Summer turns me into a 1950s suburban housewife, though instead of being weighed
down by gender dichotomies and a generic, white picket fence image to uphold, my self-imposed indifference is the burden of the season. The window frame's images seem infinitely better than barricading one's self. However, like any painting, stepping too close reveals brush strokes - the blemishes and imperfections of the seemingly unattainable, the fire ants beneath the white picket fence.

Unlike the era of the vintage housewife of suburbia, technology has allowed itself to grow cancerous. Simple kitchen appliances and black and white televisions turned eight track and colored TV turn Betamax and cassettes turned VCRs and Walkmans turned portable CD players turned flat screen televisions turned laptops turned iPods turned everything you could ever want in a hand-held, miniature device. So much growth, though the biggest expansion is boredom. The need to consume and depose of something just as quickly as the machines can invent them.

At least the suburban housewife, as mundane as it seems, saw creation occur. Despite red scares, or any other scare, something seemed worth preserving. We have everything and want nothing, including myself every time I waste another Summer day inside, though occasionally while flipping through 800 channels of nothing I ask, "I wonder what the fire ants think of all of this?"










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