I was raised 20 miles southwest of New York City, in a suburban New Jersey town where today city commuters still reign supreme and real estate is precious. I grew up thinking anyone with more than half an acre of land was a millionaire. Or crazy. I hated country music, horseback riding and wide open spaces. At 20, I transferred to college in Manhattan and became one of those commuters myself. I was sure I’d grow up to be an urban-dwelling writer/cat lady. Gladly so.
Now look at me. 29. Married. Project Manager. Labradoodle. Barn.
I have a barn. What the h-e-double-hockey-sticks is a girl like me supposed to do with a barn? I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately from a guilty pleasure perspective (duh, what other perspective is there?) and I have some ideas. I’m not dead-set on any, so I’d really appreciate your suggestions. (I know how creative you are when you’re supposed to be doing
boring serious things. )
There’s the obvious:
Animals Dressed as Other Animals: An Aww-Inspiring Exhibit.
SexySecret Hiding Place for Second Husband, Darren Criss.
And the slightly less obvious:
Clubhouse for My Very First Cult. (Alert: Currently recruiting. Must love deep-fried Oreos and puppies. Serious inquiries only.)
Storage Room for guillotine, life-sized Twilight dolls, barrels of wine, aged cheeses and fireworks*.
Goat. You know. Maybe. Like one cute, little goat. And some chickens. Just 1 or 2 or 50. And the goat probably needs a friend, now that I think about it.
*This might sound more impressive if you knew fireworks were illegal [for residents to own/set off] in New Jersey. …No? Still not impressed? Did you see that chicken?
How has life surprised you??