I am not a country mouse. I am not "tough." I don't know how to bale hay or feed goats. Have I always wanted to drive a tractor? Yes, but....I AM a town mouse. I DO know what to wear to opening night at the opera house and how to publish an article in a peer-reviewed journal on psychological disorders. I DO know how to sub-let a metropolitan apartment. Do you need to make a reservation at a four-star restaurant in Venice? I can do that for you. But, if you ask me to drive a hundred bred heifers into the north corrals through the west gate, run them through the chute, and give them all 5 cc's sub-Q, my eyes will glaze over and I will likely say, "Sorry, I think you have the wrong number."
The funny thing is, that last question is now asked of me on a regular basis. You see, on March 17,2012, I met my husband. He is very much a country mouse, with country mouse boots and a country mouse family. One whole month later, this town mouse married that country mouse. Since then, I have been experiencing what I imagine a snake feels when he sheds his skin...I have left behind everything I know and take comfort in, and I'm starting a brand-new life. So bring on the cowgirl boots, alfalfa bales, and combines; I'm ready to be "countrified." These are the adventures of a countrified town mouse.
