One of many welcoming signs.
The Welcome Wagon.
And we were there.
Tomorrow promises to be better.
Showing posts with label City Life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label City Life. Show all posts
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Summer fun and our Anniversary
There was a Vintage Grand Prix race in the Big City this weekend.
Vintage cars take to the track for a number of races. Actually, these are city streets and not a race track at all. A friend of ours, who was there, said there are only 2 places in the U.S. that use actual streets for races and that this is one of them. I'm not sure whether I should believe him or not as this same friend once threw me into a swimming pool at a graduation party. A graduation party that was on par with some of the swankiest weddings I've ever been to and a home we've never been invited back to.
Go figure.
We rode our bikes all over the place and tons of vintage cars were parked on the golf course that bordered the race track.
I told Hans that the fact that people walked and biked all over the course just gave the bad golfers a reason to bitch for the rest of the summer. I can hear the grumbling now..."Damned Grand Prix! The course hasn't been the same since all those idiots stomped all over the place!"
A group of cars headed our way.
One car flipped over at a turn but luckily it was a hard top and the 79 year old driver was unhurt. A year or so ago a car hit a wall and the driver was killed.
Hans is checking out a Lamborghini with a license plate that read 1OF34 (1 of 34). I would have bought it for him but I didn't bring enough money with me.
Maybe next year.
I think I'd rather ride around in this.The Wienermobile by Oscar Mayer.
It's license plate said OUR DOG.
Here we are beside a 1969 Pontiac GTO Convertible with its original sticker price of $4,000.00 in the window.
Four thousand dollars back in 1969!!!!!
Okay People!!!
What's wrong with this picture???
Actually, maybe nothing.
Perhaps they're just telling us something about themselves?
Yesterday was our 5th Anniversary of unwedded bliss!Wednesday, May 13, 2009
...won't you be my neighbor?
Remember Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood? As a child I just loved that show, I really did. And even though Mr. Rogers actually lived in My Big City I don't think he lived in the same neighborhood as me, I really don't.
Needless to say, I'm going back today and I hope no one else in the neighborhood has figured out what a great bargain this is and that some are still remaining because they were fantastic!
And since Hans and I don't have a stove, I cooked them in the microwave. Just wrap them in wet paper towels and nuke on high for about 4 minutes. That's it. Of course I dipped mine in melted butter and then since I absolutely ruined any good that my afternoon run may have had, I figured what the hell, and ate a dish of full fat ice cream with strawberries (in sugar of course!).
No we don't have a stove, and just in case you think we live in a swanky love nest or in a trendy apartment let me clear that up for you.
The two lane street in front of our apartment in this low income, working class neighborhood, has been discovered to be the shortest distance between two very popular points of The Big City. And since the only thing that separates our building from the street is a sidewalk we get to hear every vehicle (sirens, cars with stereo bass systems that were never intended for the human ear...) that passes by.
But that's a piece of cake because you see we don't have a back yard, we have railroad tracks. There is a law that trains have to blow their whistle when approaching any opening to traffic and we're lucky enough to have a factory right beside us that has such an opening. We've learned to stop mid sentence when talking and then just take up conversation again once the SCREAMING whistle has stopped. At least we can hear over the shaking and vibrating of the train itself and believe it or not we sleep right through the night. The first time our Beast came to stay with Vet Tech Girl who lives below us and a train came through, that poor cat nearly turned inside out and tried to hide under the couch but she was too fat to fit.
Our laundry room is in the basement of our duplex and even though it's a short walk to the back of the building to access it, we lock our apartment door when we go there.
Vet Tech Girl, who lives below us, gets to hear the street level noises each night which usually involves loud drunks, fighting lovers, or loud fighting lovers who are drunk.
And because I need a cement base in order to pound grommets into my bags and purses, unfortunately the sidewalk in front of our apartment is my only choice. So while I squat, all bent over, on the front steps everyone who drives by can watch me. Sometimes people honk their horns but since I don't know anyone here in The Big City I don't look up. One day after an unusual amount of honking it wasn't until I was done hammering that I realized my low cut tee-shirt was gaping open and the whole world had been treated to the sight of my Frederick's of Hollywood Bra (cheap on line purchase). The honking was probably protesting the fact that I will obviously never be a Frederick's of Hollywood model.
