Seeking next door neighbor

FALLen angel autumn display. No one in my neighborhood found it funny.

Who would you like to live next door?

You know, the person who you wouldn't care popped over unannounced? Someone who has similar life priorities as you and the same sense of humor? And didn't judge?

I love that scene in Stepford Wives when Bobby commented on Joanna's messy kitchen. Since all her neighbors had turned Stepford, complete with immaculate homes and shallow personalities, Bobby commented that Joanna's sticky kitchen was a "home away from home."

I totally get it.

My mom had a good friend. Let's call her Carol. Carol's house always appeared lived-in and she was a riot of good times. She also wasn't consumed by creating a spotless museum for her family.

I'm still looking for my Carol. In my neighborhood, it's unacceptable to have laundry on the dining room table and the rusted running board from the Jeep in the side bushes.

Here's one lady I wouldn't mind as my next door neighbor: Nancy. She loves her family, cooks, creates, and has a great time with her grand-babies. I can imagine she would be a blast to hang out with.

Who is your dream next-door neighbor?

Always picked last

 I write a weekly column called “Neighborberry.” If you would like to see "Neighborberry" in your local paper/website, please tell the editor to email me at krisjane7@gmail.com. 

Thanks so much!

Always picked last

By Kris Kolk

Our family holiday functions are not complete without the playing of board games.

Sounds like fun, but for me, it’s not. You see, many in my family are scientists. Since we usually play teams on trivia games, I end up sitting in silence while watching my teammates avoid the arts and entertainment categories.

Here’s what happened on Thanksgiving:

“Oh! We’ve landed on a green square. Read us the science question,” we demanded of the other team. Here was the question:

“What is the manner by which an amoeba’s contractile vacuole releases water to the systole?”

The entire table of players (except one) groaned, because the answer was so obvious. Our team almost took another turn without even answering such a simple one; but our opponents insisted on playing by the rules.

Everyone looked to me while shushing one another. They agreed to let me go solo since I’m rarely able to contribute. Unfortunately, the answer did not occur to me so easily.

“I have no idea,” I admitted.

The house rumbled as nine people chanted in unison, “Exocytosis!” Banter ensued regarding my negligence on pursuing all matters amoeba.

“Well, she’s had a long day,” someone justified for me.

I routinely petition our team to land at any pink or purple square to prove I’m not as dumb as they think. I just enjoy different topics than they do. Bach was a composer during the Baroque period. I also happen to know what a lute is.

But they don’t even pause at my favorite categories, not as long as a science question is within reach. The game is plagued with spicules, quantum electrodynamics, and molecular orbitals. I must admit, though, I’ve learned a lot from these mandatory lessons, I mean festive recreation. I now understand what makes popcorn pop, the names of the bones in the hand, and that lemurs purr.

The Thanksgiving game wrapped up as our opponents silently read the last question of the game before agreeing the card must have been misplaced from the Junior edition. I thought perhaps this would be my moment.

The question was: “What is the transformation rule for a pseudovector?”

The answer, “v’=(det R) (Rv)” was stated almost at the same time as the question.

The game ended quick as a wink (approximately 1000 picoseconds). My hypotheses on pseudovectors were unnecessary. Fine with me.

All I really wanted to do was enjoy the season in a traditional way. Nothing beats biting the phalanges off Zingiberbread men and making angels out of chilly crystalline oxygen and hydrogen flakes.

Kris Kolk has been a writer and neighborliness promoter for more than a decade. You can also visit her at www.neighborsabouttown.blogspot.com. Email her at krisjane7@gmail.com.

Funny joke, 2014

Even the Little Weirdo isn't amused. And he's always up for a good laugh.

Too much snow. Too much cold.

But this isn't fun anymore. Someone's going to get hurt. It's time to thaw out so we can all drive safely on the roads and get the mail without paramedics on stand-by.

Our area got about 10 inches of snow during the early hours yesterday. Temps are around -10.

Let's contrast the seasons, shall we?

Remember the yard sale last summer?

Here's a photo of that same yard today:

Oh young 2014. You're just full of peas and vinegar*, aren't you?

