My husband and I are unapologetic city dwellers. While we both spent many, many years living in various suburbs, we have settled in nicely to city living. Sure, we sometimes look at a large yard with envy or wonder what it would be like to have one of those mysterious “bonus rooms” we see on House Hunters (or even a linen closet, is that asking too much?)  but there are too many things we’ve come to love that you only get with city living. The ability to order Thai, Chinese or pizza at all hours of the day or night, the ability to walk to the pharmacy, grocery or coffee shop, public transportation and our close proximity to world class museums, shopping and general culture and amusement. Sure, any house listing hinges on the all important “parking included” tag-line (without it you play the after work game of 20,000 cars per 20 parking spots, SUCKA) and it took awhile to grow immune to the sound of sirens and other city noise, but we like it. A lot. So much so that we’ve given up on a linen closet and learned that in the hierarchy of parking, heated covered parking wins every time.

However, when you live in the city you live in close proximity to your neighbors. Which can be fantastic, but at other times, trying. And unlike the suburbs, which offer you a cushion of space between you and the dog that just won’t stop yapping, oh my goodness, HUSH the city means you either suffer in silence or confront it. Which is why I was a bit shocked to answer my door this weekend to find our down-the-hall-neighbor, who is only in town every few weeks. The neighbor (and her husband) own the parking spots on either side of ours, which means 90% of the time I have all the space in the world to park my car, and 10% of the time I spend 10 minutes pulling into the spot, precariously, because my neighbors? ARE THE WORST PARKERS IN THE WORLD. They also drive very fancy cars, which only makes me more nervous as I try to park between two walleyed luxury sedans driven by owners that don’t understand how the painted lines work. They did nothing to further their cause when they started bringing their dog with them, the dog that never stops barking, that they acknowledge never stops barking, and yet, they bring him any way! Bark bark bark! And because I don’t want to ruffle feathers, I’ve yet to say a word about Barker McBarkerton or their horrible parking, all in the name of keeping up foreign relations.

I’ve digressed. My point was, when said neighbor showed up at my door to ask me to move my car because I was “grossly over the painted line and there was no way their car was going to fit in their spot” (grossly over = I was touching the line) and then, when stymied by my guppy-mouthed shock in which I couldn’t form a coherent sentence to respond, filled in the blank by asking if I was aware of whose puppy was barking all night long and keeping them up all night, I began thinking that those suburbs sounded pretty darn good. If only for a night.  So I could figure out how to convince our neighbors it was time to move.

(How about you? City, suburban or rural?)

(My parents live in a very rural area. I liken it to The Shining.)

(Seriously. The county prosecutor is also a local snowplow driver. Or something equally ridiculous like that. I’d pay more attention to the story but I’m too busy stocking up my rations in case the power goes out and we are shut off from the rest of the world.)