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How typical, I thought. The city. What is it about Sex and the City? It isn't any city, it is a city that would break my water tank budget and along with that budget, there are other budgets that I handle as the all-in-one domestic treasurer:
The school fee budget
The gas budget
The utility bill budget
The grocery budget
For the squeamish group, I will add the other monthly budget exclusive to women: The feminine hygiene budget. I can see you frowning. Eek! Yes, I am talking about sanitary napkins and tampons.
If I tottered around in designer heels, I'd lose the heel in a pile of horse manure.
Welcome to Sex in the Country – something that is viewed as a cultural atrocity by Sex and the City writers. Remember when Carrie went country with Aiden? She didn't appreciate the quietude. And all I could think of was the outdoor sex. Come to think of it, where was the outdoor sex in those rustic episodes? Carrie whined, complained and only Samantha managed to have stranger sex in the barn.
My errands are dotted with dung. I clean out the stables, feed the chooks and take time to refill the slush that my piggies adore. If my other half is busy rounding up the sheep, I mend the occasional fence. Manicures? Pedicures? But there are other advantages…
No one can hear us hang from the rafters. No one can hear me scream and no, I don't feel the need to share, but will say that SATC has increased the birthrate of sex columnists, or potential sex columnists filling up blogs, writing about every sexual rite of passage. There are couples liberally painting the landscape of their boudoir, adding bells and whistles on just about every bedroom caper, and in perfect Carrie mode, "I couldn't help but wonder…"
That is how she begins everything. She cannot help but wonder…
Jess is my neighbor – fifteen miles to the right – and she immediately raced to the chicken coop the moment she read about the SATC film premiering at our nearest city. She wondered if I'd be interested in a SATC weekend. It isn't New York. It isn't Manhattan, but shares an initial – Melbourne. Wild girl on girl chicken coop fondling? I think not.
"Guess? Tell me you can take the time for a city weekend," she said.
"Hi to you too Jess," I said, as Dottie my queen chook clucked, "four eggs. That's all for today…can you believe it?"
"Did you hear me?"
Admittedly, we both spend nights on the telephone between commercial breaks to dissect the SATC girls and their fashions – clothes, shoes and accessories that would disintegrate on our farms.
"Doesn't it bother you that they don't talk about country women? What makes them so special?" I asked, blowing a cowlick off my forehead.
"Who cares? Weekend in Melbourne…shopping…"
"What did Rhys say?"
"Rhys is happy. Says he'll finally have peace to paint the kitchen and living room. Go tell Ian."
I groaned but Jess wanted immediate confirmation.
"He's out on the paddock."
"So? Call him on the mobile phone."
Ian was all for it.
"Go hun, enjoy yourself."
"Can we afford it?" I eyed Jess. Jess was busily trimming her fingernails.
"What will you do?"
"I'll live, love," he said.
Jess whooped and my head spun. I felt like Al Pacino in Godfather III – just when I thought I was free of comparing myself to the New York lassies, I was dragged back in by the ''cultural film of the year" (according to one newspaper columnist).
"What the hell am I going to pack?"
Jess smiled, "I'll help you!"
"Do you think I'll need a dress? That black wraparound one I bought last year?"
"Try it now, I'll tell you. And you have to bring some heels…"
"I only have two pair."
"We can buy another when we're there."
"Sounds great!"
We giggled and made a beeline for the house, our regression complete. © 2008 Angela Coop Angela Coop (not her real surname) lives in rural Victoria with her husband and their menagerie of livestock.
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