Read Online The Grass Is Always Greener Over the Septic Tank by Erma Bombeck - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Erma Bombeck
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and you're iilraid to move. Speaking of weirdos, got a card from the two-car garage people.”
“How did they ever fit a two-car garage on that lot is what I'll never know.”
“If you met them personally, you would know. They're pushy.”
“I thought so. Where did they go?”
“Went camping with the people with the built-in appliances.”
“It figures.”
“You'd better get going.”
“Hey, I just remembered. You know how you always accuse me of not meeting new people? I met a newcomer last night when I was looking for our newspaper.”
“Who is he?”
“Name is Alan Cornwall.”
“I'll never remember that. Who is he?”
“The Porsche with the kid who spits on our tires.”
“The one who just sprayed for bagworms?”
“That's him.”
“Why didn't you say so? I hate name droppers.”
Unknown
Chapter Five
THE HEARTBREAK OF PSUBURBANIASIS
The Seven-Inch Plague
In 1946, the suburbs suffered its first plague.
It struck with little warning and attacked the weak, the bored, the vulnerable seeking relief from the monotony. Its name was television and by 1966, it would enslave sixty-two million families.
We fell victims just before Christmas when my husband carried it home to us from the city.
The disease looked harmless enough—a seven-inch screen that looked like a hand mirror. We put it on the bookcase in the living room, got a vanity bench from the bedroom and positioned our eyeballs 16 inches from the screen where we became mesmerized as a full-grown woman carried on a conversation with two puppets.
Television was a terminal disease that was to spread and worsen, driving people from acute withdrawal to chip-dip attacks.
Because I am basically a strong person, I was able to resist the disease better than most, but my husband's addiction to television grew steadily worse. He became a sports addict who was in a catatonic state twelve months out of every year.
No one would have guessed that his condition would become so hopeless that I would approach a lawyer to have him considered legally dead. The lawyer advised me that due to the legalities this was not an easy thing to do. Just because a man sits in front of a TV set with eyes fixed and no pulse is not enough. He said I would have to keep a log of my husband's behavior over a year's period of time. I began to keep a diary in August.
august
The fifteenth of this month was visiting day for the children. Waiting for a beer commercial, I lined them up and said stiffly, “Children, this is your father.” He offered them a pretzel at the same time watching a beer can dancing with a hot dog. When we insisted he stand up, the children gasped. They remembered him as a much shorter man.
SEPTEMBER
The set went out today during the Dallas—Los Angeles game. “It could be a tube,” I said.
“Shhh . . . and get out of the way. The Cowboys are ready to score.”
“No one is ready to score,” I said. “You don't understand. The tube is black.”
“That's ridiculous. Look at that lateral . . . my God, they've fumbled.”
“Just relax. It could be only this channel experiencing temporary ...”
“Lady, you are going to be temporary if you don't get out of this room and let me watch my game in peace.”
I left him sitting in front of the black screen screaming and cheering. Maybe I can talk some sense to him when he is watching the commercial that isn't there.
OCTOBER
Today, our living room was named the first recycling center to be served by a mobile unit. My husband was so engrossed in watching the World Series, he was quite unaware of what was going on.
Television cameras ground away while cub scouts gathered together eight barrels of cans, six barrels of bottles, and 500 pounds of paper.
I pecked my husband on the cheek as I left. He swatted at me and grumbled, “How did that fly get in here?”
NOVEMBER
I am really worried about my husband. On Sunday, he sat in front of the TV set from noon until 10:30 p.m. There was no
“How did they ever fit a two-car garage on that lot is what I'll never know.”
“If you met them personally, you would know. They're pushy.”
“I thought so. Where did they go?”
“Went camping with the people with the built-in appliances.”
“It figures.”
“You'd better get going.”
“Hey, I just remembered. You know how you always accuse me of not meeting new people? I met a newcomer last night when I was looking for our newspaper.”
“Who is he?”
“Name is Alan Cornwall.”
“I'll never remember that. Who is he?”
“The Porsche with the kid who spits on our tires.”
“The one who just sprayed for bagworms?”
“That's him.”
“Why didn't you say so? I hate name droppers.”
Unknown
Chapter Five
THE HEARTBREAK OF PSUBURBANIASIS
The Seven-Inch Plague
In 1946, the suburbs suffered its first plague.
It struck with little warning and attacked the weak, the bored, the vulnerable seeking relief from the monotony. Its name was television and by 1966, it would enslave sixty-two million families.
We fell victims just before Christmas when my husband carried it home to us from the city.
The disease looked harmless enough—a seven-inch screen that looked like a hand mirror. We put it on the bookcase in the living room, got a vanity bench from the bedroom and positioned our eyeballs 16 inches from the screen where we became mesmerized as a full-grown woman carried on a conversation with two puppets.
Television was a terminal disease that was to spread and worsen, driving people from acute withdrawal to chip-dip attacks.
Because I am basically a strong person, I was able to resist the disease better than most, but my husband's addiction to television grew steadily worse. He became a sports addict who was in a catatonic state twelve months out of every year.
No one would have guessed that his condition would become so hopeless that I would approach a lawyer to have him considered legally dead. The lawyer advised me that due to the legalities this was not an easy thing to do. Just because a man sits in front of a TV set with eyes fixed and no pulse is not enough. He said I would have to keep a log of my husband's behavior over a year's period of time. I began to keep a diary in August.
august
The fifteenth of this month was visiting day for the children. Waiting for a beer commercial, I lined them up and said stiffly, “Children, this is your father.” He offered them a pretzel at the same time watching a beer can dancing with a hot dog. When we insisted he stand up, the children gasped. They remembered him as a much shorter man.
SEPTEMBER
The set went out today during the Dallas—Los Angeles game. “It could be a tube,” I said.
“Shhh . . . and get out of the way. The Cowboys are ready to score.”
“No one is ready to score,” I said. “You don't understand. The tube is black.”
“That's ridiculous. Look at that lateral . . . my God, they've fumbled.”
“Just relax. It could be only this channel experiencing temporary ...”
“Lady, you are going to be temporary if you don't get out of this room and let me watch my game in peace.”
I left him sitting in front of the black screen screaming and cheering. Maybe I can talk some sense to him when he is watching the commercial that isn't there.
OCTOBER
Today, our living room was named the first recycling center to be served by a mobile unit. My husband was so engrossed in watching the World Series, he was quite unaware of what was going on.
Television cameras ground away while cub scouts gathered together eight barrels of cans, six barrels of bottles, and 500 pounds of paper.
I pecked my husband on the cheek as I left. He swatted at me and grumbled, “How did that fly get in here?”
NOVEMBER
I am really worried about my husband. On Sunday, he sat in front of the TV set from noon until 10:30 p.m. There was no
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