Mrs. Snarky’s Neighborhood

Many of you have asked me where I live.  For all you know we could be neighbors and chances are if  there is a middle-aged mom next door that enjoys a 32 ounce Diet Coke and can really rock a Target track pant even while suffering from a debilitating cankle affliction then it’s probably me. Now, just to ensure I’m your neighbor I’m making available this handy guide to my hood.  Read it and see if anything rings your doorbell.

Directly across the street is where the Helpfuls live.  Every cul-de-sac needs this kind of neighbor.  If your outside doing any kind of seasonal chore they always seem to walk out there door to offer assistance.  Before you can even get your snow shovel mojo going here comes Mr. Helpful to give you tips on how best to increase your shovel productivity.  If your lucky he’ll give you a demonstration that includes some pre shoveling stretching techniques.  Thanks, but no thanks on doing snow yoga. I’m not a fan of doing downward facing dog with a shovel.  Plus, it gives me a very awkward combo camel toe/snow-pant wedgie.  Mrs. Helpful took an on-line course that, according to her now, has her ranked as a Master Gardner.  She’s a joy to visit with in the spring and summer.  All that yard advice is a godsend.  I don’t know how we managed to mow a lawn or grab a rack before she came into our lives. She is so tenacious in her yard zeal that even when we’re wearing ear protection (to protect us from the mower, I assure you, not to block out Mrs. Helpful’s charming weed and feed diatribe) she still insists on talking to us.

I’m most grateful for the Helpfuls advice on how to raise my children. I don’t know why, but it seems the people who have never had kids seem to have a prodigious supply of parenting tips. Maybe it’s because they have all that free time.  It’s not like I return the favor and say, “Hey, since you seem to have an almost stalkerish interest in my children here’s some suggestions on how to get your own baby making machine working.  The secret is sex while standing on your head. Don’t be ashamed if one of you has to use the wall for balance. Not every couple has the stamina for upside down reproduction. I will say it gives the sperm an Olympic bobsled run to the promise land.”  See, I’ve can be nice. I’ve kept my mouth shut. I have though suggested on numerous occasions that they take their sharing spirit and do some volunteer work.  But, no the Helpfuls confided in me that they “don’t much like strangers.”  Hmm, I wonder why?

Catty cornered from me is where the Doctors Scrubs live.  Mr. Dr. Scrub has never been seen in anything but green or blue surgical scrubs.  Now, I know you’re thinking a woman who lives in the aforementioned track pants shouldn’t throw stones, but I do, on occasion, wear a pant that requires a zipper. The thing is that Mr. Dr. Scrub is a radiologist.  He doesn’t perform surgery and according to his son, who is at my house so much he writes down what snacks he likes on my grocery list (Cheese Nips, in case you were wondering), his dad works most days from home reading x-rays etc from his computer.  I’m not saying radiologists aren’t amazing and don’t save countless lives I’m just asking the question does this man or any physician need to wear their scrubs to a 7 p.m. Tuesday night, 4th grade choir performance or to a 3 p.m. Saturday soccer game?

Mr. Dr. Scrub is married to a pharmacist who works at one of the local grocery stores.  She also always wear scrubs.  Her scrubs are a little more fashion forward.  Brace yourself, because Mrs. Dr. Scrub wears capris.  Yes indeed, that’s right, capri scrubs.  I inquired about her unique scrub look and she enthusiastically blabbed that she “cuts” her scrubs herself and then uses iron on sewing adhesive to make this one-of-a-kind scrub statement.  She also wears, God, I’m having trouble getting this out,  but here goes . . . capri scrubs and Uggs.   It looks as bad as it sounds, most especially when she wears her “low” Uggs so you get a Ugg, half a calf, scrub look.  Most unsettling, I assure you.  I desperately want to knock on their door and say, “I get it, we all get it, you Mr. Dr. Scrub are a M.D. and you, Mrs. Dr. Scrub have Master of Science in pharmacology. You are well-educated people who save lives.  You also make a decent living now go buy yourself some freaking pants.

Behind me and a little off to the side of my house is where the Super Family resides. Oh, how I live to mess with their perfect little word.  This family of two excessively pompous parents and three “amazing” kids stands for everything I’m against. Let’s start with those annoying children.  A lot of you aren’t going to like this and I know I’ll receive some backlash when I say it, but my kids, totally NOT amazing.  Yes, I love and adore my children with a fierceness that probably merits a 12 step program.  But, my kids, while exceptional to me, are not qualified for the amazing classification category.  Why? Because in my book having an amazing kid means they can swim underwater for 30 minutes without surfacing for air or have the ability to fly without the aid of a jet pack or commercial airliner.  My kids, a big no can do on all of that because they’re just kids. Normal (kind of), healthy (thank you God), funny (again, thank you God) kids.

