Behind the Picket Fence

I abandoned this blog for a while. Deleted it, actually. I went too far outside my comfort zone, experienced some sort of mid-life crises, and creeped myself out. When you start to find yourself creepy, it's time to move in another direction.

So I did.

I moved . . . to the middle of Suburbia. White picket fence, herb garden, wooden bucket overturned in an island of mulch and planted flowers. We are renting. No commitment. But I haven't lived in the suburbs since I was a kid and it's freaking me out.

I forgot the first day of moving in. You're under a spotlight, a microscope. People are peeking out of their windows. The kids want to know if the new people have children their age. The adults want to know if the new people will be compatible with them, i.e. not drag down their property value.

I am learning Suburban etiquette. I am meeting Skipper the mailman. I am trying to maintain individuality in a world of chemlawn and minivans. (You know you live in the suburbs when you're in a parking lot and try to put your key into another person's car because they all look alike. This has happened more than once.) I'll report from the trenches. Must tell you about the next-door neighbors, Amy, and the St. Bernard. TBC. . .