Another time one of our neighbors angrily paced on his sidewalk and multi tasked by puffing wildly on his cigarette and screaming into his cell phone at the same time, so while I pounded on my grommets I got to hear this, "What the fut! What you talkin' about, ho?! What the fut! Who tell you that!? Man, you is full of shit! I astin you, who tell you that!?"
I wanted to tell him not to look at me, I didn't tell anyone anything, and besides that I have a hammer in one hand and a pit-bull in the apartment. But I just kept pounding my grommets.
So that's my life in the Big City. No stove, no more unlocked doors, and I have to drive to a trail for my daily run.
But I don't have to mow a yard and with our free improvisational street shows, and the added bonus of cheap crab legs, this is even better than dinner theater!
(This is directly across the street from us.)
Hang in here and you'll see where I'm going with this.
Last night Hans and I had Alaskan King Crab Legs for dinner.
And no it didn't break our bank.
Get this, I bought them for $5.99 a pound at our grocery store. And since they were so cheap I figured there must be something wrong with them so I only bought one package.Needless to say, I'm going back today and I hope no one else in the neighborhood has figured out what a great bargain this is and that some are still remaining because they were fantastic!
And since Hans and I don't have a stove, I cooked them in the microwave. Just wrap them in wet paper towels and nuke on high for about 4 minutes. That's it. Of course I dipped mine in melted butter and then since I absolutely ruined any good that my afternoon run may have had, I figured what the hell, and ate a dish of full fat ice cream with strawberries (in sugar of course!).
No we don't have a stove, and just in case you think we live in a swanky love nest or in a trendy apartment let me clear that up for you.
The two lane street in front of our apartment in this low income, working class neighborhood, has been discovered to be the shortest distance between two very popular points of The Big City. And since the only thing that separates our building from the street is a sidewalk we get to hear every vehicle (sirens, cars with stereo bass systems that were never intended for the human ear...) that passes by.
But that's a piece of cake because you see we don't have a back yard, we have railroad tracks. There is a law that trains have to blow their whistle when approaching any opening to traffic and we're lucky enough to have a factory right beside us that has such an opening. We've learned to stop mid sentence when talking and then just take up conversation again once the SCREAMING whistle has stopped. At least we can hear over the shaking and vibrating of the train itself and believe it or not we sleep right through the night. The first time our Beast came to stay with Vet Tech Girl who lives below us and a train came through, that poor cat nearly turned inside out and tried to hide under the couch but she was too fat to fit.
Our laundry room is in the basement of our duplex and even though it's a short walk to the back of the building to access it, we lock our apartment door when we go there.
Vet Tech Girl, who lives below us, gets to hear the street level noises each night which usually involves loud drunks, fighting lovers, or loud fighting lovers who are drunk.
And because I need a cement base in order to pound grommets into my bags and purses, unfortunately the sidewalk in front of our apartment is my only choice. So while I squat, all bent over, on the front steps everyone who drives by can watch me. Sometimes people honk their horns but since I don't know anyone here in The Big City I don't look up. One day after an unusual amount of honking it wasn't until I was done hammering that I realized my low cut tee-shirt was gaping open and the whole world had been treated to the sight of my Frederick's of Hollywood Bra (cheap on line purchase). The honking was probably protesting the fact that I will obviously never be a Frederick's of Hollywood model.
Another time one of our neighbors angrily paced on his sidewalk and multi tasked by puffing wildly on his cigarette and screaming into his cell phone at the same time, so while I pounded on my grommets I got to hear this, "What the fut! What you talkin' about, ho?! What the fut! Who tell you that!? Man, you is full of shit! I astin you, who tell you that!?"
I wanted to tell him not to look at me, I didn't tell anyone anything, and besides that I have a hammer in one hand and a pit-bull in the apartment. But I just kept pounding my grommets.
So that's my life in the Big City. No stove, no more unlocked doors, and I have to drive to a trail for my daily run.
But I don't have to mow a yard and with our free improvisational street shows, and the added bonus of cheap crab legs, this is even better than dinner theater!
Our back yard.
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