I’m suffering from a terminal case of EPBF – Extreme Parental Boasting Fatigue brought on by moms and dads thinking their children are extraordinary to not just them (because that’s a given) but to everyone.  It’s one thing to have parental pride of ownership, it’s another thing to think that your child is the most amazing creature to every chew and sallow their own food. To all you delusional, hyper competitive parents out there calm down, pop a Xanex and chase it with a gallon box on Frenzia chablais.

Which now brings me back to the Super Family neighbors.  They truly believe, with all their heart and tiny, misguided brains, that their 3 (very average) children (ages 13, 15 & 16) are superior to all intergalactic life forms.  Two of the ways they show this to the world is with yard signs and banners.  Yes, when boasting on Facebook is not enough, by all means litter the neighborhood with signage. Different public and private schools fundraise with yards signs.  The more crap your kid is involved in the more yard signs that clutter your lawn.  For as little as $200, you too, can buy a yard sign that says your kid is on the volleyball team.  For an additional fee you can purchase sign accessories with things like guitar club, performing arts etc.  My neighbors have about 2 dozen of these signs in their yard.  Too add to their glory they also attach banners to their corner lot fence to share, with the world at large, just how incredible their children are.  Today there’s a banner that says, “Congratulations Kelsey, Kaleb and Kacey on an awesome 2011!  2012 get ready for Kendell Kids.  The best of the past, perfect in the present and the hope of the future!!!”  

Please tell me that you just vomited in your mouth a little bit?  To say these signs and banners bring me joy would be an understatement.  Every time I new one goes up I get a surge of pure adrenaline that brings on an evil impulse.  Sometimes I manage to have superior impulse control, other times – not so much.   I have though pretty much managed to make their yard signs insignificant.

This happened in September when I went on a faux yard sign rampage.  You’ve got that right, I made up fake yard signs.  26 of them to be exact.  It was so simple, I’m ashamed of myself for not thinking of it earlier.  All it took was my son to use his computer skills and duplicate the high school logo, add a bunch of made up b.s., take them to Kinkos, have them printed on card stock and then staple gun each “sign” to a stake purchased from Lowe’s.  Sure, it cost some money and I had to delay getting my hair highlighted for a month to fund my evil, but it was so worth it.  The most enjoyable part was thinking up the bogus stuff to put on the yard signs.  These were my favorites (I would be remiss not to give a shout out to my kids for helping think of all the captions): In the high school yard sign division: First Place – Most Tardies, Best Freshman Year Biped Mammal, Clean Locker Club, National Society of Halo Gamers, Class of 2014 Attendee.

I also threw in some other signs. Ones that were more related to the parents who also had signage about their accomplishments, especially running marathons.  Every time they completed a marathon a new sign proclaiming 26.2 went in their yard with the location of where they ran the marathon.   Well, game on neighbors because I had my own 26.2 experiences. For sure, mine didn’t mean I had run 26.2 miles, but I’ve lived a long life of 26.2.  For example, 26.2 could mean the number of pounds I need to lose, or the 26.2 sleeves of Girl Scout Thin Mint cookies I could eat in a 26.2 hour period.

I waited and stuck the signs in my yard when my husband would be going out-of-town for three days.  Like I needed his throat clearing, disapproval act.  On the outside he’s all “God, really?  This is all so immature. Why do you care?”  But, I know on the inside he’s all, “You go crazy wife of mine. You go!”  I put my signs in the yard late at night, so when the Super Family went running at 5:30 the next morning they would be greeted by my yard “art.”  I even set my alarm and perched in the upstairs window so I could watch them explore my lawn.  Here’s how it played out: I could see them jogging.  They run by.  Their heads do a whiplash move. They come to a screeching halt, walk into my yard and began checking out all my signs.  I can see their agitation and by that I mean they are visibly pissed off.  Waves of thrilling happiness surge through my body as I witness this.  Friends, I had a revenge orgasm.

Fast forward three hours later and my doorbell rings.  It’s Mrs. Super Family.  She’s come to comment on my signage.  The Mrs. is most especially riled up, of course, about the 26.2 signs.  Now, when I say riled up I mean she is behaving with a veneer of politeness.  This is the suburbs, after all, and she is an Escalday. But I can tell it’s killing her. Her body language is saying, “I want to strangle you with my Adidas mesh crotch running thong.”

