After ten years of marriage and two kids, my wife still likes me.
I’m not quite sure how this initial like was achieved, I vacillate between blaming it on blind luck or superior sales skills, but despite how I got it, I intend to keep it. Doing this requires a combination of changing diapers, running errands, and taking her on dates. In our home all three are necessities.
We once belonged to a babysitting co-op with a bunch of associates in a more “uh-hm… safe”, part of town. It worked out great as when it was our turn to watch a rabid pack of 2 year olds on a Friday night, no one would show up. This inequity would normally be to our advantage but the arrangement soured due to the lack of dining options in this so called safe haven. Since this period of our life I have successfully avoided Applebee’s and hope to extend this streak for years to come.
We now pay for a babysitter.
Having abandoned the suburbs, we now brave the notorious crime infested streets of Philadelphia on our Friday nights.
A distinguishing feature of the notorious inner-city is the candy store… or wait… how bout what looks like a candy store but is really a soap store. Yes friends, all these treats are really body washes and bubble baths.
Not only are our weekly ventures tainted by falsely advertised treats, but the mean streets become even scarier when we realize they are lined by restaurants we cannot afford.
Mrs.Hammas is street savvy and can find the safe spots.
Max Brenner is one of these. They have food, but we came for the dessert. I went for chilli spiced hot chocolate and she went for chocolate pecan egg rolls.
The food was food, the company even better, and because we are ten years older than when we started this nonsense, the evening was over before ten.
For the younger set, the morning after can oft mean regret. For me it means ballet practice.
Littlehammas 1.0 has a deep-seated desire to be a princess ballerina scientist. Never one to hinder ones climb to greatness, we have obliged her in these pursuits. These endeavours have brought me in touch with another type of inner city street hoodlum; the ballet mom.
Now in the past I have been around the relaxed parent who chuckles at their kid’s mistakes and smiles as they stumble through pretend lessons… not at this place. Intimidated by their thuggery I nod faux agreement as they complain that the teachers feet are not properly visible due to her pant length, squabble over how skill levels are measured, and then shrug off how the Nutcracker after party comes with a $10 “chaperone” fee. Littlehamas 1.0 is six years old. It’s amazing how the streets target our youth.
Having rescued Littlehamas 1.0 from these treacherous mobs, we stumbled upon a bike gang. Not biker, but bicycler.
These bikers weren’t the new harmless youth, they were old school. Old school like tweed and argyle socks.
Another staple of the ghetto, er… city, is graffiti. This unauthorized painting of other people’s property is done to claim a territory and serve as warning to those who are out of their own turf to beware.
In Philadelphia this problem has gotten so bad that it has spread to the inside of people’s homes. Not only is it on interior walls, but hooligan graff-heads are taking credit for other’s artwork. Pictured is proof, as I caught the Mrs. signing her name to one of my pictures. Is nothing sacred?
Its rough here in this town. I’m not sure how much longer we can last.