and they would have had to set it on end to get it on the elevator. The day I need a TV that big is the day I buy five acres of land and start my own drive-in movie theater. My picture could be out for a week and as long as the speaker still worked I wouldn’t notice.

I went to an orientation class on Campus this week and found myself in the center of another Angel Triangle of sorts. At first I was alone at a table for four when a woman sat down all friendly and excited to be there like a labradoodle puppy greeting kids getting off a school bus. She introduced herself as one of the pastors for the campus and come to find out she used to write for our local newspaper and I read her column back in my seeking-the-meaning-of-life days. She hadn’t changed her name when she got married and neither had I and she thought she knew me and I’m sitting there trying to remember if I fan-girled her column back in the day. I used to write a lot of letters to the editor back when newspapers were the communication devices most popular.

She knew lots of people coming and the fact that there were five of us named “Jean” in a room of twenty some people. One of the Jeans said, “We’re all going to have to be good or we’ll all get blamed” and my big mouth all on its own accord opened up and replied, “And if we’re not we can deny whatever the gossip rumors said we did and blame it on one of the other Jeans.”

I couldn’t help liking the pastor. She's one of those people who is gifted at getting everyone talking to each other and I want to nickname her Miss Labradoodle but I won’t out of fear that someone who isn’t a ‘dog person’ won’t recognize that as a high compliment. Labradoodles are friendly and sweet and always eager to please. She introduced me to another woman who spent her whole work life teaching art and she plans on starting a class on our campus. If that introduction isn’t enough proof that Miss Labradoodle is really meant to be Ms Angel, she invited two other out-going people to sit at our table---another pastor and his wife, retired and living in the condo in the older section of the campus. So there I was, the self-proclaimed agnostic in the center of a triangle of people who would probably all love to save me if they thought I was a lost sheep. He and I bonded over the fact that neither of us likes to wear our hearing aids in public places so our conversation was---well, perfect for two old duffers waiting for the presentation to start.

After the orientation class which was mostly about how to download and use the campus app to: 1) see what is going on each day, 2) find the staff and resident contact lists, 3) fill out forms to request various work orders we might need, 4) to reach the pastor who was sitting at my table, view her future videos and find out what her Friday Bible study group will be discussing, and 5) too many other things on the app to list here. 

I’m pretty computer savvy so I had already found the app before the class and while I was waiting for the others to download theirs I used it to request my address get corrected in the Resident Contact List. I wasn’t going to fill in the other stuff on my profile but after hearing the purpose for doing so I probably will. For example if I list my hobbies as knitting, quilting and painting those things are searchable in the app and we can message like-minded people to start up a group on our own. Mr. Big Screen TV Guy, however, might find it hard---even with the app---to find others who enjoy the hobby of counting the pores on the faces of people on their wall-sized televisions.  

This post’s photo section is a tour of my tiny laundry room which I’d call the hardest working space in the place but that honor goes to my den closet which I'll include for next week’s blog. The photo at the top shows how close I am to the building where all the action takes place. I'm glad I'm in the quieter building. There are only six apartments on my hall and it's very quiet. ©

The washer/dryer was surprisingly easy to use but I'll be doing laundry twice as often. The dryer I had at the other house was literally large enough for me to hide inside if an axe murderer happened to be looking for me.

This coat rack was not cheap but it functions perfectly for an apartment without a coat closet near the door to the hall. I love that I can hang my clothes up as they come out of the dryer and the bottom shelf is big enough for the three pair of boots that I own.

This family photo collage covers my parents before I was born to my great-nieces and nephews with me and my husband sprinkled in.

Not sure if this pile of old things will stay here but for now the basket holds an old Fuller brush---the travel size---an antique sprinkler top on the 7Up bottle, a wooden hanger from a dry cleaners, a house keeping rooms sign that needs highlight painting and a metal collapsible hanger.

 

The folding hanger was patented in 1906 but I'm too lazy to look up the patent to see what is actually is. I think it might be from a suitcase but it comes in handy for air drying things.

Come In! Come In!

What do you do when friends or relatives you’re not expecting come to your door? Same question only change the person standing on your doorstep to a neighbor. Or what about a stranger who may be looking for help or a donation? My husband and I never agreed on what was the proper protocol in these situations. He thought my way was wrong, I thought the same about his way. He believed in saying, “Come in! Come in” to nearly everyone. I’m more the wait-and-see-what-they-want-first type.

