"Good Friends Make Good Neighbors" Downtown Dishing
Growing up, neighbors were people on the periphery in our lives. We waved for them throughout the fence, or nodded while they drove by, but neighbors weren’t friends and vice versa.
Los Angeles Lofts
Los Angeles Lofts
“Well, we don’t need them knowing the whole business,’’ Mom quipped, as though the guy two yards away might’ve sold our grilling secrets to the Soviets.
Mom never borrowed a cupful of everything from anyone, no one on our street ever just popped over, like Ethel did to Lucy or Larry did to Jack on Three’s Company.
Needless to say those TV characters lived in apartments, not houses, so proximity was on their own side. Mom, like many individuals, looked at having a home as a step-above apartment living, where you don’t need to smell other people’s dinners or find out in an unfortunate hour that the neighbor above you truly, really enjoys thrashing to the sounds of Slayer.
I wanted it all, minus Slayer. I wished for a house where neighbors knew my name, and i also, theirs. Robert Frost wrote, “Good fences make good neighbors.’’ I wanted neighbors who made friends. Friends who could help you out of a jam, should one arise.
Once you live alone, though, you receive pretty crafty at doing things yourself as opposed to seeking help. Furniture’s too heavy? Plop one end on the rug and drag. Can’t open the jelly jar? Use that rubber twist-off thing. Lock yourself out? Stash extra keys everywhere. You will find, give anyone to your neighbor.
It’s been a very long time since I’ve lived alone, and I’ve never had to ask a neighbor for help. Milk? Yes. Ice? Yup. But not assistance.
Until Tuesday.
You could say Dan has spoiled me. Previously, I’ve used him to achieve the screaming fire alarm or hoist the heavy pan in the oven depths. And when a dress zipper snags, Dan’s the individual that guides it back into place and latches the tiny hook that otherwise would need a good yoga stretch.
But on Tuesday, hours after he was safely at work and Twenty or so minutes until I desired to become at an interview 10 minutes away, I’d zipped myself in to a situation. Seems I’d grown from the little yellow dress that, previously, had left lots of room for growth. My freshly moisturized hands slipped each and every time I yanked the zipper upward.
Quarter-hour.
Sweat beads rolled down my reddened face when i realized unzipping it absolutely was will no longer a choice.
Twelve minutes.
My neighbor, Mark! Sure, I was a new comer to the loft, but I’d spoken with him repeatedly, and we’d cocktailed and barbecued on the roof. I doubted neither my hubby nor his boyfriend would mind my asking him which helped me to dress.
Turns out, my pleading text was lost in translation, but after he ROFL, he asked how he could help. With that point, needle nose pliers saved the afternoon - as well as the dress - and that i arrived to my meeting perspiring, but prompt.
Hours later I noticed Mark on the mailboxes.
“That dress looks great for you! How’d an interview go?’’
Now that’s a great neighbor. Close friend? Here, they’re one inch the identical.
Los Angeles Lofts
Los Angeles Lofts
“Well, we don’t need them knowing the whole business,’’ Mom quipped, as though the guy two yards away might’ve sold our grilling secrets to the Soviets.
Mom never borrowed a cupful of everything from anyone, no one on our street ever just popped over, like Ethel did to Lucy or Larry did to Jack on Three’s Company.
Needless to say those TV characters lived in apartments, not houses, so proximity was on their own side. Mom, like many individuals, looked at having a home as a step-above apartment living, where you don’t need to smell other people’s dinners or find out in an unfortunate hour that the neighbor above you truly, really enjoys thrashing to the sounds of Slayer.
I wanted it all, minus Slayer. I wished for a house where neighbors knew my name, and i also, theirs. Robert Frost wrote, “Good fences make good neighbors.’’ I wanted neighbors who made friends. Friends who could help you out of a jam, should one arise.
Once you live alone, though, you receive pretty crafty at doing things yourself as opposed to seeking help. Furniture’s too heavy? Plop one end on the rug and drag. Can’t open the jelly jar? Use that rubber twist-off thing. Lock yourself out? Stash extra keys everywhere. You will find, give anyone to your neighbor.
It’s been a very long time since I’ve lived alone, and I’ve never had to ask a neighbor for help. Milk? Yes. Ice? Yup. But not assistance.
Until Tuesday.
You could say Dan has spoiled me. Previously, I’ve used him to achieve the screaming fire alarm or hoist the heavy pan in the oven depths. And when a dress zipper snags, Dan’s the individual that guides it back into place and latches the tiny hook that otherwise would need a good yoga stretch.
But on Tuesday, hours after he was safely at work and Twenty or so minutes until I desired to become at an interview 10 minutes away, I’d zipped myself in to a situation. Seems I’d grown from the little yellow dress that, previously, had left lots of room for growth. My freshly moisturized hands slipped each and every time I yanked the zipper upward.
Quarter-hour.
Sweat beads rolled down my reddened face when i realized unzipping it absolutely was will no longer a choice.
Twelve minutes.
My neighbor, Mark! Sure, I was a new comer to the loft, but I’d spoken with him repeatedly, and we’d cocktailed and barbecued on the roof. I doubted neither my hubby nor his boyfriend would mind my asking him which helped me to dress.
Turns out, my pleading text was lost in translation, but after he ROFL, he asked how he could help. With that point, needle nose pliers saved the afternoon - as well as the dress - and that i arrived to my meeting perspiring, but prompt.
Hours later I noticed Mark on the mailboxes.
“That dress looks great for you! How’d an interview go?’’
Now that’s a great neighbor. Close friend? Here, they’re one inch the identical.