Blurb from the 'Burbs

I’m a suburban kind of gal. That’s probably not considered very hip, but it is what it is. I haven’t done much real city living, though it’s something I’ve wanted to do. Maybe someday when I’m not worried about my schools having grass instead of metal detectors, I’ll take the plunge. But until then, I have had the opportunity to analyze my suburban lifestyle. And there is definitely a spectrum, each sector with its fierce proponents.

I’m currently participating in what I call “close living”. That is to say, you have to try really hard not to observe your neighbor as he/she exits the john or applies deodorant a scant 20 feet away. Houses stand shoulder to shoulder, and anything beyond ¼ acre of property is considered “grounds”. I am not knocking this arrangement—there is definitely a heightened feeling of community engendered by living cheek-to-jowl. Kids ride bikes on sidewalks and run yard-to-yard, residents walk to town for dinner or to shop. Of a summer evening, I can hear the soft tinkling of my neighbor’s wind chimes, the comforting white noise of lawn mowers, the ripple of children’s laughter through my screen door. As I lay down my head at night, I feel secure in the knowledge that at approximately 11:15 pm, I’ll be woken by the Cujo-esque barking of the demented Weimeraner that lives two houses down. And with any luck on the weekend, as I settle down on my deck to enjoy a glass of wine and wedge o’cheese, I know I’ll be assaulted by the heavy metal stylings pounding from the outdoor speakers as my neighbor’s teenage boys “unwind” with their “youth group”. Yes, the problem with close living is that you buy into the real estate equivalent of a flying leap. It’s not like you can interview all the inhabitants on your potential new block prior to placing your bid. Or sit in a car on the curb of your prospective residence and make like a PI, observing neighbors’ habits, comings and goings, sifting through their garbage, til someone calls the police to report a stalker and you get hauled away to the local lockup and your husband has to come bail you out…I’m just saying it’s one tactic to consider.

Prior to my current lifestyle, I lived in “the country”. Now I’m not sure people from smack-dab-in-the-middle-of-Iowa would call suburban Northern New Jersey “the country”, but for a New York City satellite area, it’s pretty out there. Ahhhh, the country life. Lots of quiet, green space, beautiful trails through the woods behind your house, outdoor living, large properties, deer frolicking through yards and meadows. And deer being shot point blank at the bus stop. That’s right. Like the morning I was pulling up to the bus stop with my 2nd grader and a friendly town cop was in the process of dispatching an injured deer with his service revolver a mere 50 feet from my daughter’s Barbie-clad feet. Nothing says “Have a good day at school, honey!” like the echo of gunshot and bleeding deer carcass. Or the fact that when you live on a septic system like we did, our entire front yard was our toilet. Well, it’s not like we went out and squatted on our haunches for all to see. But the thought of pipes that led directly from our toilets, under my flower beds, and straight into the expanse of our front yard…well, let’s just say it gave new meaning to the phrase “poop chute”. No wonder my grass was so green.

The final straw with country living for me was the “Target Test”. If it takes me more than 10 minutes in any direction to locate a Target store, honey, stick a “For Sale” sign in the yard—we’re moving. Green acres or no, if I can’t aim my minivan at that red and white bullseye and be there in a reasonable amount of time, I might just start have to stay at home and start ordering my undies and t-shirts from the Neiman’s catalogue…And I’m sure no one wants to foot the bill for that.

We did briefly live in the city of Philadelphia for about 2 weeks in between moves one summer. I was most worried about my dog in this situation—he was used to a soft, grassy urinal and a little privacy when he had to pinch a loaf. But he took to those city streets with abandon—peeing on concrete and lampposts and (though I thought it was just a cartoon cliché) actual fire hydrants. He LOVED being a city dog. And I liked being a city gal. Except apartment living takes a little getting used to. Lots of people crammed into a small space, constant street noise, neighbors’ noisy sexcapades. If I wanted to hear strangers moan and scream in ecstasy, I’d have headed for the nearest Obama rally.

After carefully reflecting on the style that suits our family, I have to say, I’m a little torn. I love the hometown feel of real neighborhoods, but I do also love to hike in the woods after breakfast if I feel like it. I’m sure it’s exciting to live in a city, but peace and quiet is hard to come by. The conclusion I am increasingly drawn to is that I might need to completely rethink my long term living conditions. It’s tempting to get the heck out of being tied down to a terrestrial home—I’ve been thinking I should eventually buy a houseboat. Or a sailboat. Whatever. No mortgage, no lawn, no flower beds to mulch. If neighbors are getting on your nerves, sail on! No need to worry about plumbing--the ocean is your septic tank! If my dog flies overboard, well maybe that’s just payback for all the seafood I’ve eaten through the years. I’m sure as with everywhere else I’ve lived, I’ll find some flaws with my water-borne existence. But by the time that happens, they’ll probably be offering residences on the moon. I’d even be up for that kind of adventure—no question!! As long as there’s a Target nearby.