Free The Grass Is Always Greener Over the Septic Tank by Erma Bombeck Page A

movie besides the Frazier-Ali fight. I want to dance and drink champagne from a slipper. Do you understand?”
    “Shh,” he said, “there's a commercial coming up. The one where the beer can dances with the hot dog.”
    The Suburban Myth
    There was a rumor going through the city that the suburban housewife drank her breakfast, accepted obscene phone calls—collect—played musical beds with her neighbors, and rewrote the book on Show and Tell.
    The rumor was started by Edward C. Phlegg, the builder of Suburbian Gems who was smart enough to know that when virtue moves in, there goes the neighborhood. And if anything could sell the suburbs, sin could.
    Everyone who lived there had the feeling that everyone was “swinging” except them. In fact, one evening in the paper there was a story about a “local” young mother who put her children under sedation every afternoon and engaged in an affair.
    The idea intrigued us and we devoted our entire coffee klatsch to it. “Okay, who's the little temptress who is spiking the peanut butter with Sominex and carrying on in the daylight?”
    We all sat there stunned.
    “Marci?”
    “What!” she sputtered. “And give up my nap?”
    “Helen?”
    “If you find my car in the driveway and my front door locked, call the police. I have my head in the oven.”
    “Linda?”
    “Get serious. The last time I was in my bathrobe at noon, I had a baby in the morning and was dressed in time to get dinner that evening.”
    The plain and simple truth is the suburbs were not conducive to affairs. Bus service was lousy and in the winter you couldn't depend on it at all. The house numbers were all fouled up and it was difficult to find your way through the rows of houses in the plat.
    The neighborhood was crawling with pre-schoolers who insisted on coming into their own houses to use the bathroom. The floor plan was clumsy. There were too many traffic areas—too much glass—and besides, there were no alleys for a Plan B alternate exit.
    Everything was against us from the beginning, including the domestic rut we had fallen into.
    As Marci pointed out, "I think we're fighting a losing battle. We wouldn't recognize a pitch if we heard it. Take me. Please. My vocabulary has been reduced to five sentences which I mumble like a robot every day of my life. They never change.
    1. Close the door.
    2. Don't talk with food in your mouth.
    3. Check out the clothes hamper.
    4. I saw you playing with the dog so go wash your hands.
    5. You should have gone before you left home.
    “The responses never vary—not in ten years of child raising. One night at a party,” she related, "I drifted into the kitchen in search of an ice cube when a devastating man leaned over my shoulder and said, 'Hello there, beautiful.'
    " 'Close the door,' I said mechanically.
    " 'I don't believe we've met,' he progressed. 'My name is Jim and you are ? ? ? ?'
    " 'Don't talk with food in your mouth.'
    " 'Hey, you're cute. I like a sense of humor. What say we freshen up your drinkypoo and find a nice, quiet spot all to ourselves.'
    " 'Check out the clothes hamper, 'I said brusquely.
    "He hesitated, looking around cautiously, 'Are you putting me on? I mean we aren't on Candid Camera or anything are we?' He slipped his arm around my waist.
    " 'I saw you playing with the dog so go wash your hands.''
    “His arm dropped and he edged his way to the door. 'Listen, you just stay put,' he said, 'I've got something to attend to.' ”
    “Tell me you didn't,” said Helen.
    “I yelled after him, 'You should have gone before you left home.' ”
    “Did you ever see him again?”
    “Never,” said Marci sadly.
    “Well, someone is having a good time out there,” said Linda. “Who could it be?”
    “What about that slim blonde in the cul-de-sac, Leslie?”
    “What about her?”
    “I think she drinks,” said Linda.
    “What makes you think that?”
    “Her curtains are drawn all day, the dog is never out, the car is always there, and