Or so I imagined, when I let out the girliest shriek of surprise and delight at the end of the season finale of Alias, not unlike the ones you'd hear coming from the Zipper at the Saanich Fair. What can I say? The last two minutes of the show rocked. The rest of the year - well, it's been a little stinky, mainly because a) they showed certain episodes out of order, completely screwing up certain plotlines and character developments, and b) instead of phasing out the tired, unbelievable story of "Sidney dresses up and seduces bad guy (even though bad guy is rich enough to go to bed with dozens of hot women every night; but Sidney is a really special kind of hot that no guy can resist, ever, especially when she's in a wig and has a bad accent)", they actually managed to incorporate it into, like, every single episode, not just counting the credits which is basically some 11th grade AV geek's Video Essay entitled Jennifer Garner is Hott.
Which she is, I'm not disputing that, and it's nice to see a woman on TV who actually looks like she could kick ass in real life, unlike, say, Sarah Michelle Gellar ('cause even though Buffy rocks my world, SMG looks like she could get whupped by a particularly strong breeze); it's just that, really rich and powerful men? Probably not so much suffering a pussy-shortage, and having them drool all over Sid like they just got out a ten-year prison sentence in solitary confinement is just a little unbelievable, especially when it happens for the four-hundredth time. By this point, you'd think they'd have some sort of bad guy APB out on her, like, with her picture and a caption that says "Warning - Does not actually find your bald, scarred mug attractive. Is CIA. Don't let the cleavage fool you - she will kick your ass."
Anyway - all this to say that at the very last moment the show was actually kind of cool again, and I shrieked, but the patio door was open and I didn't the neighbors to be concerned to the point of 911, so I followed up the shriek with a shout of "I'm okay! Just watching TV! No problems here!", because it's important, after all, to keep the lines of communication open with your fellow suburbians.
After all, living in the suburbs isn't quite the same as living downtown. There's the sameness and conformity of row houses and endless strip malls with big-box stores, true, but there's also the ability to leave the garage door open in the morning, and have all your stuff there when you get home from work. As opposed to, say, sleeping with your bike in the room for the first five nights you own it, then, on the first night you lock it up outside overnight, finding out that some shiteating-asswipe smashed your porch to steal it. Not that I'm still bitter about something that happened two and a half years ago.
Or there's collection day, with rolling cans and the blue or black boxes (depend on pickup day!) all stacked down at the end of the driveways, which is a nice break from the recycle bins at my last apartment complex, where eventually I just had to stop going out to them because of the damage done to my blood pressure whenever I'd lift the lid marked "plastic, glass and metal" and find banana peels and bloody styrofoam meat packaging. What I don't get is that there was a huge dumpster right next to the recycle bins; an open one so you didn't even have to lift the lid, you could just chuck your crap straight in, and yet still certain people were possessed with the need to cram their dirty diapers in with my carefully sorted and cleaned recyclables because THEY ARE ALL FUCKHEADED ASS-MONKEYS.
And I think that's what I like about the 'burbs - how the exaggerated evil of the non-conforming neighbors effectively skewers our paranoia when the worst fears of an average Joe...oops, that's what I like about The 'Burbs.
What I like about the suburbs is the familiarity. There's a certain comfort in the sameness, a sort of natural tranquilizer that comes with knowing the routine. After almost 6 years and a dozen addresses, living in a house in the 'burbs is...well, it's like a vacation. From the sirens, the graffiti, the garbage - well, not that Ottawa's that bad, but you move out to the 'burbs and you remember what it's like to sleep through the night without being woken up by random loud drunk people.
Except when D and I throw a housewarming and bust out the karaoke - 'cause in the suburbs, everyone can also hear you sing.