I haven't posted for awhile because I haven't been interested in housewifing.
I actually wasn't interested in anything at all for awhile. It turns out I was depressed. Not sad, but depressed. "Have you thought you might be depressed?" several people asked. But it wasn't until I spent several days in a row of not managing to drag myself through my routines - doing only the bare minimum to keep my kids fed and alive, and maybe not such a great job at that - that I admitted maybe I wasn't functioning the way I should.
So this summer I started taking an antidepressant, and I started making changes to the things that were making me unhappy. And as the fog lifted, the direction I wanted to go became clearer and clearer.
I don't like being a housewife. I tried to make it work, I really did, but it makes me miserable.
So I quit. I got some jobs; I went back to work.
The other half of this equation I'll tack on here, as well, because it's interrelated.
It turns out the husband and I have very different ideas about what being married and having kids means. After a lot of consideration, it is clear to me that we should not stay married. It's a pretty personal topic but if you want to know more, you can ask us offline.
Anyhow, there won't be any more housewifing posts. I'm sorry for that.
So long, and thanks for all the fish.
Saturday, September 30, 2017
Sunday, June 4, 2017
Hiring Help
Remember when I was weeding through the candidates for a babysitter from Care.com? Well, that went incredibly poorly.
Attempt 1
I narrowed the list down to ten, and recruited Thing 1 to help me make the final decision. She chose someone we'll call Amelia (not her real name). I arranged for Amelia to watch Thing 1, Thing 2 and the Baby one weeknight so I could go to a church group outing. That morning, Thing 1 woke up barfing, so I texted Amelia and apologized and called it off. I advised her of an upcoming date 3 weeks away, and she said she would be free.
Attempt 2
As the new date approached, I again texted Amelia and confirmed our arrangement with a specific time. Amelia showed up, I explained the dinner I'd pre-cooked for the children, and I went to a church group meeting. Two hours later, I returned, paid Amelia (the upper end of what she'd requested, I may add - which I think was incredibly generous considering she didn't even put away the leftovers of dinner or anything, and Thing 1 said she spent most of the time on her phone; but hey, my children were still all alive and had eaten), and thanked her.
Attempt 3
So a couple weeks later, I figured we'd see if Amelia was free to watch the kids so the Husband and I could go on a date for the first time in three months. I texted her and asked if she was free on Thursday. I gave her an approximate time. She said she could do Thursday. I said ok, I'll get back to you with the time. Thursday morning I texted her the time. She never responded... so evening came, and I began to consider that there was some sort of misunderstanding and she would not be appearing. Sure enough, 7:00 came and went and no Amelia. I tried calling and texting, but there was no reply. So we shoved the kids in the car and we all went to dinner at the 99.
Attempt 4
Still, I had been a little vague in my text. So I gave Amelia the benefit of the doubt and texted her the following week. "Sorry; we seem to have had a misunderstanding last week; are you free this Saturday, from 6-10."
Amelia responded saying she was sorry, she had some family emergency, and she could do Saturday 6-10.
Except when 6:00 came on Saturday, there was no Amelia. And when I called Amelia's phone, she sent me to voicemail (FYI folks - don't send people to voicemail. We know when you do. Just let the phone ring 5,6 times like normal.).
Fortunately, a fabulous friend was available to step in and watch Things 1 and 2 and Baby, so the Husband and I were able to catch the movie (we only missed the Coming Attractions).
Conclusion
This whole experience has been incredibly frustrating. Basically, I've paid Care.com $65 now to recommend to me someone who is the very definition of unreliable.
In contrast, I have also hired the pest control man to come get rid of our ant problem. I know he will show up when he says he will, because he is always reliable and punctual - he has never missed an appointment. So if you need a recommendation for a good pest control guy, just ask. And if you need a recommendation for an unreliable babysitter, I've got one of those, too. And I won't charge you anything for either.
-A Real Housewife of the North Shore
Attempt 1
I narrowed the list down to ten, and recruited Thing 1 to help me make the final decision. She chose someone we'll call Amelia (not her real name). I arranged for Amelia to watch Thing 1, Thing 2 and the Baby one weeknight so I could go to a church group outing. That morning, Thing 1 woke up barfing, so I texted Amelia and apologized and called it off. I advised her of an upcoming date 3 weeks away, and she said she would be free.