She comes into my house and says, “What’s up with all your new signs?”

I act confused and bewildered and respond in a tone that says I’m a sweet as Texas tea at a the Lions Club BBQ.  Which means I give it right back to her with; “You have a problem with my signs?  You have signs in your yard?”

Mrs. Super Family fires back, ‘Well, my signs are what I would call legitimate. Yours seem to all made up.”

“Really?” I say, acting concerned, “Show me a sign out there that’s not true.”

“Oh, that’s easy.  When do you ever run a marathon?”

As she’s saying this she’s giving my less than marathon body the once over.  It didn’t help that as she doing this I was eating a cookie.  Hey, it was oatmeal, so I’m giving myself points for a fiber rich snack.

I was more than ready for this line of questioning.  As we all know, I’m no amateur.  I sucked in my gut as best I could which meant one roll of flab receded, but the secondary roll remained at full sag, stood up straight and said. “Oh, I’ve run a marathon.  A marathon of faith.  While your 26.2 worships the miles you’ve run.  My 26.2 worships the good book. Isaiah 26.2  Open the gates, that the righteous nation that keeps faith may enter in.”

Bam!  You don’t go to Baylor for 4 years and have to suffer through Old and New Testament religion classes (which were incredibly difficult by the way) and something called Forum every Wednesday and not come out with some mad bible verse skills. Don’t try to out church me people.  You will fail!

This, as I predicted, shut her down.  She stammered and yet attempted to compliment herself all at the same time with, “Oh, sorry.  I didn’t even think of that. You know as an elite runner I see 26.2 and think marathon”

“Well, (insert me sighing and doing my best impersonation of my mother) not everything is all about you, is it?  Now, I hate to rush off, but I was just on my way to bible study (and of course, for me, bible study just happens to be Target, but is that any of her business? No.) and need to go tidy up a bit before I leave.”

She sulked out of my house and I ate another (okay 3) oatmeal cookie to celebrate my victory.

I’ve reached the point in my story where some of you are dying to go over to the comment section and leave a pithy remark on how if you lived in my neighborhood you’d would have moved after the first week.  The thing is I rather like my neighborhood and I do have some very nice neighbors.  But, do you really want to hear about the great neighbors I have?  The woman two doors down that makes THE best blueberry banana nut bread or the wonderful couple at the end of the cul-de-sac who love to babysit my dogs.  I’m thinking no.  So, let’s continue on shall we? I have one more neighbor to share with you. The Scaredy Cat/Scentsy Family that from now on I will refer to as the SCSF.

You know how some people have those plaques hanging outside their homes that commemorate when they got married, like the Brown Family established 1990. The SCSF’s should have a plaque that reads Being Afraid and Smelling Good since 1996.  Mrs. SCSF has three children (one boy 15 and two girls 12 & 8) and lives in constant fear that everyone and everything is out to get them.  She’s afraid of schools, public pools, malls, Santa Claus, UV rays, anyone driving her kids somewhere except for her, Halloween, the food chain and she makes her five foot tall, I’m guessing well over 80 pounds, 12-year-old still ride in a booster seat.  When her 15-year-old son goes outside to shoot hoops she sits on her front porch and watches.  Bonus, she puts “Kids at Play” cones out for him. She’s convinced any worker with a landscape crew is a pedophile that has targeted her children.  Ditto for any UPS or Fed X employee.   She lets her children have friends over, but she never lets her kids go to someone else’s house.  The problem is, of course, no kid wants to come over.  It’s not that they don’t have awesome toys.  A spare bedroom has been turned into an American Girl paradise with tons of dolls and accessories.  It’s just that Mrs. SCSF it a little OCD about the children messing up anything.  So, you go in the room to look, but not to play.  They even take their Legos and sort them by shape, color, and theme and then put them into labeled fishing tackle boxes.  My daughter calls it the house where toys go to die.

