Saturday in Suburbia

Yes, I skipped last night. It was Friday, and I had a thing. By "a thing" I mean, of course, that the week was over, I was tired, and I blew it off.

I've re-read some of my blog posts, and it would appear that I seem to have some unexplored issues with moving to suburbia. In actuality, I don't. I kind of like living in the burbs, especially on Saturday.

Saturdays in the burbs are perfect for me. My partner in crime is on a big conservation/ environmental kick lately. Over the past few weeks, we've installed a rainwater catch system to water the lawn and a composting pile to fertilize it. (NOTE FROM THE CRIMEFIGHTER: By "we" I mean him) Now, we just need it to rain before it freezes to test the viability. In Massachusetts at this time of year, it's a close race. The weather is turning as we speak. A month ago, we were lying around like third base in tank tops and shorts praying to any God who would listen for a little bit of a breeze. Today, we're switching from regular socks to the heavy ones in the evening and getting ready to hit the LL Bean outlet for winter provisions. I guess all of this would have been possible in my little fourth floor walkup I shared with The Manda, but not very likely (and more than a little smelly).

While I support the Crimefighter (as I was the one who pushed recycling when I moved in), I have to smile a little when he has the look of a new kid at Christmas because I have been into recycling for a long time -- I'm a yard saler. In fact, I furnished my first two apartments with other people's stuff. I still have a wonderful rocking chair I found just before it was thrown out of the old furniture store on Main Street in Laurens. It was wobbly (which was why they couldn't sell it) but a little wood glue and the expertise of dear old dad turned it into one of the nicest pieces I had during my starving student days.

Times change, and most of my original treasures are gone. They either wore out or were redistributed to new starving students along the way. My furniture now is very beautiful (mostly due to the influence and wallet of The Crimefighter), but part of me misses the old days -- going without a couch for weeks until I found the perfect one for $20 sitting on someone's front lawn, then cajoling one of the sweet southern boys I knew into loaning me the use of his pickup truck in exchange for lunch at some man-approved restaurant in town. The tendency is still in me -- I have the cutest little side table you ever saw in my bathroom rescued from yet another suburbanite's front yard for $5, sanded and lovingly painted by The Crimefighter to match my tasteful Ralph Lauren towels.

There are lots of reasons why I spend Saturday mornings going to yard sales. I won't say the primary reason is my environmental leanings, although that is a nice side bennie. I won't even say I need things, because the Crimefighter would tell you (loudly and emphatically) that I definitely do not. I go because it means driving through all the neighborhoods in town and learning the lay of the land in ways you can't if you only travel to and from work and the grocery store. Getting to point B from point A is a lot easier since I started maneuvering through the streets for a few hours every Saturday morning. I haven't had to wait through the traffic on Dilla Road once since the middle of the summer (when a Saturday morning spin yielded no goods but a delightful plan B for getting home).

My Saturday mornings are also my time to let myself miss the Crimefighter. I've discovered that when you live with someone, you aren't ever alone, and I really miss my alone time, as does he. Time spent at work doesn't really count since you are concerned with other people's problems and working other people's solutions. Commuting is horrible, and doesn't count for anything pleasant.

So, out I go. This summer, I got everything I will need to decorate the house for Christmas, and I probably spent less than $50. I go home and decorate my parents' house every year as my Mom doesn't care for it, and my Dad claims he doesn't have the eye (code for "I paid for five years of Wake Forest. YOU do it."), but living in a fourth floor walkup with no storage doesn't lend itself to decking the halls, so this will be my first Christmas in my own place where I can make things Merry and Bright. The Crimefighter is terrified, and he might have reason to be.

I average a couple of new books a week. With a habit like mine, the savings easily run into the thousands. I buy every GameBoy Advance game I can find and ship them to my sister's kids who haven't yet moved into the Nintendo DS age, as I have. All in all, it's my zen time -- mapquest directions all over town, a cool audio CD telling me a story, and a Dunkin Donuts coffee (don't tell the Crimefighter -- next week he'll ask me to bring him one home first.).

I've begun to love other things about the burbs as well. The crazy old lady across the street who sweeps the street in front of her house at midnight and washes the outside of the first floor windows naked is actually kind of funny, once you get over the shock. You get more diverse neighbors in the city, but you rarely get ones like Marge one street down who doesn't own a dog but buys dog treats for mine and gives him one every day when I walk him by her house. Even though they are kind of crappy treats compared to the vet-inspired high tech food he eats, and often cause what can only be called shocking amounts of diarrhea, her heart is in the right place, and dogs don't require a litterbox I have to clean. There's also Sal who lives on the other end of the dog walk (evening circuit) who sits outside on his porch playing the banjo every evening in the summer. We stop and listen until he finishes whatever old classic he's playing. He lifts one hand in the air and launches into the next one. As the grandchild of an old-time fiddler, his songs are a little piece of my past jumping into my present.

Then, there's the best part of the burbs -- my Pitt-Jolie sized menagerie. Tonight, I've got the dog warming my feet while the Crimefighter screams at the Red Sox on TV. I have 130 gallons of fish swimming on either side of me, including my 6 newest additions purchased just a few hours ago. I even had my first three hours of peaceful interaction between my boy cat and the dog this morning, so there's hope for even more good stuff on the horizon. All in all, as Edina and Patsy used to say, "A good life."

Book update: I've made it through about 75 pages of Jane Eyre. She's arrived at her school and met what is now appearing to be her first friend. We've ascertained she's a scholarship girl, as they all are. I would go into another rant about the similarities in British schooling I've seen depicted in so many works both from this time period and today; instead, I'll just say PS #55 isn't looking so bad anymore. We might not have graduated as well-bred ladies and gentleman, but when they burned the lunch, they let you buy cheetos instead.