*A note about peas and vinegar: My grandmother used to say "pee and vinegar," which I think is vulgar. Funny thing is, she was always so proper. When I was about nine years old, I told her I didn't have enough guts to put contact lenses in my eyes. She told me straight away that ladies don't say "guts." 

But "pee and vinegar" on the other hand...

Stay warm (and try not to say "pee" or "guts.")
 

You wouldn't be so trusting, either

Babs has really been through it. Unfortunately, her story is not unusual.

Before Mr. Cool and Little Weirdo were born, we had a yellow Labrador named Yeager. Yeager was the nemesis of many people and dolls. I was heartbroken when Yeager destroyed my childhood Raggedy Ann doll. The carnage was sickening.

Then there were others.

Yeager had a thing for doll hands. See what I mean:

No one was safe from Yeager's rampages.

Yeager bit right through the heart-shaped "I Love You" necklace on this sweetie:

 And then this:

Some of Yeager's victims are forgiving souls and continue to smile sweetly.

Babs, though, experienced a growing hatred of dogs. And the world. She started listening to music with inappropriate lyrics and took up spitting. 

I told the kids they couldn't hang around her anymore.

Babs told Mr. Cool he should be ashamed to be a dog:

So he became ashamed:

Just one more victim of Yeager's spree of violence.

This was shared on:

Snoopy's Dog Blog 
Found the Marbles

Good for what ails you

It all started Sunday with a tickle in my throat. 

You know the rest: congestion, no energy and not much sleep.

Just when things were looking up, a cough arrived at the party.

Fortunately, this stupid hack gives me an excuse to take my medicine! 

OK, it's really a hot toddy. But I like to put a medicinal spin on it.

Here's the recipe:

Hot Toddy Cough Medicine

Ingredients:
1 1/2 cups boiling water
1 tea bag
1 Tablespoon lemon juice (from the big green bottle)
1 Tablespoon honey
1 Tablespoon whisky

Directions:
Put the whisky in the bottom of an empty mug.
Pour in the boiling water.
Add tea bag and steep to desired strength.
Remove tea bag.
Add lemon juice and honey. Stir.
Sip.

Is something going around or is it just me? *cough*

I mean, it's summer for Pete's sake!

Have a lovely day!

Marianna Rose is not the problem

I was at the grocery store the other day. You know how you can hear shoppers in the other aisles talking? You might not see them. But you hear them.

On this occasion, I overheard a mother talking to her toddler. 

Or her dog.

"Marianna Rose, sit."

"Marianna Rose, stop that."

"Marianna Rose, that is NOT the way to get what you want."

"Marianna Rose, stop making that face."

I didn't hear a peep from Marianna Rose. I didn't hear scuffling. Marianna Rose seemed to be a most compliant child.

I was tempted to find Marianna Rose's mother and say:

"Lady, YOU are the one who needs to sit and stop that. The way you are acting is not the way to get what you want."

"And, by the way, your face is probably stuck that way."

But I didn't.

I hope Marianna Rose is one strong-willed kid. 

Or imaginary.

On again, off again

He used to bring me chocolates and whisper sweet nothings into my ear. Oh how we would giggle at our private jokes!

That was when we first met, about a year ago.

I relied on him and he let me down. He had been a dirty, dirty boy and I expected him to clean up his act.

It's a different story when he tells it. Says it wasn't his fault. Says I was using him. And neglecting his needs.

We tried to make it work and even brought in an expert (who seemed to take his side). 

Pop-dishwasher-psychology lingo was thrown around: the EPA's waterway cleaning  resulted in the removal of phosphates from detergents; and someone's food filter was filthy.

In retrospect, I wonder if I threw too much at him. Perhaps being responsible for such a large family wasn't his scene.

We patched things up with a couple rounds of a specialty dishwasher cleaner. His trap was scrubbed sparkling clean. He began using eco-friendly detergents.

"I feel brand new," he said to me as the morning sun kissed his start button.

We danced through wildflowers once again and sang the clean dishes song. His smile was as wide as the silverware tray on an industrial model as he strummed his ukelele.

Just when I thought we were reunited forever (or at least the next few years), he flooded my kitchen in an act of vandalism that blindsided me.

