Another long day requiring a deep-clean steamy shower complete with Crabtree and Evelyn Gardener's Hand Treatment and yes I used it on my feet, along with a pumice stone, loofah, salt scrub and plenty of hot water to boot. So, squeaky clean and cozied up with my PowerBook, I offer you this delightful piece of Americana:
Yeah, I know, for some of you this is just another day at the office. It happens all the time: right smack in the middle of the week, when you're up against a deadline and deals are coming down like space capsules-you get "the call" from your assistant. "Excuse me Mr. So and So, it seems we have some cattle in the front yard." You pick up the phone and call yourself a wrangler, order in some cowhands, get the dog warden--or maybe you don't do anything at all because you have this kind of relationship with cows. There they go again, you say. Mooching off my Wi-Fi, looking in the windows, talking about me to the other cows. I hail from a different land, though. In Atlanta, people don't have herds of cattle congregating on their property. We have people working on our landscaping, or drunken Georgia fans, or sometimes a flock (?) of locusts. Cows were a rarity-until recently. I was in the back of the greenhouse, putting together a custom order; I'd propped the screen door open with a cement block so I could feel the wind blow across the fields and on my back. Every few minutes I have to step outside for a breath...it's like retreating from a smelly August sidewalk to the lobby of an air-conditioned high rise--pure bliss. I love the greenhouse, but dang is it ever hot. And, as I may have mentioned- dirty. I am so channeling my inner Scarlett O'Hara these days; not the green velvet dress from curtains Scarlett, or the Scarlett in mourning who donates her wedding ring for the good of the Confederacy, but the Scarlett on the road to Tara, after she and Rhett have left a burning Atlanta and he leaves her to pull the horse and cart the rest of the way alone. I'm dirty and I swelter, but I'm learning to embrace it. I'm bringing it back. I may start a perfume line. ANYWAY-back to the cows. So I'm standing there, sweltering, when I hear, on the walkie-talkie, the wee small voice of one the employees alerting me to "cattle on the property." Of course, in my world, this is like saying Michael Jackson has mated with an aardvark and given birth to a Leprechaun, and Angelina's adopting ALL of them, right now, in your front yard. When you hear this kind of news you GO GET YOUR CAMERA. Which, of course, I did-I TORE out of there, ran helter skelter to my car, retrieved the camera, dashed UP the driveway, around the house (remember we're talking acreage) in search of said cows, which by then had made their way to the far side of the neighbors' yard in order to avoid certain capture from the two teenagers who'd nearly caught up to them, thus my photo op was "ruint", as my mother would say. It was still pretty wild, only I kind of wanted the guys to have lassos, but I guess they just planned on wrassling them cows to the ground. Everyone, including the cows, looked mostly panicked, and I must admit even I had plotted my own escape as I rounded the southeast corner of the house, right before the cows were supposed to come into view--I thought if one of them came at me with his/her horns I'd go ahead and shimmy up one of the pillars on the front porch and hold on tight while simultaneously yelling for help. Fat chance, you say? Well, yes I see your point. I haven't shimmied up anything since elementary school gym class and even then I only got halfway up the rope. But I wasn't about to be gored by livestock then, either, was I?