In the movie “Baby Boom”, Diane Keaton’s character, J.C. Wiatt is a high-powered business woman at the peak of her career…until she inherits a baby cousin she never knew existed (don’t ask man, the 80s had some questionable rules about childcare). After deciding to keep the kid, losing her job and ditching her wet-rag boyfriend (Ladies, never trust a man who likes Asian-modern furniture and wears silky bathrobes - they’re incapable of love) - she hightails it to Vermont where hi-jinx and romance ensue.

While I do not have an inherited child, an ex who likes uncomfortable furniture or a career that saw me at the top of my game - unless said “game” was hauling Nespresso machines in my backpack & crying in various production offices across this great nation - then yeah, I was fucking Warren Buffet, man - I did however have a similar “ah-ha” moment in New York. One where I realized I’m done with the rat race. So, like J.C., I bought a Jeep and moved myself and my two dogs to a small town in Vermont.

But, like all good stories, once J.C. gets to Vermont - her house becomes a money pit and she ends up having a nervous breakdown, which requires her being treated by the local Vet, the dashing Sam Shephard. As one does. Since I’m modeling my entire new life after this movie, which I realize when written out sounds absolutely fucking bonkers, it’s only fair that I too would have everything start to crumble around me.

I’m renting an incredibly adorable little house up on a quiet hill, with a little backyard and a little garden and a little office space where I can make questionable art and attempt to write. It’s quaint, quiet and also has a murder basement that a week after I moved in decided to fill with water and raw sewage. I hate going into the basement in the first place (it definitely looks like the cave where the Gmork lived in the “Neverending Story” ) and I really hate going into the basement when I’m up to my ankles sewage. For whatever reason, having pipes backup/explode is my thing, and why I thought it would be different here, I’m not sure.

So I freak, call the landlord, who then calls the local plumber who said he’ll be happy to make a house call even though its a Sunday evening. And then, BAM!!! I realized this *IS* “Baby Boom”-the house falling apart is phase 1, baby. All I need now is to have a mental breakdown and soon enough I’ll be rolling in apple sauce and making sweet, sweet love to a handsome vet. Once I realized that in order to get to HERE:

I’d just need to go down HERE:

It made the whole ordeal not just tolerable, but exciting. In fact, I thought - what if it’s not a Vet I end up with but a handsome, salt of the earth local handyman (kinda like the fella from Newhart but, ya know, bangable)? The idea of living a simple life with my craftsmen partner and a gaggle of animals and really lovely maple Adirondack chairs seemed beyond dreamy. I put on makeup. I attempted to clean some of the mess up, just to be polite. Then my future paramour arrived and he was incredibly nice and very good at cleaning out the roots that had taken up residence in my pipes, but as far as a romantic connection goes. He was exactly like the fella from Newhart. I tried to keep my chin up and laugh and be thankful my house wasn’t about to be swallowed up by sewage - and I was doing a good job, too - until the plumber informed me that to sop up the standing water/sewage in the basement, I would need to go and get kitty litter to absorb it all.

Do you know how much fucking kitty litter is required to absorb about 1 ½ inches of sewage? Let me tell you - 11 of the extra large boxes. You want to know what almost brought on my inevitable mental break? It was standing at the grocery store with a bottle of wine and 11 boxes of Fresh Step kitty litter, looking like the worlds most insane cat lady. Like I had a Grey Gardens-style situation with hundreds of feral cats crawling all over me. I tried to preempt the situation by telling the cashier not to worry, I just had sewage back-up and was using the litter to sop up the waste. Wouldn’t you know it, that only made everything weirder and grosser. Nothing like being know as the insane lady in town. So, I went home, sopped up the shit, pounded the bottle of wine and cursed Nancy Meyers for making me think this Vermont life would be easy.

Aside from falling down the stairs, the raw sewage and accidentally inhaling ½ a can of Deep Woods Off! due to seeing what I thought was a tick (it was lint) and having to call the Poison Control Center - its been relatively smooth sailing. I thought maybe I’m just on a different track from my girl, J.C. Maybe I just have to find my own way in Vermont….that was until I went out this morning and saw THIS:

I’M BACK IN ACTION, BABY! I’m gonna learn how to make artisan baby food and soon enough will find my Sam Shephard (RIP). I’ve never been more stoked for a flat-tire. Of course I don’t know how to change a tire, so thats fun. But who cares, I’m back on track and thats all that matters!