Relationships are built on trust. 

I'm not there yet.

Is that a royal "we?"

Is that a royal "we?" -- A sassy kid may have snapped this comeback at his mother after she suggested "we" clean the garage or perform some other undesirable chore. 

Also known as a Victorian "we," the royal "we" is sometimes used by high-ranking or majestic folks as they refer to their single selves in plural form.

"We don't care for bubble bath without gold flakes," said the prince. 

Pretty high brow stuff.

I don't worry about my kids mouthing off like that. It's not because they are so well-disciplined. They've just never heard the expression. 

I mourn the death of such sayings and feel that "we" have an obligation to bring them back!

I know what you're thinking...go ahead, say it...

"What? You got a mouse in your pocket?"

Swoon.

Real deal zeal

I read homemaking blogs. I read cooking blogs. I read vintage blogs. I read gardening blogs. I read style blogs. I read motherhood blogs.

If there's a blog, I've read it.

Wait. No. That's not true. There's no way I could possibly read all the blogs on the Internet.

Some are about sports.

My own blog doesn't fall into one of the above categories. It is of the neighborly genre.

When you visit me here, I hope you feel as if you are visiting the lady next door--well, if the lady next door likes to bake and loves cats and kids and loud music and doesn't always mow her grass in a timely fashion and is okay with it if you don't mow your grass that much, either.

On this blog, you won't find gourmet recipes, the latest home and fashion fads, parenting tips from leading child psychologists, advice from a master gardener, or how to run a steel mill on a shoestring budget.

But you will find recipes I've tried, my attempts at style, and ideas on mothering and family. We can take a stroll out back to see if anything happens to be growing in the garden. We can play with the dogs and aggravate the cat.

Let's share thoughts about making the world friendlier and not wait until our lives magically turn perfect.

This is a blog about lowering standards!

We are allowed to be neighborly even if our teeth aren't whitened and there is still laundry on the couch from the other day.

You're on your own with that steel mill idea, though.

Like a biscuit in a loaf costume

Doesn't this loaf of bread look delicious?

Well, it wasn't.

I have been searching for a quick bread recipe to use as sandwich bread. Yeast breads are awesome and everything, but a concoction that can be mixed, dumped into a pan and baked immediately sounds like a dream. 

Kneading, rising, kneading, rising. Sometimes I'm just not in the mood.

So I tried this Irish soda bread recipe. 

Concealing its true biscuit identity in a loaf costume, it gave everyone a start--kind of like taking a drink expecting soda but getting an iced tea surprise instead. 

"It's OK, I guess, just not what I was expecting," seemed to be the collective opinion around the dinner table. The remains of this thing hung around the kitchen for days. No one would give it another chance. 

I believe baking powder is my ticket out of kneading and rising but this recipe wasn't it.

The search continues.

Photos of me? I'm scared!

Darn you social media gurus who say to use REAL photos of ourselves on our profiles!!

In an attempt to put a "decent" picture of myself on this blog, I went on a photo shoot with Mr. Cool.

I HATED the whole process.

And Mr. Cool kept saying, "Work it. Work it." What was that all about?

I call the above photo, "Candlelight Vigil" but it could also pass as "Ghost Story with Flashlight."

I thought I'd look better under the cover of darkness. Plus I had to do something about that pesky double chin.

Then I got my laser out and zapped away. Double chin be-gone!

Who walks around with a blast of light under their chin? Totally unrealistic.

If I owned a speakeasy, it would have one of those sliding windows on the door at eye level. This is what I would look like asking, "What's the password?"

Stop laughing, Mr. Cool. 

You're not being a very encouraging photography beagle!

The bright side? It's over and I have a photo on my sidebar now.

I didn't want to look too old or too stuffy or too double-chinny. 

Whatever. At a certain point you just gotta say, "That'll do."

Eco-altruism eludes me kinda like reaching a human by phone at one particular toy company

Because of my loving devotion to procrastination, I never found out how to dispose of this toy. 

Don't get me wrong. I don't want to ditch a perfectly good toy. This one is broken in a couple places. There are sharp edges. This little garage saw lots of hardcore playtime; but I just can't donate it.

