I have lived in my home for more than a year now. Lived within spitting distance of my current neighborhood for another five years or so. And don't ask me why, but it occurred to me today, for the first time, that I live in the same Chicago suburb that Wayne and Garth used to (and for all I know, still) call home. Schwing!
Still, that sort-of brush with fictional celebrity is about the extent of the appeal here. Don't get me wrong: We have trees and safe parks and decent schools. We aren't too far from the city and museums and big-league sports. But there's still too much traffic and noise here for a country boy, and the mortgage on a comfortable home costs a Shah's fortune, even out in the 'burbs.
I'm just like any other working sap: My kids need new jackets and shoes for the fall, my windows need replacing, my deck needs treating, my basement needs sealing, and I fight a never-ending battle against the cigarette butts in my lawn and all-hours noise pollution resulting from the Hell's Angels chapter my neighbor apparently has established across the street.