Attempt 2
As the new date approached, I again texted Amelia and confirmed our arrangement with a specific time. Amelia showed up, I explained the dinner I'd pre-cooked for the children, and I went to a church group meeting. Two hours later, I returned, paid Amelia (the upper end of what she'd requested, I may add - which I think was incredibly generous considering she didn't even put away the leftovers of dinner or anything, and Thing 1 said she spent most of the time on her phone; but hey, my children were still all alive and had eaten), and thanked her.
Attempt 3
So a couple weeks later, I figured we'd see if Amelia was free to watch the kids so the Husband and I could go on a date for the first time in three months. I texted her and asked if she was free on Thursday. I gave her an approximate time. She said she could do Thursday. I said ok, I'll get back to you with the time. Thursday morning I texted her the time. She never responded... so evening came, and I began to consider that there was some sort of misunderstanding and she would not be appearing. Sure enough, 7:00 came and went and no Amelia. I tried calling and texting, but there was no reply. So we shoved the kids in the car and we all went to dinner at the 99.
Attempt 4
Still, I had been a little vague in my text. So I gave Amelia the benefit of the doubt and texted her the following week. "Sorry; we seem to have had a misunderstanding last week; are you free this Saturday, from 6-10."
Amelia responded saying she was sorry, she had some family emergency, and she could do Saturday 6-10.
Except when 6:00 came on Saturday, there was no Amelia. And when I called Amelia's phone, she sent me to voicemail (FYI folks - don't send people to voicemail. We know when you do. Just let the phone ring 5,6 times like normal.).
Fortunately, a fabulous friend was available to step in and watch Things 1 and 2 and Baby, so the Husband and I were able to catch the movie (we only missed the Coming Attractions).
Conclusion
This whole experience has been incredibly frustrating. Basically, I've paid Care.com $65 now to recommend to me someone who is the very definition of unreliable.
In contrast, I have also hired the pest control man to come get rid of our ant problem. I know he will show up when he says he will, because he is always reliable and punctual - he has never missed an appointment. So if you need a recommendation for a good pest control guy, just ask. And if you need a recommendation for an unreliable babysitter, I've got one of those, too. And I won't charge you anything for either.
-A Real Housewife of the North Shore
Thursday, May 25, 2017
What's Next?
I'm just not cut out to be a housewife.
Anyone who knows me is probably not surprised to hear this. Maybe reading this blog has even led you to believe this. Personally, I thought I was doing a pretty good job housewifing. Until one day a couple months ago, when I realized that I was miserable.
I will spare you the details of my rude awakening now, with the promise that they will find their way into my writing in the future. Looking back, I can see their seeds planted in the writing I did in the past.
In the present, I'm at a very convoluted intersection - they're common here in Massachusetts - trying to figure out which direction to go in. I'm about to KonMari the ever-living crap out of my house in a quest to determine what sparks joy in my life. I'm ready to part with all the baggage I've been dragging around, and even some books, so you know things are serious.
Until I get this sorted out, I remain a
-Real Housewife of the North Shore
Anyone who knows me is probably not surprised to hear this. Maybe reading this blog has even led you to believe this. Personally, I thought I was doing a pretty good job housewifing. Until one day a couple months ago, when I realized that I was miserable.
I will spare you the details of my rude awakening now, with the promise that they will find their way into my writing in the future. Looking back, I can see their seeds planted in the writing I did in the past.
In the present, I'm at a very convoluted intersection - they're common here in Massachusetts - trying to figure out which direction to go in. I'm about to KonMari the ever-living crap out of my house in a quest to determine what sparks joy in my life. I'm ready to part with all the baggage I've been dragging around, and even some books, so you know things are serious.
Until I get this sorted out, I remain a
-Real Housewife of the North Shore
Sunday, May 14, 2017
A Thought for Mother's Day
This isn't an original thought - I'm sure I've read it somewhere in the dozens of parenting blogs that are out there - but being a mother isn't a job.
People always say, "being a mother is a full-time job," but, it's not. It's not a job at all. It's like being a woman or a man, or your race, or where you're from - when you become a mother, it becomes part of your identity. It's not a job, it's who you are.