The one good thing about the SCSF is that their house is an olfactory extravaganza.  Mrs. SCSF, when not busy home-schooling and protecting her flock, is all about her family’s “Scent Story.”  One day when taking over a package that Fed X left at my house because she won’t open her door to anyone she doesn’t have a “personal relationship” with I got a strong whiff of a special kind of insanity.  It began with me having to take off my shoes while standing on her front porch and then when I crossed the threshold of her home I was welcomed in with an antibacterial hand gel ritual and before I was allowed to meander past her foyer.  While I was “washing” my hands I noticed that the SCSF’s house smelled amazing.  I commented on this and that’s when she shared her home’s “Scent Story.”  I was taken on a tour of the “story.”  We went room from room as she did a scent selection commentary. It went something like this: “Now my living room has a fig scent to compliment the dining room’s vanilla lavender smell. As we step into the hall notice that it smells like apples which accents the vanilla of the dining room and yet doesn’t compete with the fig.” It took all I had not to reply, “Lady, all I’m smelling is crazy.”

Funny thing, after the Scent Story tour Mrs. SCSF really took a shine to me.  My daughter and I were always being invited over.  I would politely make up excuses, but you know how that works every so often you’d have to just give in and go. It was a dreadful way to spend an hour.  All she wanted to talk about was perceived security threats to her children and her personal scent story.  Truly, she had found her life’s passion.  Just when I thought I would have to start hiding from her my 10-year-old did something that made me proud enough to craft a yard sign in her honor.  Some parents have a Student of the Month or a kid who gets a perfect SAT score.  I have something even better – a mini-me.  My daughter asked Mrs. SCSF if there was anyway she could spend the night at their house some day soon because our house had bed bugs and she itched all the time.  I believe her exact words were, “It would be so nice to go to sleep and not wake up scratching, scratching, scratching!”

Upon hearing this Mrs. SCSF attempted to swallow a scream so it came it out like a huge burp hiccup. She then with rapid speed herded us out of her house like we were ground zero for the ebola virus.  That was three months ago and we haven’t heard or really even seen any member of the SCSF since that fateful day.

So, after reading all this what do you think – are we neighbors?

*Alert readers will notice that I didn’t mention some of my neighbors like Barbara Grey (A Very Snarky Christmas) or the Bible Bunko hostess.  I figured you had heard enough about these women (for now). Many thanks for all of you who “liked” me on Facebook!  May the Snark Be With You.  For those that haven’t done the deed yet to stay up-to-date on new posts and take part in my not so deep thoughts click on this Facebook link – http://is.gd/iEgnJ (That’s the abbreviated link to my FB page) or I twitter @snarkynsuburbs. Oh and while you’re at it go ahead and share my link with friends.  Cheers!

51 thoughts on “Mrs. Snarky’s Neighborhood

  1. Oh how I wish that we were. I kept trying to read something, anything- even between the lines, to imply that we are. But you didn’t mention any drug dealers, or a crazy alcoholic artist lady who looks 74 but is, in fact, 48. So, I guess we are just neighbors from another life. Or maybe destined to be neighbors. Obviously, my suburb (a super fun one just outside of Seattle) is just a *little* different than yours.

  2. I only wish you lived in my neighborhood. Then you could mess with my quirky neighbors, the freaky religious folks with five kids ages 7-0.

    The 5- and 7-year-old boys keep telling my niece she’s going to Hell because she’s Catholic and goes to church on Saturday nights. They call my 9-year-old a “sinner.” (In full disclosure, he could have cussed in front of them.) Finally, one day he told them to quit calling him a sinner because everyone’s a sinner. “Why do you think Jesus came to Earth? To die for our sins!” That made the 7-year-old cry.

    The thing that peeves me the most is that I keep trying to be nice. Housewarming gift, new baby gift, casserole when they had a fire, plate of Christmas cookies — never have received a thank-you note. I just think that’s tacky and, possibly, sinful.

    • Are you in the South by any chance? Down here, it’s only recently been acknowledged that Catholicism is a form of Christianity. We’re nominally Presbyterian and so largely safe from the conversion attempts. However, my husband, a historian, invariably winds up in these converstaions with his (adult college) students about how Catholicism predates the Baptist church. He teaches a science and history course with a fellow professor who is OPENLY Catholic and the really hostile students, unsure what to do with this duo, refer to them as the evolutionists.

      I SO wish I had just made that up.

      • I’m not in the South but I grew up there so I know wherof you speak. And I covered the Kansas evolution wars in the late 1990s for a metropolitan daily newspaper, so I totally understand that, too.

        I like your description of your own neighborhood!

      • GATORMommy says:

        Catholic here (*raises hand*). I grew up in the north. Moved to the south at the age of 20 and for the first time in my life heard that I was not Christian. Wha??? Yep, because I believe in evolution, take a literalist rather than a literal view of the bible, and don’t proselytize, well then, I am not Christan. Who knew? Seems ludicrous to me that a region of the country has the right to “acknowledge” who is or is not Christan.

