Suburban Lawns

Remember them? They were a spacy New Wave band, if memory serves. And if memory serves, I have yet to update you, faithful readers, on the latest goings ons with yours truly.

So I resigned the day job. Yep. Ten years is a long time. They were sad, or pretended to be, and threw me the requisite farewell breakfast with stale muffins and day-old fruit. I gave a nice speech, invoking word for word the verbiage Joe Pesci used when winning the Oscar for Best Supporting Actor (for Good Fellas): "it was my privilege, tanks." (Yes, I actually said tanks. Fucking cool.)

But back to Suburban Lawns. Well, we have one. Two actually. Two lawns in suburbia. Yep, the mister and I hightailed it to - cue spooky music - Camarillo. There are many suburban lawns here. Why, you ask? Oh, so he can be closer to his job and we don't spend our nest egg on gas driving from the Marina to the 805.

It has been a week and you will be pleased to know that I haven't had any meltdowns or public outbursts. Keep in mind it has been a week, though. There is the looming crisis about my identity and how the hell did I go from an independent career professional with a regular dry cleaning bill to a house frau with a minivan and three kids, but I see that this post is running long and really, I wanted to talk to you about my lawn.

The two suburban lawns.

Magnusism, #1

"Mommy, can you delete my underwear?"

Pause. Come again?

"I want you to delete my underwear."

"Magnus, do you mean you want me to remove your underwear?"

"Yes."

"So you want me to take off your underwear?"

"MOMMY! I said for you to DELETE my underwear!"

And so it goes. And goes.