This is the Suburbia # because I grew up in the suburbs, and also because the only thing I’m afraid of more than being a suburban housewife, is being a suburban housewife whose husband cheats on me with my hot neighbor. The easiest way to conquer my fear would be to become a political lesbian. The harder, therapeutic, work would be to have the staff of The Harvard Lampoon brutally satirize my nightmare while I do hot pilates.

Somehow, even though my own suburban nightmares are about being a parent, this issue did end up, more or less, about childhood in suburbia. It’s probably because the writers are, or recently were, children. I myself have been told I act like a child on several occasions and, honestly, still consider myself a child though, strictly speaking, I am a “woman”.

I am not a mother myself, but I do feel I have experienced some suburban-mom-style crises. For example: The more I do, the more anxious I am, and the less I do, the more sad I am. Maybe I just don’t want to be happy. Maybe I just want to buy a fridge magnet that jokes about how much wine I drink. A fridge magnet-shaped cry for help that will go looked at, laughed at, but not read.

Historically, nothing happens in the suburbs. They’re sleepy and boring. We know this. However, in the following pages you will find a whole bunch of crazy things that could theoretically happen in the suburbs, if they were less boring. Exactly three of the pieces in this issue are exact recounts of actual events witnessed or experienced by suburban writers of The Harvard Lampoon. I will not tell you which. If you find out which, you should let me know. If you have the mental power to figure out which of these is real, I trust your ability to track me down. See you then!