      • I went to Bible College in the south as a Catholic. On my New Testament Survey final there were 10 true/false questions, 7 of which were along the lines of “Mary is the mother of Jesus.” “Mary is the Queen of Heaven.” Mary is the mother of God.” etc., etc., etc. Had the same guy for Church History. The Inquisition was fun. I’ll give them credit, they did their level best to convert me. When they found out I was raised Southern Baptist and actually CHOSE to be Catholic, I think their poor little brains went into massive overlode. :-)

    • CrazieKaty says:

      MomOnTheEdge — I think we share the same neighbors! Our “Religious Cult” neighbors refuse to even look in our general direction (never mind we’re leaders at our church!) :) My husband and I tally our attempts at making them wave at us as they back out of their driveway in their Clark Griswold automobile, or at least have them make eye contact. We’re getting rather creative in our efforts: mowing in a bikini top (1, Me – made eye contact), practicing his golf chipping technique so the ball goes in their yard (0, Husband), shooting off LOUD fire works IN THE STREET during their Independence Day church gathering (1/2, Husband & friends – we did receive glares and whiperinsg from the cult, so that’s worth something).

      The “Religious Cult” children, however, love to play in our drivewaywith our kids, which is fine by me since (IMO) they’re being exposed to some culture (i.e. cussing, roughhousing, how to pee outside…you know, the things you need to survive in this world.).

      See you outside, MomOnTheEdge:)

  3. Props to your kids not only for the yard signs, but also for being able to do sweetly rude with a straight face!!! I don’t think we’re neighbors, but that’ s because in our neighborhood it’s the
    Good Christians
    The Really Good Christians
    The Extraordinarily Good Christians
    The Lone Other People Like Us
    and
    The Yard of the Month People

  4. Heather says:

    Without giving too much away (hopefully) … do you happen to live in a southern city of Tennessee??? If so… I am taking applications for a new snarky best friend :)

  5. SanAntonioSue says:

    *sigh* Me and my 4ft. tall, pink-lighted, wing-flapping, head-bobbing flamingo yard object d’art (which is placed out front for all to see and appreciate when I feel especially neighborly) bow to your awesome-ness! You are our inspiration and hero!!

  6. ihusisian says:

    You write beautifully! Thanks for the laughs. I needed them. We’re not neighbors, but only because I haven’t met a crazy Scent Story lady on my block. Everyone else is right nearby, including the perfect family with the obnoxious elite runner signs.

  7. Our Scaredy Cat Lady is a Southern Living Rep. We do have a few Scentsy Ladies, that are all franchised under Super Scentsy Lady. And then the Super Elite family, oof. The Helpfuls moved away and were replaced with Cranky Old People…

  8. Bonnie says:

    You are MY kind of neighbor! Love the signs. Next take on bumper stickers. I saw one the other day on a car driven by a girl: Who lit the string on your tampax? I loved her courage.

  9. Where toys go to die–that made my day.

    Here’s the scent story of my house: “In this room, you smell the odor from my son’s shoes only slightly masked by a subtle hint of Odor Eaters foot powder. Next is just a whiff of the spot where the dog threw up what was apparently part of a lizard. The final touch, which rounds off the combination nicely, is some mystery smell eminating from the refrigerator which I have been trying, without success, to identify for approximately six months.”

    Enjoy!

    (Another great post, as always! Also, we have a sanitation department, also known as the garbage man, across the road from our house.)

  10. Meghan says:

    I know we aren’t neighbors as I live on a busy street where people don’t talk to each other. However, I LOVE the descriptions of your neighbors. I am quite sure that I have met some of them in my neck of the woods.

  11. oh my goodness lady! if i had neighbors i would love for one of them to be you BUT since you dont live in the sticks i guess ill have to settle for the blog lol. can i just say your awesome and im pretty sure if we were neighbors we’d be besties. id LOVE to help you with your “ploting and scheeming”

  12. Lisa says:

    I only pray my daughter is as cool as yours when she gets older :)

    We aren’t neighbors, thank God there are no crazy yard sign people. I particularly love the rabid Christian homeschool family in my neighborhood – half their children bio the other half Asian adopted kids. And across the street are the alcoholic yard warriors. I never see them without a Solo cup in their hands while desperately trying to make their sod grow in the shade!

  13. Darn! I was hoping we were neighbors but unfortunately we are not…we have crazies but none like the ones you described. My dreams have been shattered. Sniff!

