My fiancée Preppy and his best galpal went to a house party in Smyrna, where Preppy learned that he may never become a Guitar Hero. It was his first time visiting the house where the party was held, and apparently he took exhaustive mental notes. When he got home, he had grout on the brain.“You know, between the tiles in the bathroom,” he said. “Their house is just as old as ours, but their bathroom had beautiful grout. So I asked about it, and she said they’d re-grouted the whole thing right after they moved in. I was really jealous of their grout.”
He’s telling me this while sitting on the edge of the tub in the master bath, examining the floor, which was just fine yesterday but now is dingy, embarrassing, and simply won’t do.
“All you need is a little saw and a chisel and you’re in business,” he says, surveying the expanse of tile in front of him. “Why aren’t we doing more stuff like this? We’ve had the bedroom paint picked out for two months. We could crack stuff like this out in a weekend.”
“Because we rarely have weekends. We’re busy people. I’m proud when we manage to fold the laundry.”
“We’ve been in the house for six months. We need to nest more. Help me nest, Topher.”
“If I agree to help nest, will you let me have Clarabelle?”
“No.”
Clarabelle is my fantasy pet. She is a miniature cow. I caught less than a minute of a segment they did on Animal Planet about exotic pets, and since then I’ve been desperate for a miniature cow. I keep a picture of one on my Blackberry, so I can show others unfamiliar with, as far as I’m concerned, the greatest animal ever.
It’s a cow the size of a German Shepherd.
They’re very loving and come when you call them, and they produce up to two gallons of milk a day. We’d never have to buy milk again! I’d build one of those cobblestone walls, like you see in the rolling hills of Ireland. She’d live there. Sometimes I’d walk her in Piedmont Park, beaming with pride as everyone ignored Dalmatians and bulldogs, fawning over Clarabelle. Even that guy with the pig would be jealous. I could charge for photos.
“She’s no trouble,” I’d say. “She’s a contented cow.”
At Christmas, I’d send pictures out of Preppy, Clarabelle, and me, all in Santa hats. Cute. I know, I used to say the same thing about dogs until I had to live with two of them while we were closing on the house. But this is totally different from that. A dog is just a dog, but a miniature cow is… well, there are no words. Plus, they live outside.
“I love that you claim not to have time to fold laundry, but somehow you’re going to build a wall and work daily milking into the schedule.”
“I could do it before work,” I said. “It’s just a few gallons.”
“Topher, you grew up in Mississippi. You know what cow pastures smell like.”
“That’s if you have lots of great big cows. But Clarabelle is just one tee-tiny perfect cow. And she can learn tricks.”
“Really? Can you teach her to keep you warm at night? Because you’re gonna need someone for that if I come home and find a goddamn cow in the yard.”
“Okay fine. But if I don’t have time to take care of Clarabelle, I don’t think I have time for grouting, either.”
Later, Preppy was online, Googling various home improvements. Just to tempt me, he went to a site that sells truckloads of rock.
“Ooh,” he said. “Those are pretty rocks.”
“Stop teasing me.”
“What if we buy your rocks, and build that Irish rock wall you want so badly? No cow, just the wall. And in exchange, you help me with a few projects around the house?”
I could live with that. I agreed to assist in painting a few rooms, and to do my part in chiseling away at the bathroom tile. He would help me lift rocks on Sundays, building my wall. It served as further proof that we could both budge a little and compromise, which was satisfying. Especially to the part of me that could still hear a faint cowbell in the back of my mind.
“She’s no trouble,” I’d say. “She’s a contented cow.”
At Christmas, I’d send pictures out of Preppy, Clarabelle, and me, all in Santa hats. Cute. I know, I used to say the same thing about dogs until I had to live with two of them while we were closing on the house. But this is totally different from that. A dog is just a dog, but a miniature cow is… well, there are no words. Plus, they live outside.
“I love that you claim not to have time to fold laundry, but somehow you’re going to build a wall and work daily milking into the schedule.”
“I could do it before work,” I said. “It’s just a few gallons.”
“Topher, you grew up in Mississippi. You know what cow pastures smell like.”
“That’s if you have lots of great big cows. But Clarabelle is just one tee-tiny perfect cow. And she can learn tricks.”
“Really? Can you teach her to keep you warm at night? Because you’re gonna need someone for that if I come home and find a goddamn cow in the yard.”
“Okay fine. But if I don’t have time to take care of Clarabelle, I don’t think I have time for grouting, either.”
Later, Preppy was online, Googling various home improvements. Just to tempt me, he went to a site that sells truckloads of rock.
“Ooh,” he said. “Those are pretty rocks.”
“Stop teasing me.”
“What if we buy your rocks, and build that Irish rock wall you want so badly? No cow, just the wall. And in exchange, you help me with a few projects around the house?”
I could live with that. I agreed to assist in painting a few rooms, and to do my part in chiseling away at the bathroom tile. He would help me lift rocks on Sundays, building my wall. It served as further proof that we could both budge a little and compromise, which was satisfying. Especially to the part of me that could still hear a faint cowbell in the back of my mind.
