So The Mr. bought me a big fluffy Vicky’s Secret robe for Christmas,
(Evidently the secret is that there actually is a section of clothing somewhere in the store that IS meant to cover girl parts. Who knew? )
I was confused. I am not really a robe kind of lady, to be honest. I have lounge wear that is climate-appropriate, so extra layers aren’t needed.
I didn’t really get it, but gift-selection pressure is a bitch for me too, so I shrugged it off and slapped the robe on the hook in the master bath.
This morning I discovered the reason for a robe.
6th floor living- in a place that didn’t face another high-rise – made some things acceptable that, (as it turns out,) aren’t super-awesome ideas at ground level.
Like, just as a totally real made up example, deciding to go get more coffee on a lazy holiday weekend morning as your bath fills. After you’ve shrugged out of the aforementioned climate-appropriate lounge wear. Strutting across the living room at the front of the house. Blinds open. Neighbor dude, his son, and a couple buddies wrenching on the kid’s truck facing the GIANT windows.
Hello, sleepy little suburban circle. Nakey new-lady here.
Honk all you want, mini-van road warriors, I am NOT pulling forward in to the crosswalk at a red light.
Crosswalks in the suburbs are like a really fat line drivers think you stop in the middle of or something.
To be fair, when young-and-stupid me lit-out for the “big city” years ago, this was actually a habit I had to unlearn. After all, I had spent over 3 years driving around in the very town where we now dwell.
:::shudder, SMH, shudder:::: (the disbelief still sneaks up on me sometimes.)
I distinctly remember a few red light stops that involved angry bike messengers, winos, punkers-in-groups, etc, banging on a portion of my old Cherokee, gesturing toward the crosswalk my front tires were resting firmly in, and giving me the “WTF!?” angry eyes.
I learned quick, the crosswalk is actually supposed to be available for use to those trying to get across the street (go figure, right?) and was not designed as a space for motorists to let their vehicles creep into as they grew impatient for green-means-go.
I actually assumed that with the HUMONGAZOID growth of this particular burg, the crosswalk-as-stop-zone thing would have phased out of the driving pattern around her.
NO MA’AM!
Stopping completely behind the crosswalk frequently results in horrifying moments when I look in the rearview and panic as I watch the dummy behind me hauling A up to the rear of Frederico Escapé (yes, my car has a name,) and seriously doubting that the offending idiot is going to be capable of executing a complete stop without mangling my “Native” bumper sticker.
Not only that, but as I go to shoot the universally understood “narrowing eye daggers” to alert said late-stopper to the fact that I KNOW you were doing wrong, buddy, that look is always answered with the aforementioned “WTF!?” angry eyes!! In the minds of my fellow motorists in the burbs, I am the problem because I stopped short. I even got a HONK once, as if I had stopped half a block back and started fishing in back for my kid’s binky or something. (Oh wait, I am the only one who DOESN’T do that around these parts.– a move which seems totally acceptable out here.)
Basically, if they can’t see a herd of middle-schoolers heading toward the crosswalk, protected by the flashing lights of a “school zone,” the crosswalk doesn’t exist in the minds of these people – you have to make a HUGE SCENE about staking a claim on the crosswalk as a pedestrian, or it is fair game for every driver out here.
Well TOO BAD, Suckers – because I am not picking up what you are putting down when it comes to this.
Look out, I might just decide to come up to your window and explain, using more than dagger eyes, just how it all works.
I have resigned myself to the fact that there will be some crap that I just can’t get in the suburbs.
Actually, that is what I call it when I talk about that category of stuff with The Mr. “Crap I Can’t Get in the Suburbs.”
The list isn’t as long as I thought it might be – but the things on it are meaningful and dearly missed.
One thing I did not anticipate being on that list hit me square in the eyeballs before we had even closed on the Casa.
There I was, a refugee wedging my family into my generous parents’ house, awaiting our closing date with nothing to show of a roof of our actual own except a key to a storage shed behind an abandoned K-Mart where the movers had piled our life up on top of itself precariously, and driven off leaving me standing in a sea of green metal garage doors the week before.
I needed some “normal.”
Grocery shopping is as normal as it gets, right?
So off I went, Jr. in tow, list in hand, to stock up on all the family essentials.
Parked in the insanely large parking lot of the insanely large grocery store, ready to learn the layout of what would be our “home” store with my trusty co-pilot in the cart (container of “go-fish cackers” firmly in hand) to assist me.
I can’t remember what we were talking about, but in that time frame (7 months ago,) it was probably Old MacDonald (he had a farm I hear,) or if we were happy enough and knew it enough to clap our hands. (Not for long!)
It makes sense that I wouldn’t remember what we were saying because out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed a thing that made me gasp breath clutch the cart like I had been stung by a devil bee.
There, in white lettering on a brown background, right at the door, was a sign that started with the words “Store Hours.”
I stopped midway across the threshold and drug Jr. and the cart backwards and sideways to get RIGHT next to the spectacle.