  14. jhajer says:

    I could pick out these woman at the local Starbucks. There there for the skinny, latte, no whip and add lots of ice with no calories drink. Me? Full fat laden with baked good side. Ok, two baked goods but only on the weekend.

  15. Tracey says:

    “Could you be mine, would you be mine… won’t you be my neighbor? Hi neighbor!”
    SO STINKIN’ FUNNY!
    From reading this, I would think you might be living smack-dab next door to me but urban myths here in Texas have you living a couple of states to the NE. My Austin-ite sister-in-law and you apparently have a friend in common and this friend tells the story of a “normal size”, fashionable, blond, CANKLE-FREE Snarky!
    -signed,
    your “stalker” neighbor ;)

    • Oh sweet Tracey, I am so not blonde, but I do have some gentle highlights in my brown hair. I’ve had cankles since I hit puberty and I most assuredly could lose a few (26.2) pounds. I would only be considered normal size at a meeting of folks considering gastric bypass surgery. But thanks for the love!

  16. I know you’re not my neighbor because I live in an apartment…no cul-de-sacs involved. (cul-de-sac, French meaning “bottom of the bag.”) You may live in some of my students’ neighborhoods, though. And, when someone saw that I was an Amway distributor they asked, “Have you joined that Amway cult?” Say what?

    Ah, Snarky, keep on writing. you keep many of us sane…or at least keep us sober…more or less.

  17. Sheri says:

    Snarky – Thank you for making me laugh out loud on a Friday evening after a crazy first week of 2012! I, sadly, do not know my neighbors very well, but now am counting that as a bit of a blessing.

    As a side note, I took religion freshman year of college and actually cheated on the semester final – a classmate took the test early and shared it with me and a friend – and I would have flunked otherwise!

    I just wish I had your creative mind.

  18. dorkisita says:

    I know you dont live on our street, but Lady you could transplant easy here. Funny! Thanks. P.S. Easy on the people who are only admiring you because you have kids, its not because we haven’t tried, Cancer sometimes takes options away.

    • Dorkista, Trust me these neighbors never ever want/wanted kids they would leave imprints in their perfect yard. They don’t even like pets. I was poking fun at people who don’t have children, but love, love, love to tell parents “now if these were my kids I wouldn’t let them get away with that (blah, blah, blah).” I didn’t mean to offend you. My neighbors, of course, I meant to offend.

  19. I’m so glad I have something to look forward to. Our cul-de-sac is completely empty except for the “really cute pregnant with their first baby on the way we have a yappy dog that never shuts the hell up” couple on one side and the “completely invisible except for the one guy that has been out of the house enough to talk to my husband twice” family that is 2 doors farther down. I really don’t think anyone ever leaves that house. The other 5 houses are up for grabs. I’ve tried to get the subdivision salesguy to let me have final approval on everyone who wants to buy one of those houses. He was completely unreasonable about it and said he couldn’t allow that. No more cookies for him…
    .

  20. We’re probably not neighbors, but Super Family sounds familiar. Though not one that would actually post a sign congratulating their kids on a successful year. WTH is that?

    I must say that your daughter sounds amazing. “Where toys go to die” and the bed bugs story? Pure genius. Maybe you should make a yard sign, congratulating her on her snark and you for passing it on…

  21. I was given the link of your blog by a friend of mine, and I have to say that you are a riot! :)

    Bible versus?! Priceless. :)

    However, I don’t think we are neighbors since I have never heard or seen staking signs in the yard for accomplishments made. I just hope my neighbors don’t get wind of this sort of thing, since I do know some who would love to participate! :)

    I look forward to reading more!

  22. Carolyn says:

    I was told about your blog by my college roommate from Wayland Baptist College which ALSO required Old and New Testament and had “Chapel” which I bet was comparable to your “Forum”. I’m looking forward to a long and laughing friendship because you need some friends with your neighbors! Ha, ha! I only have the ones who called the police on my dog when he got into their yard and then “didn’t know what to do” when their chickens got in my yard and trashed my landscaping. (I suggested that perhaps the police could figure that one out, too!) Oh, and on the other side, we have the man who came to our barbeque and deliberately smacked my granddaughter in the face with a large ball. Obviously not a kid lover, nor a guest at my house anymore! The only other neighbor I really know is an 87 year old sweetie who swears that we have not had a flake of snow when I’ve driven in it at least 2 times a week all winter. When I confront her, she sweetly announces “Well, it didn’t snow on MY side of the street.” Neighbors!

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