Today I called our recycling company. The toy does not have any recycling numbers on it. The representative said toys like this are made from hard plastic which they don't recycle.

Hmmm.

So, I called the toy manufacturer. I snort-laughed at their elaborate caller blocking scheme meant to wear me down until I give up.

I don't want to brag, but I've been told I stand in line VERY WELL. It's my superpower.

It must have cost good money to implement such a complex telephone system as it was seemingly co-created by M. C. Escher disciples and professional hockey goalies.

Options like:
Press one for number of employees in line at the microwave in our break room; press two for the types of flowers planted in front of our building; press three for each of our vice presidents' favorite dog breeds. 

Yet with each new choice I GREW STRONGER. 

I get it. They don't want to talk to their customers. Or potential customers.

But I needed to talk to them.

And then I heard,

"Customer Service. This is Jeanine."

Her voice caught me off guard. After working the phone for so long, I had to wipe away tears of gratitude. At long-last, the home stretch. It was almost over.

I composed myself and explained the toy dilemma to my new very best friend, Jeanine. 

I told her how I've had this toy for a long time. How the kids loved it. How it was broken so I couldn't donate it. How my local recycling service wouldn't accept it. How some of the sound effects still work on it, though, crazy as that may seem.

Her response?

"Home phone number, please."

I didn't understand how that was relevant, but I told her anyway. 

Eager to get Jeanine's sage advice on this years-old recycling issue of mine, I was on the edge of my seat. In addition, I'd dedicated a good chunk of my day to reaching an actual human.

Then she said,

"First and last name, please."

I told her my name as my frustration escalated. 

I guess callers who are annoyingly persistent enough to arrive at the final stages of that phone labyrinth must then pay the company with INFORMATION.

I could only imagine what sorts of marketing I was agreeing to by complying. 

As I expected, she continued,

"Home address, please."

No. No. No. 

The answer to my recycling question does not depend on my phone number, my name and the location of my home.

I refused to give her my home address. 

Curiously enough, she was OK with this.  *shrug*

So, what WAS Jeanine's assessment of my recycling problem? 

She didn't know.

The end.

This one toddler sock; he was a real jerk

Setting:  

Our first home. One morning when I had an office job. Approximately 6:54 a.m.

If it weren’t for all the stairs in our house, I would have loved roller skates. Just think, some women get ready for the day in house slippers!

Amateurs.

Back then, the days when I hit the ground running, I wasn’t fast enough.

I remember dousing one fire after another--from locating run-free pantyhose to finding something possibly passing as a “healthy” kid snack to wondering if I bought sandwich baggies to considering where I might have put those sandwich baggies.

If my hair didn’t dry in time, I cut off the wet parts. Seriously.

This particular frantic morning, though, will forever be etched into my memory.

‘Twas the day of IT. 

It seemed that morning’s previous conquers were for naught: the pantyhose victory, the snack defeat and the baggie triumphs—they were mere practice battles intended to groom me for the FINAL CHALLENGE of which I was no contender.

What was this FINAL CHALLENGE?

A missing toddler sock.

Mousers are overrated. Kitty Baby catches toddler socks.

“So this is how I meet my end,” I surrendered, kneeling, my arm returning from underneath the couch, “death by elusive toddler sock.”

This may sound exaggerated or dramatized. But let me tell you, in the heat of the morning rush, there is no joy. No merriment.

There is but drama. 

That toddler sock was no small thing.

Not finding that toddler sock in time = getting to work late = the boss’ wrath.

The day’s entire tone rested on that one toddler sock.

Jerk.

 

Shared on this neighborly site:

Tales from Trish

Stop yelling at me, world!

Our homes are how we make them. How we shape them. 

I put the brakes on letting news shows attempt influence over my feelings. It's like they are constantly yelling into my living room, "You should be really scared of this!!" Stop it, news shows! Sure I want to know the gist of what's going on around me. But after a bit...

I turn it off.

So often I find I'm the only one in the room after someone has left the TV blaring. Some game show blasts. They yell and shout and glimmer and "bing" and "bong" and are generally obnoxious. (Sorry, Little Weirdo).