There it was. As true as God.
“Open: ___________ (don’t remember/doesn’t matter/so not the point)”
“Close: Midnight”
WHAT!?!?!?!?!?!
I can’t be responsible for the volume of the exclamation, even if I did startle the elderly couple walking out the door so much that not-MY-granny-anyway had to steady herself on not-my-granddad’s cane.
The grocery store does NOT close.
I mean maybe on Christmas and Thanksgiving for a few hours or whatever. But not EVERY DAY!
It all hit me at once… what if we ran out of Diapers, or Milk, or precious baby medicine, or QUESO DIP, at 1:15 a.m.!? A wave of insecurity washed over me, like a fan dancer in a wind-tunnel – I just KNOW something is going to happen, and when it does there is NO WAY I can cover my behind.
Have we ever, EVER, gone, either one of us, to the grocery past like 9pm since Jr. was born? No, not that I can recall.
To my Chihuahua walking neighbor,
Hello sir! I saw what your dog did on my lawn. I saw your no-bag pathetic fake-out NO pick-up. I know which house is yours.
My dog eats all natural food that smells pretty rank GOING IN. Oh, and takes fish oil I practically use a gas mask to handle.
We’ll be seeing you soon.
The neighbors are all nice enough people, for sure. We wave and say hello and there are the occassional BBQs or football game viewing incidents and everyone is friendly enough, you betcha.
But there seem to be two distinct groups that get a lot of social action in the subdivisions, and anything in between gets – well – not-so-much.
Group 1 is the stay-at-home moms. These women stay safely tucked away inside their little homes in the mornings, attending to morning rituals for their families behind closed blinds and plantation shutters, prepping for activities later in the day. The only interaction you may have with one of them alone and before 2:30 pm is a quick wave if you happen to be passing by as they back the mini-van out of the garage and speed away to swimming lessons or music class.
It is in the afternoon and evening that they emerge, in pairings or threes, to stand on lawns sipping Starbucks (I feel like someone must have one built into her basement around here – they always have S-bux, but no actual S-bux run seems to have been made,) and laughing as they supervise their combined broods at play on various bikes, trikes, scooters, etc…
In the suburbs you can spot them by looking for one of these:
Image from Amazon – click if you need to identify your own group of S-bux sipping mommies in the yard.
Now I am all for safety. Oh, and kiddos. I love me some kiddos – I believe that children are our future, teach them well and let them lead the way. Fo’ Sho’.
However, with the amount of play equipment strewn all over in between the houses where these various mommies live, there is little doubt, even without the glowing plastic child waving a flag and staring at me from under his ball cap, that there are wee ones at work in the area. I digress.
So there are the Moms and the Starbucks cups and their neon plastic watchman all hanging out in front of where a group of variously aged offspring are cavorting – this SEEMS like a great time to grab Jr and go make nice.
Except as you rattle your little red wagon full of kid and ball and bubbles and other fun-time peace offerings toward the group the laughter stops. The moms stop chatting. The kids stop playing. Birds stop flapping their wings and fall smack out of the clear blue sky, (ok, that isn’t true, but still,) the air almost seems to stop moving. They all stare at you, pulling the bundle of cutie kiddo who wants to play up to them. Moms stare. Kids stare. Neon plastic guy stares (one eye at a time.)
Oh they wave and say hi, and the kiddos do too, but the wagon keeps rolling because there is clearly no room at the inn, and as you walk away you hear snippets of “oh, SHE works outside the home, he’s in daycare somewhere.” 😦
They are thick as thieves and the door is NOT open to moms who might be closing down a conference call to cul-de-sac it for a bit. Working moms need not apply for membership into that crew.
Group 2 is The Husbands.
Sigh. Sad but true, this group cares not about employment or anything else – you just straight up have to have a wang to get in. It actually includes guys in their teens all the way up through the silver fox set, and everyone in between who can pee standing up. The Mr. was welcomed right into the fold, drinking beers on the driveway and bonding in that special way that dudes do:
(thanks, King of the Hill)
Yep.
Attempts to elbow in on this behavior have not gone well. A largeish group of bros yucking it up over beers on the curb will scatter quickly if say, a super awesome, (and pretty, and funny, and cool,) wife comes sniffing around, even if she holds up her beer and says “yep” and attempts to siddle up next to them without making waves.
Also – cue the side-eye from my own husband, who seems to think I am jeopardizing his status in the pack.
Giant super pouty sigh.
It’s cool. I have my kid, we have our wagon. We both like to roll with roadies when we take it for a spin; and I usually go in for something stronger than S-bux on those occasions, although this is interesting:
Thank you, Cheezburger.com
Plus we usually have a few Sesame Street characters along too, so we roll mad deep, yo.
Oh Mr. Rogers – you always made it look so easy.
(PS – is it because I say things like “we roll mad deep, yo”? Oh well – can’t change the spots on this leopard.)
Reluctantly Suburban 