Suburbia

Suburbanite: n. Someone who gets fed up with city life and moves the suburbs. (Also see: Minivan Driving Soccer Moms.)

About 18 months ago, the Aggie-Texican and I packed up our two bedroom apartment and moved to Pearland – a suburb just south of Houston and a 20-minute commute to the university where we work.

We didn't move because of the usual reasons: start a family, buy a gigantic house, put the kids in better schools, fear of being shot, etc.

No, we moved because of the Harris County SPCA are a bunch of sorry liars.

Just over 18 months ago, we adopted what the Harris County SPCA SWORE was a 15-pound Cairn terrier.

At first we tried to convince ourselves that Rippy had "hit a growth spurt" or was just "a little bit bigger than we'd expected." My husband was especially in denial. The Aggie-Texican would actually get mad when people said things like, "A terrier? Are you sure? He's kind of big?" or "What kind of dog is that? An Irish Wolf Hound?"

We lied to ourselves for three months. Then, just before Rippy's six-month birthday, the vet insisted on giving us flea treatment for a 50-pound dog. We were incredulous.

"He's a CAIRN terrier. Like Toto!" we argued.

"Who told you that?" the vet asked.

"The SPCA said they knew for sure his mother was a Cairn terrier," we answered. "They said he wouldn't be more than 15 pounds."

"They lied."

Crap.

So, with the realization that our wee little Rippy wasn't quite the lap dog we thought, we began to suddenly admit other things. Like that he was running us out of house and home. He was just too big for a 700-square foot apartment in the city. And for some time he'd been trying to tell us that by eating Venetian blinds and tearing linoleum up by the foot.

This big, sweet, beast of a dog need a yard. FAST.

And that's why we bought a house – so we could have a yard for him to play in.

We moved away from the brouhaha of the young, hip city life, so our 50-pound lap dog would have a place big enough to take a poop. And, frankly, we couldn't be happier.

Living in Houston is a lot being in a circus – once you leave, you don't miss the freak show.

Not only to do not miss the insanity of living in the city, but after a while you forget how crazy the people are. In particularly, the rich old ladies and the scary homeless people.

Today I was hit with a feeling of amazement as I wondered: How on Earth did I tolerate these people before? How did I not realize how crazy they are?

And, yes, old rich ladies and scary homeless people are comparable – they both shock you with their behavior when you're not expecting it.

For instance, today I was shopping the Rice Village where there are actually more stores than parking spaces. Being the laziest person I know, I chose to psycho-stalk people for parking rather than pay $8 to park in the garage several blocks away.

Finally, after about ten minutes of following well-dressed women hauling Ann Taylor bags, I found a young housewife loading an indescribable number of bags and babies into her Lexus SUV.

I'd been sitting there waiting for the spot WITH my blinker on for no less than five minutes, when a middle aged lady driving a black BMW pulls up, meeting me head on. She's blond and her face is stretched, typical of having too much work done. Her lips are pursed and she looks like she's just sucked a lemon.

At first it doesn't occur to me what she's doing. I assume she's waiting for a space behind me. But then she slaps on her blinker and starts inching toward my spot. I'm completely shocked! Is this skinny, plastic bitch really trying to take my space? Surely not.

Sensing my obvious confusion, the Barbie doll decides to reveal her intentions. With extreme confidence, she further purses her lips, lifts her hand and wags her finger "no." Then, she waves me on as if she is dismissing me.

I think it goes without saying that this does NOT sit well with Momma Pug. No. In fact, it pisses me off so much, that I make the decision that she WILL have to HIT my dinged up little Civic before I give up this space that I have RIGHTFULLY earned.

As the SUV driving mom backs out, Boob Job Betty moves forward. I think to myself: "NO. NO. NO. NO. You might live in a River Oaks Mansion, but you ain't taking this spot."

And with that resolve (and having just paid our insurance premium) my chubby little hoof pressed the Civic's gas petal. As if knowing that I needed her nut-up, the Civic kicked in all four cylinders and shot like a bullet into the space.

Still enraged, I scurry out of the car, turn to the lady and her BMW and purse my lips, wag my finger and give her the dismissive wave. Then I smile and extend my middle finger. She speeds off and I am left with the feeling that she's probably going to lap the block then carve "fat ass" on the side of car with her expensive BMW key.

Realizing that I only have three hubcaps, I decide a lewd epitaph will be worth taking that parking spot. I go into the book store and have a GLORIUS time.

I am happy to report that when I emerged 45 minutes later, there were no descriptions of the size of my ass carved into the Civic's paint job. Guess she figured she might break a nail.

Feeling rather proud of myself and happy with my purchases, I hop back in the Civic and proceed to the ultimate chubby gal store – the Avenue. As a turned onto Richmond Avenue and entered the Galleria Area, I accosted by homeless people at every stop sign.

Usually, the homeless folks just hold their signs and leave you alone. When I'm in the car by myself I have a strict policy of looking straight ahead with the doors locked, fearing that eye contact is an invitation to be murdered. (Yes, I know this says bad things about me.)

But nonetheless, my logic has worked so far. I've never been attacked or carjacked by a homeless person.

Today, however, I thought that might have changed. As I waited patiently, starring straight ahead at an underpass, a homeless person tapped on the window of a car in front of me. "Ah, the aggressive beggar," I think to myself. The WORST of all street people. They're wise to my stare-straight-ahead technique AND brazen enough to call me out on it.

Before I can try to switch lanes to avoid an awkward exchange with someone who hasn't bathed in six years, the bum starts spazzing out. Apparently he didn't like what the motorist in front of me had to say. The homeless man freaks out so much that he finally just LAYS down in the middle of our lane of traffic.

"Huh," I think, "That's a new one."

Not knowing what else to do, the guy in front of me just drove around the guy and I quickly followed suit.

As I broke my forward gaze to make sure the guy's not dead, my eyes are met with a dirty, old mug. The guy is smiling, exposing his eight teeth, and he's giving the entire lane of traffic the bird.

Now, I really like to see the symbolism here. Kind of like going full circle. Karma of giving the bird.

Thank god for the suburbs.