Maybe for some people, their job is part of their identity. They think of themselves as being Author or Software Engineer or Gardener. That's all well and good. That doesn't mean that every person whose identity involves gardening is employed as a gardener, though.
There are mothers who have careers, mothers who work three jobs to pay the bills, mothers who stay home and wipe snotty noses and read books and cut crusts off sandwiches all day. There are mothers who are PTO presidents. There are mothers who never attend school conferences. There are mothers who are carefree, mothers who worry, mothers who bake, mothers who order take-out. The ways in which we provide for our offspring vary greatly, but being a mother is not defined by those details.
I read a book many years ago, before I became a mother. I can't remember the name, but it's stuck with me forever. The woman in it regrets becoming a mother. She hates that this is now part of her identity - she hates being a mother so much that she kills her daughter and runs away. The book is about her husband trying to find her, and when he finally does, at the end of the book, she tells him that it was all for nothing- even when our children are gone, we are still a mother.
That's not in any definition of a job.
If being a mother isn't a job, then what is it? I don't know that there are words to describe it. It's a little bit like being God, I think. You create life, and you nurture it, and you make sacrifices for it, and it curses you and frustrates you to no end, but you keep loving it, and you hurt when it cries, and you want to smooth the paths for it, but at the end of the day, it makes its own choices, and you know the whole time you're nurturing it that someday it will leave you.
You choose your friends and you choose your life partners, but you don't choose your children. (I'd argue that even with adoption - you don't choose a child based on their various merits in the same way you choose friends and life partners - but I haven't adopted so I am no expert on this). And yet you are so invested in their successes that you always have to be careful to remember that they have their own identities. Which is made more difficult by the fact that they forever change your identity - you are now and will always be a Mother.
-A Real Housewife (and Mother) of the North Shore
People always say, "being a mother is a full-time job," but, it's not. It's not a job at all. It's like being a woman or a man, or your race, or where you're from - when you become a mother, it becomes part of your identity. It's not a job, it's who you are.
Maybe for some people, their job is part of their identity. They think of themselves as being Author or Software Engineer or Gardener. That's all well and good. That doesn't mean that every person whose identity involves gardening is employed as a gardener, though.
There are mothers who have careers, mothers who work three jobs to pay the bills, mothers who stay home and wipe snotty noses and read books and cut crusts off sandwiches all day. There are mothers who are PTO presidents. There are mothers who never attend school conferences. There are mothers who are carefree, mothers who worry, mothers who bake, mothers who order take-out. The ways in which we provide for our offspring vary greatly, but being a mother is not defined by those details.
I read a book many years ago, before I became a mother. I can't remember the name, but it's stuck with me forever. The woman in it regrets becoming a mother. She hates that this is now part of her identity - she hates being a mother so much that she kills her daughter and runs away. The book is about her husband trying to find her, and when he finally does, at the end of the book, she tells him that it was all for nothing- even when our children are gone, we are still a mother.
That's not in any definition of a job.
If being a mother isn't a job, then what is it? I don't know that there are words to describe it. It's a little bit like being God, I think. You create life, and you nurture it, and you make sacrifices for it, and it curses you and frustrates you to no end, but you keep loving it, and you hurt when it cries, and you want to smooth the paths for it, but at the end of the day, it makes its own choices, and you know the whole time you're nurturing it that someday it will leave you.
You choose your friends and you choose your life partners, but you don't choose your children. (I'd argue that even with adoption - you don't choose a child based on their various merits in the same way you choose friends and life partners - but I haven't adopted so I am no expert on this). And yet you are so invested in their successes that you always have to be careful to remember that they have their own identities. Which is made more difficult by the fact that they forever change your identity - you are now and will always be a Mother.
-A Real Housewife (and Mother) of the North Shore
Wednesday, April 12, 2017
Too Many Choices!
This past week marks my first attempt at using Care.com. I don't know if it's the site, or me, but we just don't work well together.
See, I need to hire a babysitter for a couple hours, and I don't know anyone personally. I guess back in Ye Olden Days I would ask around if anyone knew someone, or hunt down some neighborhood kid off the street who seemed responsible. But it's 2017, and they have this website where you can just say, "I'd like a babysitter next week," and...
