Growing up I always knew I wanted to live on a farm. Always. The country life just called to me every time our catalogs and magazines arrived in the mail. All those happy, beautiful people enjoying the rural life. That’s what I wanted. I already wore the clothes, now I just needed the setting to complete my look.
I wanted everything that came with farm life. Everything.
I wanted those crisp mornings with chores like feeding baby animals and gathering eggs at dawn, followed by warm drinks on the lawn in matching robin’s egg blue Adirondack patio furniture. What I got was dew-soaked pants and shoes from walking to the barn and pasture while it is still dark, occasionally twisting my ankle because not only can I not see a darn thing, the ground is uneven. And slippery when wet.
I wanted horses. Y’know, to frolic with and look pretty. Instead? Instead I got two male pygmy goats who posses the unfortunate talent (or fetish?) of being able to actually suck on their own, uh, parts. Oh, and they hump each other. And everything else. All. The. Time. …Exhibitionist Midget Goats. That’s what I got.
They may look cute…until he starts sucking on his own wanker. These are the eyes of a true, wild pervert, my friends.
I wanted to go boating. Without water. In the woods. But there is no boating in the woods; there are no woods. And the only boat is a broken down motorboat the landlord left behind the garage to get fixed “in a couple days” a month ago.
I wanted to take advantage of unexpected resting spots. Instead I got bug bites. Also? Turns out the husband is afraid of bales of hay because “there might be spiders in there”. True story.
I was fascinated by the juxtaposition of expensive clothing and dilapidated buildings.Surely I would look beautiful in a designer ensemble with kicky accessories while returning from feeding the animals in the barn, skirt flowing in the breeze. Instead I got dilapidated buildings alright, and dilapidated clothing from all the tripping in the pasture in the dark before dawn.
I wanted the jaunty skirts with matching cardigan sweaters to feed the chickens in…instead my ankle was pecked to the point of bleeding the one time I tried to wear a skirt to the barn.
I wanted the unmowed pasture with a dozen attractive men in various stages of undress, all line-dancing for my personal amusement. Instead I got a 6-year-old screaming that there was a bug on his arm. Seriously. A bug. In a pasture. No. Kidding.
Where are my line-dancing men?!
Where. Are. They.?!
Don’t even get me started on the allergies. Turns out I’m allergic TO GRASS. You know what pastures are made out of? GRASS. I’m living in the epicenter of my own, personal, Chernobyl with bodily fluids leaking uncontrollably from every facial orifice. My eyes are so red and swollen I’m unrecognizable. Pretty, it is not. Sexy, it really is not. Anything like I was lead to believe it would be like from J.Crew, L.L. Bean, Eddie Bauer, Anthropologie or MTV? No. Not even sorta, kinda, a little bit.
…Except for the warm drinks outside after doing morning chores. That happens. Sometimes. On Weekends. Sorta.