Thank God You're a Country Girl
Several years ago my husband and I decided to take on a serious life change. We moved from a major metropolitan area to a very small town in the country. I think watching all those old Green Acres reruns is what finally put us over the top. I had always pictured myself as the Eva Gabor type, and my husband had a special fondness for all things barnyard.
At first, it was truly a dream. Once we got used to the rednecks using our mailbox for target practice and to the low level of resident literacy (0% before we moved there), we found our new life to be everything we’d expected and much more. We grew vegetables, went on long walks through the rolling hills, and even developed a taste for the local meth (acidic, but in a pleasant, citrusy way). Just to show our willingness to blend, we also joined a local militia - there were dozens to choose from - and spent many happy hours in full cammo, hiding under bridges or in the bushes on the courthouse lawn.
Here’s the deal, though. I miss the city. I miss traffic and mornings spent discussing film at Starbucks and shopping for clothes at someplace other than a farm and ranch store. I miss seeing people with teeth.
But my husband has put down roots. He tells me the only way he’ll ever leave Zetroc (for that’s the name of the shallow little gene pool we call home) is in a box. He loves the fresh air and the dry crunch of chicken manure in his socks, and he is truly happy here.
I know you’ve counseled thousands of other unhappy couples with great success (at least that’s what the flyer said that I found under my windshield wiper), so I’m hoping you can help us.
Is there a way out of this mess? Sincerely,
One More Mouthbreather Asks Me to Read the Grocery Store Directory for Him, and I Swear, I’ll Pull the Pin!
Dear One More Mouthbreather Asks Me to Read the Grocery Store Directory for Him, and I Swear, I’ll Pull the Pin!,
Not so fast there, Ma Kettle…
Things have really changed here in Gotham since you left, and, at this point, I don’t really think you could withstand re-entry. It’s not the same bright and shiny object you remember. Things have gotten ugly.
Why, just this morning on my way into Frenzy HQ, I saw a fifty-eight year-old graphic designer sitting on his bicycle at a stoplight. Picture the Michelin Man straddling a bit of chrome-moly butt floss, and there’s your morning’s snapshot.
And I see stuff like this all the time.
In Zetroc, do people go out for coffee in their pajamas? Do they fight with the HOA over that new sweat lodge in the backyard? Does the local day care offer a program in “authentic movement for toddlers?”
Didn’t think so.
I found myself wondering, where could I possibly go and not be subjected to to this type of thing? Greenland? Somalia?
If I were you, I’d learn to love my little house on the prairie. Never mind that the rustics take the occasional potshot at your mailbox, or that the local library doesn’t yet have a procedure for checking out books (it’s never come up). It’s much better, believe me, than what you left behind. Be thankful.
By the way… what was the name of Eva Gabor’s character on Green Acres? Something Douglas, wasn’t it?