My worst nightmare . . . Look what I've become!

The first step was last August when I traded in my cute little hatchback for an SUV. The next was buying a house in the suburbs. Then I started "doing the books" for my husband's small business. I had a feeling something was wrong but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. Then my own mother pointed it out - I am becoming the stereotype of the American suburban housewife.


NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!


So what's next? Knitting club? (Sorry Rooney and Ann!) Gardening? Pilates class? Junior League?!?

Now granted our house in the 'burbs is actually a super cool ultra modernist house that I plan on throwing lots of parties at. (Okay, so they will mostly be dinner parties, which is pretty suburban housewifey, but I will not be cooking the food myself, and we will be sitting on Panton chairs.) And the "doing the books" thing is only one day a week. My SUV . . well . . . it's to haul around our yellow lab and our soon-to-get second dog. (Okay that's digging my hole deeper. At least Jenny's not a labradoodle, then I would be in serious trouble.) And my book club is reading my feminist sci-fi recommendation this month.

I really need to put on an obscure indie rock bank t-shirt and some funky sneakers, head over to Tryst in Adams Morgan, sip an espresso drink contemplatively while I engage a stranger in a discussion of Judith Butler. And then I'll come home, walk the dog, watch something on the TiVO with my husband, and go to bed by 10pm.

Shit! Not only am I turning into a suburban housewife, I'm also getting old and boring!

I'm glad my friend Ann is taking me to the New Pornographers' show in a few weeks. I can reclaim some street cred then. All I have to do now is figure out how I'm going to stay awake that late the night of the show.