Not The Typical Girl Next Door
When I moved into my place years ago, my neighbor slipped a note under my door, kindly asking that I not engage in any activity that involved my oven. Cooking, in her mind, was a crime and any odors that were emitted from using the oven would not be tolerated.
I thought that was ridiculous and pretty amusing given that I hadn’t used the oven. I told her that, so I became an acceptable neighbor in her book. Well, I told her that I hadn’t used the oven, not the ridiculous part.
She continued to spout the evils of cooking to my entire wing. She went off on a neighbor for baking cookies, stating that they were odoriferous.
My cookie-baking neighbor, by the way, gave me a wonderful batch of holiday cookies the first year I moved in and it brought me right back to holiday time with my grandma. So, the opportunity to whiff the baking of cookies me put me in a warm and happy place.
But, I digress.
Then, she tackled the neighbor across the way, suggesting that people refrain from cooking during the holidays. I laughed and assured her that, “You can’t cancel Christmas.” She was ticked!
To her, “responsible cooking” meant not using an oven and eating salad. That’s it.
So, not only was cooking not permitted, I had to walk around like a ballerina, doing an occasional silent pirouette, and was permitted to use the bathroom only at certain times. Okay, not really, but it seemed like that.
One night I was moving some furniture around and forgot where I placed things when it was bedtime. So, I accidentally knocked over a container full of hair clips resulting in a huge noise.
I said to myself, “UH OH! Here comes a serving of terror.”
BAM! Silence. BAM! I realized it was a broom pounding my ceiling from the floor below me. OOPS.
My final moving memory is when other neighbors were frolicking about (you figure it out) and making too much noise. I heard BAM! SLAM! Silence. BAM! BAM! SLAM! Silence.
Despite the rain storm outside, she felt the best way to get someone’s attention and to silence them was by raising the window and slamming it back down a few times, thus shaking the building off its foundation. I remember hiding under my covers, thinking we are either in the middle of an earthquake or my neighbor is ticked.
Finally, I heard a male voice yelling in the wind like Prince Charming as he is about to sweep me off my feet on that white horse with a bowl of guacamole. The voice bellowed to the impatient neighbor, “SHUT UP, (you fill in the blank).”
She has moved out and since then the aroma of home cooking wafts through the wing. She found a better use for her broom and sailed away on it.