We have recently come across a treasure trove of children’s classic books, which has also lead me back to a dear pastime which my husband would probably be completely content with me not reconnecting with – buying rare, old and ridiculously expensive books so they can sit on a shelf for their yellowing pages to be admired from afar. And because my husband is just not willing to enable my addiction by spending $180 on a 15 page book that’s over 100 years old and is awesome, The Boy and I have spent much more time on the internet reading books. (Just saying that made me feel like I’m on the Jetson’s.)

The treasure trove of which I speak is The Children’s Library. It has books that are no longer under copyright and/or that they have obtained permission to print…er…post? One of our current favorites is the one above called, “The Children’s Object Book” and while I would much prefer to have that book in hand, this is absolutely the next best thing. Not only does the boy get to work with the mouse a bit more (by clicking to get to the next page), but he also gets to learn what a “poultry yard” is without having to sacrifice his parents’ marriage because mommy spent $70 on a well used, antique, hardcover version of the book. It’s a win-win for everyone.

Last year, my mom gave me a Ped Egg and something else in similar boxes. I didn’t know what a Ped Egg was at the time and I didn’t look in the other box. She kept asking if I’d used it. I kept saying no but I would soon. Finally, I yanked the sucker out of it’s box and used it the day before she was coming over. I thought it was pretty awesome, it even caught my skin sloughs in it’s little catcher egg. Cool!

I left it on the telephone counter so she could see that I’d used it. This may sound strange, but the phone nook is right outside the bathroom. Plus, my bathroom is a mess. She wouldn’t notice it in there if it had a bright orange sign on it.

When she came in and saw it, she said, “Why is the cheese grater I gave you sitting here?”
To which my husband yelled, “SHE WAS USING IT ON HER FEET!”

I wish I could say I pay attention to what boxes say now, but I don’t. Expect something similar to happen again.

I rolled right off your side of the bed this morning.

Go ahead. Have your moment of trying to stifle your overwhelming urge to laugh hysterically.

Really. Go ahead.

Done? Need another moment?

Alright.

Just fyi, I may have heartily bruised my knees in the 3 foot fall.

Oh, and scraped off a rather large part of my thigh-ass skin, too.

Go ahead. Laugh, you evil brat. Somehow this is your fault.

Pier 39, while an absolute tourist trap, was a whole load of fun. We started with the aquarium and saw lots of jellyfish.

Lots and lots of jellyfish.

Then there was the Jaws III (it’s a film, people, it deserves roman numerals)-esque tunnel-o-death where we got to see, “SHARKS, MOMMY, SHARKS!”

“THAT’S A BIIIIIG ONE SHARK, MOMMY! THAT’S A BIIIIIG ONE!”

And an octopus. At least, they said it was an octopus and I saw those funky tentacle things moving but…can anyone tell me where the octopus is in this picture because I really can’t see it.

Ohhh! Now…I…see…it? Maybe? (Oddly, this is what happened when I leveled the above picture.)

After that, we headed down for an extremely expensive frozen coffee on our way to the Red and White fleet boat trip.

The boy was not impressed with the hour long line or the people who ruthlessly cut in front of us after we waited in said hour long line. I have a picture I could post of the cutters who should clearly be shunned and pelted with rotten fish, but I’m thinking maybe I have too much class to do such a thing.

Nor with the Golden Gate Bridge (he slept through it).

And was only later impressed by the seals when we watched them while having lunch. (Let’s pretend like this and the previous picture are not wonky from taking it through a water drop covered boat window while becoming ridiculously sea sick.)

After damn near puking for about an hour, I got a picture of the most beautiful chicks and hens I’ve ever seen. Yes, I really am that much of a dork.

Since the last thing I want to leave everyone with is an impression of me as a major horticulture dork, here are the people who cut in front of us. Shun them. Smite them. Pelt them with rotten fish.

I bow easily to self-imposed peer pressure to be cool.

Growing up in the suburbs, I never once saw an ice cream truck come through. Never. Okay, that’s not entirely true. Once, the kids from our bus stop and I put together $12 to buy a box of ice cream bars from the Schwan’s truck that drove through our neighborhood. Does that count? Didn’t think so.

Since moving to “The City”, there are ice cream trucks everywhere. In fact, I am convinced there are more ice cream trucks that come through this neighborhood alone, than go through the entire city in the summer.

- There is the “big business” ice cream truck with the song that I know not the name of, but that my husband can “do do do” all the way through.

- Then there’s the “was once a big business ice cream truck but now says ‘Garcia Sales’ on it” in all it’s crudely hand-painted glory, that plays “Three Blind Mice”.

- Third on the list is the white ice cream van that had it’s writing entirely in Spanish and that my husband swears he doesn’t remember. I do. It played, “Pop Goes the Weasel”, and sounded as if it were seconds away from keeling over.

- Lastly, was the van that, to be honest, I probably would not purchase anything from, nevertheless go near. It was a converted, grey mini-van with ice cream stickers on it. It played, “Farmer in the Dell” with one note just off enough that it made my husband NUTS. It came by so often when I was pregnant, that I would go to sleep at night convinced I was still hearing it at 2 in the morning. I never saw any children stop this van and I don’t blame them one bit.

Besides the trucks, we also have the niverias that send over the Mexican summer treat carts. Men (and one or two women) come by ringing bells on their pushcarts filled with shaved ice, duritos, fruit popsicles, Mexican sodas, and ice cream. Not to mention the wonderful tamale lady from the neighborhood that walks through with her shopping cart full, hollering, “tamALEEEEEEEEEES!” For the first 6 months living here, I was convinced she was just a crazy lady with a shopping cart that came around on the weekends to holler “ALEH!” to herself. Finally, we had our windows open one evening when she came by and it clicked. I went shooting downstairs, hollering at my husband, “SHE’S SAYING TAMALES! SHE’S SELLING TAMALES! GET YOUR MONEY!” And they were good. Very, very good. Come rain or come shine, the tamale lady and her shopping cart will be seen on the weekends.

While I may not live in the most upscale neighborhood in the city, I doubt there’s any other place where you can get a full meal by just sitting on your porch in the summer afternoon. I may have my ups and downs with this neighborhood, as I’m sure everyone does with their own, but there’s enough here that makes me stay and keeps me infatuated. And it’s not just the ice cream and tamales delivered to my door. Although, those don’t hurt.