Don was raised in the country on a farm with no close neighbors and he was brought up in a family that apparently believed that if someone came all that way out to see you or to buy eggs or to sell you something or talk religion that you welcomed them into your home. Even if you didn’t want to, you’d drop what you’re doing and let them monopolize your time. He and his dad also genuinely loved talking to people or to use Don’s words, they loved "shooting the shit.” Side note here: I’ve never liked that phase and it surprised me that it's been in use longer than I though. According to Dictionary.com shoot the shit comes down from 'shoot the breeze' which was first "recorded in a poem written during World War I by a US private, who described his corporals as sociable men who were much better at ‘breeze-shooting’ than fighting or doing actual work. It doesn’t require much skill or effort to hit the wind with a gun, so the expression goes. Shoot the shit emerged in the 1940s, notably found in a letter by the author Norman Mailer.”

Coming up from the 'shoot the shit' rabbit hole, I’m back on topic again to the days when Don and I both had our own houses. Don would drive me crazy by allowing all his bored neighbors to walk in his front door to “shoot the shit” any old time they wanted, eating up a bunch of time that would put him in a bad mood because then he’d be behind on things he needed to do or they'd make him late for something. He was notoriously late. He had several neighbors who’d head over to his house the minute he’d drive in, not even giving him enough time to pee before he’d be expecting him to answer the door and let them in. They all knew he worked nights but they couldn't seem to grasp the concept of him needing to sleep in during the day. Once I suggested he post a 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the door when he went to bed. He couldn't bring himself to do it. Instead, when he was really sleep deprived he'd come to my house straight from work to hop in my bed with my dog curled under his arm like a teddy bear.

I was raised differently. When someone showed up on my doorstep (or at his and I was the one opening the door) I never stood back and let just anyone walk in. Family and close friends, sure, but they generally knew enough to call and ask if I was up to company and they rarely dropped by unannounced. My catch phase has always been, “Stop over sometime, just call first and give me a fifteen minute warning." I say it in a joking manner but I'm dead serious. And I always make sure I give others the same notice if I want to stop by their place, so they could take their choice of tidying up the house or their appearance or to tell me it isn’t a good time for one reason or another. For me, it was usually the house that gets picked up rather than fuss with my looks in front of a mirror. This whole topic ran through my head today because a person buying something on Facebook Market Place sent a text asking if they could come over Right Now. I lied and asked if they could give me a half hour, that I was just getting lunch on the table. There was no lunch. I wasn’t dressed yet.

But when neighbors came to the door in the old neighborhood I’d waited to see what they wanted before allowing them inside. It used to drive my husband crazy when I'd be in "guard dog mode." I just couldn’t see letting bored people come inside and park them selves in the living room for the long haul if we were getting ready to go out. If they only came over to borrow something, no problem. A cup of sugar? “Sure let me get that for your.” Borrow the vacuum for the fifth Tuesday in a row? “Last time, lady. It’s time you buy your own.” (They never did, they'd just hit up another neighbor.) We had minimalists living next door before they even had a name for people who penny-pinched then bragged about how cheaply they can live. They didn’t own any of their own necessities for keeping a home or car clean and maintained. Nothing. Ya, I would let anyone use my clothes dryer if theirs broke in the middle of doing laundry but don’t expect to use my washer/dryer routinely week after week. Minimalists neighbors will eat up the life of your appliances and power tools if you let them.

One of my future neighbors is apparently worried about living in such close contact with others. She made a comment at a meeting we had recently about hoping we can all use the public areas for our visiting and "not drop in on each other at all hours of the day and night. I like my privacy!” That made me laugh. My husband would have blown a gasket if I had made that statement. I suspect my future neighbors are going to give me plenty of blog fodder. The bigger question to ponder, though, is when someone knocks on my door will I throw it wide open and issue a good ol' country-boy "Come in, come in!" or will I stay true to my city-girl roots and wait to see why they are there first before inviting someone inside? Want to make an educated guess? Okay, that was a rhetorical question, no need to weigh in on whether I'd lick a neighbor's face or bite it off if they stopped by some evening with a bottle of wine or a bunch of gossip up their sleeve. ©