Last Sunday was a bit of a revelation. The latest big piece of news to come out of our little hamlet is that we signed a lease on a 2-Bedroom house deep in the wild suburbs of Mountain View. After months of feeling bored by the general comatose nature of MTV (it’s what the cool kids call it) we chose to double down and move deeper into suburban life rather than return to the ways of the city folk.
Let me give you a quick recap of how my weekend went. First we went to Home Depot. We picked out paint swatches for our new kitchen and even discussed an accent wall. Then Costco, where we raided the samples and looked at an assortment of potted plants to plant in our new yard. Then Target, to buy food for our tiny poop machine (or dog as the common folk call her).
Going to any one of those stores typically wouldn’t bother me. Honestly. I enjoy going to all three. But combined they formed a trifecta of suburban complacency that shook me to my core. But the worst part – the absolute WORST part – was my own damn fault.
As we pulled into Target, I made what I thought was an innocent comment – “Huh, that’s a nice Volvo.”
Let’s pause for a moment. Have you ever uttered that phrase? Try it, go on. I’ll wait. It leaves a weird taste in your mouth, right? Like you just ate a big mouthful of freshly cut grass, bitter but at the same time the smell strangely comforting.I started shaking uncontrollably, like I just watched a freak wood chipper accident and it wouldn’t stop replaying in my head.
Frankly, I think I’m a goner. I may be just a shell of my former self. But goddamn is our house going to look awesome.
