What does this image say about America's adoration of its family pets?

In what respect does this image reflect a typical suburban setting?

Throughout this exhibition, notice the role of the garage in the life of suburbanites. How often is it actually used to house the family automobile? If not that, then what is its function?

Tell us about your first family pet.

Chrysula Winegar has lived and worked in the inner cities of Sydney, London and New York.  Connecticut is her first full-time suburban experience since she was 19.  She is a wife, mother, private art dealer and blogger on work life balance issues at  www.wlbconsultants.com. 

I recently moved to the suburbs.  Not just any suburbs.  The Connecticut suburbs.  Connecticut as in a satellite of New York City.  I'm offending half the state right there.  But let's be honest.  Not much of the Tri-State area of New York, New Jersey and Connecticut would exist without Manhattan.  Those of us who have been Manhattan-ites, wear it as a badge of insane pride.  It's all ego and identity.  Even out here in suburbia, our lives, or at least our collective livelihoods, revolve around the city we all love and hate and love.


I've traded subway and bus horror stories, shepherding three children under six, a diaper bag and a stroller up and down "The Island at the Center of the World" *.  I've won prizes for the most creative usage of 800 sq ft for a family of five in one bedroom.  I can hold my own with the best of them.   I used to have dreams about my own washing machine and dryer.  At age 40, I did not ever imagine I would be car-less, still using a laundromat (at least it was in my own building) or sharing a bedroom with anyone other than my husband.  Nor did I imagine I'd live on the same street as Tiffany & Co., or ten blocks from the United Nations.


I was there on 9/11. I birthed three babies in Manhattan and have labored in Central Park, the back of taxis and the Waldorf Astoria.  My husband and I arrived with four suitcases, a few hundred dollars and the offer to share a friend's place for a few weeks.  We left nine years later with 3.5 children and two truckloads of possessions.  I'm a New Yorker.  Except that now I am not.

I've traded it all for a cute little house in a beautiful old suburb with wonderful schools, a small backyard, an enclosed front porch and a mini-van.  The fourth child was born in a hospital room larger than my apartment.  I have the all-American address and the all-American life.  I love my neighbors.  We trick or treat together, admire each other's Christmas lights, watch out for each other's kids.  Last Saturday we flew our new kite at the beach seven  minutes from our house and watched the sunset.  My husband is navigating the draining commute as best he can to pay the price for this idyllic paradise.  There are still too many drugs in the schools and too much sexual content in the literature and in the halls.  But it's less obvious and you have to work harder to find it.  For our still oblivious young children, I am grateful for the delay.  

It's been several months now, and I still don't know how to answer when people ask me where I live.  I never get tired of that skyline when I drive into the city.  I absorb its teeming energy, angst, aggression, its warped beauty.  It feels so right to be there, to be part of its vibe.  I belong.  But I've got a confession to make.  I love pulling in to my driveway, breathing in the fragrance of the season, feeling relaxed and relieved that I am home. 

* Island at the Center of the World is the title of a history of Manhattan through the lens of the Dutch when it was still New Amsterdam.