J walked from work to the house and back today just for a bit of excercise. It took 17 minutes each way. Hoowah!
He says to me, "This neighborhood looks better at night. Some of these places are kinda dumpy." And I know at least one block of what he's talking about- a block behind us toward the big brick high school is crammed with "cottages", a few with seventies sheets in the windows and beater cars out front.
But our block is nice, and looking out our kitchen window they get nicer as you go. None of the dumpy places look full on Methinated or any of that, and he admitted it's "still a really quiet neighborhood."
I've always wanted to live downtown somewhere, and for the most part a bit of urban grit is appealing. There is a sliver (okay, a chunk) of my mind dedicated to worrying, though, and it is having a field day with this five-sentence cell conversation. Dude, we didn't even check out the elementary school before signing up for this place; what kind of parents are we?
Will we have to sit on the back deck while the kids play furtively in the back yard, tied to us with petite chains and wearing police beacons? Will every cool sculpture and flower box be raided the night we put it out by vagrant teen zombie gangs? (Sorry about that zombie part, I'm still thinking of Fido.)
Now that I think about it, if we ever do expand the kitchen it would be soooo easy to slip in a small panic room.