When I go for my legendary (or at least they will be, soon) walks through the neighborhood, I like to keep tabs on stuff. I walk a different way every day, on a five day rotation, just in case something exciting happens. And I make sure that at least once a week, I check out the Rapunzel House.
The Rapunzel House has been an ongoing concern since 1984. It is STILL unoccupied and uncared-for, and I am starting to get nervous. Someone is going to buy the Rapunzel House...and tear it down.
If you are a peep of mine, you know that my husband and I are like OSI's Oscar Goldman. We take outdated, run-down properties and fix them.
"Gentlemen, we can rebuild him. We have the technology. We have the capability to build the world's first bionic man. Steve Austin will be that man. Better than he was before. Better...stronger...faster."
(Okay, maybe not faster. And obviously, a house ISN'T Lee Majors. But you get the picture.)
And I am afraid that once Rapunzel's out-of-state owner decides to sell (oh, yes...I have done my research. I know who she is. I know where she is. And I imagine that she is hanging on to this house because she grew up there), it will be too late. The house will be in such a state of disrepair that there will be no saving it.
Do yourself a favor, Chickie. Sell the house. To me.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Because You're Mine, I Walk the Line. (Not Really. Because I'm Chunky, I Walk the 'Hood.)
Last year, I wrote about BV Bootcamp and the rules for walking. And now I'm walking and not just observing the rules (sort of), but getting to see my neighborhood when the sun comes up. And it's really interesting.
First of all, there is the little old guy I like to call "White Baseball Cap." He runs every morning about 9 am. His little legs look like they would snap in a strong wind, but he always waves as he jogs against the traffic. I wave back, from the safety of the sidewalk, as I don't trust cars to avoid my big-butted self.
Then, there are the "Little Mamas." They always walk in pairs and threes, pushing big honking strollers with one or two children strapped in. They chat and laugh loudly, sometimes as if they are forcing themselves.
The group I love is the "Seventies Shorts." The group varies in size--sometimes as few as three, sometimes as many as five, who jog before they go to work. They are young women in their 30s, and they wear those little jogging shorts from back in the day when I was young and fearless, sort of.
"Blonde Audrey" is always interesting. She's very young and very thin, blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her skin-tight clothes are head-to-toe black and she wears oversized black sunglasses. I'm of the belief she is trying to channel Audrey Hepburn.
But the best of all are the two old(er) ladies with the Westie. I like them because they are always smiling and never fail to say hello. They seem to be grounded in reality: they wear comfortable clothes and have not attempted to turn back time by coloring their hair.
And I wonder what those people think of me? I know what the "Little Mamas" think-- they tend to look at me as if I am the friendly neighborhood child molester. I want to tell them that once upon a time I had little children I pushed in a stroller, even though it was through a different neighborhood, and that just because they're privileged doesn't mean they're perfect. But they're young--what do they know? The "Seventies Shorts" probably think I need to join them and lose a few. "Blonde Audrey" doesn't strike me as the type that thinks at all.
But the gray-haired ladies? They probably think I'm a pleasant person.
And some days, I am.
First of all, there is the little old guy I like to call "White Baseball Cap." He runs every morning about 9 am. His little legs look like they would snap in a strong wind, but he always waves as he jogs against the traffic. I wave back, from the safety of the sidewalk, as I don't trust cars to avoid my big-butted self.
Then, there are the "Little Mamas." They always walk in pairs and threes, pushing big honking strollers with one or two children strapped in. They chat and laugh loudly, sometimes as if they are forcing themselves.
The group I love is the "Seventies Shorts." The group varies in size--sometimes as few as three, sometimes as many as five, who jog before they go to work. They are young women in their 30s, and they wear those little jogging shorts from back in the day when I was young and fearless, sort of.
"Blonde Audrey" is always interesting. She's very young and very thin, blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her skin-tight clothes are head-to-toe black and she wears oversized black sunglasses. I'm of the belief she is trying to channel Audrey Hepburn.
But the best of all are the two old(er) ladies with the Westie. I like them because they are always smiling and never fail to say hello. They seem to be grounded in reality: they wear comfortable clothes and have not attempted to turn back time by coloring their hair.
And I wonder what those people think of me? I know what the "Little Mamas" think-- they tend to look at me as if I am the friendly neighborhood child molester. I want to tell them that once upon a time I had little children I pushed in a stroller, even though it was through a different neighborhood, and that just because they're privileged doesn't mean they're perfect. But they're young--what do they know? The "Seventies Shorts" probably think I need to join them and lose a few. "Blonde Audrey" doesn't strike me as the type that thinks at all.
But the gray-haired ladies? They probably think I'm a pleasant person.
And some days, I am.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Eat Me!
So, I have learned one thing....that white food taunts me.
It sits there in the kitchen, calling me...softly at first, and then louder. "Kirby,,,I'm here....you know you love me.....you know you want me....puh-leeze....I'm here...."
And white food is tricky. Potatoes, in particular. Potatoes want you to THINK they're vegetables, but they're really WHITE! And totally off-limits.
(I tried to think of them fried, and therefore more of a yellowy-tan. But Doc Adam, whom I will discuss at a later date, says that it doesn't count--potatoes are still white on the inside.)
White food? Is the Debbil.
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