I turn it off.

Or what's worse, in my opinion, are sitcoms seemingly written by adolescent boys in the locker room. Seriously, I could write those shows--if I wanted to be crude. It's not like I'm all that offended. It's more about being sad over our degeneration as a civilization. Money spent on those laugh tracks is well spent; because insulting the intelligence of an audience is not funny.

I turn it off.

Oh, but what fills my home instead of the downer news stories, obnoxious game shows and asinine sitcoms?

Classical guitar music. Ahhh.

Ottmar Liebert and Andrés Segovia. They scoop my heart away.

And all is right and peaceful in my little world.

What makes your home sing?

The perfect gift

"We NEVER have tape in this house. If you REALLY want to make me HAPPY, buy me some TAPE for Christmas," says the person who has nearly everything.

I love it when hints are hurled at my head. Finally, I know what they really want.

I wasn't going to splurge on the "Jumbo," 

but it's Christmas.

Simple sirloin steak for the squeamish

I am not good with raw meat.

I don't like to handle it. 

I worry about not cooking it long enough.

It's icky.

If I found some out in the yard, I'd call the police.

Sounds like I'm not exactly selling you on my sirloin steak recipe.

But wait! 

This recipe is perfect for cooks with delicate constitutions. It doesn't require much touching and it's over in hurry.

Plus it's STEAK--which makes the cook very popular.

The only catch is, the kitchen might get a little smoky; so decrease the heat when necessary and all should be OK. You might want to open a window, too.

SIRLOIN STEAK

Ingredients:

Sirloin steaks (they look like cartoon steaks!)

Olive oil

Salt and pepper

Directions:

1. Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.
2. On the stove, heat an empty skillet on high heat. (an oven-safe skillet, if possible)
3. Add some olive oil to the skillet.
4. Put a little oil on the steaks and season them with salt and pepper.
5. Regulate the heat in the skillet, turning it down a little if necessary.
6. Put the steaks in the skillet and let them be.
7. Wait 3 minutes.
8. Flip them over. Tongs work better than a spatula.
9. Wait another 3 minutes.
10. Put the steaks in the preheated oven. If your skillet is oven-safe, it can go directly into the oven.
11. If you don't have an oven-safe skillet, transfer the steaks to a baking sheet with sides. Again, tongs work better than a spatula.
12. Bake about 10 minutes.

Steaks are done depending on how you like them cooked.

An internal temperature of 150 degrees is medium-well.

I cooked ours for about 15 minutes, until they reached 170 degrees (because I worry). That was probably too long--but they were still yummy!

 

This was shared for Foodie Friends Friday on this neighborly website:

Walking on Sunshine

The wild side of sweet condiments

Sweet pickle chips--an adorable, usually well-behaved accompaniment.

Oh, sweet pickle chips. I know you made this mess at the bottom of the fridge.

 
Now, now. Don't lie and get yourself into more trouble.

I found your jar toppled and leaking. There is sticky sweet pickle chip goo all over the fridge.

Oh, sweet pickle chips. 

Whatever am I going to do with you?

Bad English

I don't want this blog to be huffy or terribly negative, but I just can't ignore this.

See a portion of my daughter's HIGH SCHOOL ENGLISH homework in the photo above.

I am not a spelling or grammar snob.

Typos? I undersnad. :)
Abbreviations in text messages? Gr8!
Bending grammar rules to favor rhythm or point making? Fun.
English offenses from an instructor in a subject other than English? OK, I guess.

Apparently, my daughter's English teacher has no grasp on spelling and grammar. In addition, it appears she doesn't recognize troublemaker words such as affect/effect and is/are; because that skill would have prompted her to proofread and make corrections.

This situation may be part of a cycle of English abuse, a glaring consequence of this instructor's own educational experience. Perhaps she is a victim of bad English teachers.

I am often an enabler but even I say, "An English abuser should not teach English!"

Many people move to this neighborhood (in the Midwest) for the top-rated schools. The district is highly regarded.

I realize we all make mistakes, but this is basic stuff. Basic ENGLISH stuff.

In an English class, it's unacceptable.