...and 25 people will respond within days (some within minutes). This isn't a good thing. It would be nice to pick between 2-5 different options, but 25 is just too many choices. If I wasn't determined to go to this event, I'd delete the "job" and just say, "forget it." I've now spent about 3 hours - the same amount of time I'd like to hire someone for - making my request, trying to figure out how to view the messages from respondents (no surprise: I had to pay), and then reviewing the respondents... and I still haven't even contacted a single one of them.
This has got me thinking about one of the drawbacks of the internet - sometimes it is Just Too Much. Too many choices. Too many voices. So much noise.
When you're looking for a needle in a haystack, it's good that Almost Everything Ever is on the internet. For example, last week, I ordered Rainbow Butterfly Unicorn Kitten greeting cards. I also procured a bobbing piece of bacon for the car dashboard. When you're looking for something obscure, the internet is your friend.
When you want to do something simple, like find a babysitter, it is Just Too Much.
Sorry this is short, I have to get back to these potential babysitters.
-A Real Housewife of the North Shore
See, I need to hire a babysitter for a couple hours, and I don't know anyone personally. I guess back in Ye Olden Days I would ask around if anyone knew someone, or hunt down some neighborhood kid off the street who seemed responsible. But it's 2017, and they have this website where you can just say, "I'd like a babysitter next week," and...
...and 25 people will respond within days (some within minutes). This isn't a good thing. It would be nice to pick between 2-5 different options, but 25 is just too many choices. If I wasn't determined to go to this event, I'd delete the "job" and just say, "forget it." I've now spent about 3 hours - the same amount of time I'd like to hire someone for - making my request, trying to figure out how to view the messages from respondents (no surprise: I had to pay), and then reviewing the respondents... and I still haven't even contacted a single one of them.
This has got me thinking about one of the drawbacks of the internet - sometimes it is Just Too Much. Too many choices. Too many voices. So much noise.
When you're looking for a needle in a haystack, it's good that Almost Everything Ever is on the internet. For example, last week, I ordered Rainbow Butterfly Unicorn Kitten greeting cards. I also procured a bobbing piece of bacon for the car dashboard. When you're looking for something obscure, the internet is your friend.
When you want to do something simple, like find a babysitter, it is Just Too Much.
Sorry this is short, I have to get back to these potential babysitters.
-A Real Housewife of the North Shore
Tuesday, March 21, 2017
Garbage Problems
The Baby has gotten really good at cleaning up after himself. Too good, in fact.
Phase I: Post-Dinner Cleanup
After dinner, I consistently have to remind Thing 1 and Thing 2 to scrape any remnants of dinner off their plates and into the trash (for Thing 1, almost everything she was dished up; for Thing 2, almost nothing). The Baby, tiny imitator that he is, does this routine without being asked. I am winning at life!
Then one day, when I go to scrape the Husband's plate into the trash, I see a plate and fork in there. The Baby apparently decided that after scraping, the whole place setting just went in there. This has happened more than once. I now know to check the trash after dinner for plates and utensils.
Phase II: Disposable Cup Quandary
We frequently bring home those kiddie cups you get at restaurants - the plastic ones covered in pictures of kids or dinosaurs or, in the case of Olive Garden, random food-people like Olive the... Olive - because Thing 1 and Thing 2 like them, and because they have lids with straw holes, which is nice when you're outside or traveling.
Recently, I've gotten iced coffee, which the Baby thinks is the greatest thing ever. So to appease him and not stunt his growth and not get him hopped up on caffeine, I have been giving him one of the straw cups with juice in it (don't judge - I could let him drink the coffee - and no one wants to deal with a tantrum before they've finished their coffee).
The problem is, he recognizes somehow that these cups are supposed to be tossed after one use. He takes two or three sips, gets bored, and throws the entire cup of juice into the trash. Which I then have to fish out, wash off, and put in the fridge for later. And repeat.
Phase III: Paper
The Baby hasn't gotten the hang of recycling versus trash yet - to be fair, neither has the Husband. And I have faith the Baby will get it before the Husband does. Regardless, to the Baby, paper can go in the trash. Any papers. All papers. But still, imagine my surprise when I open the trash the other day and find... six dollars in bills. That hellion went in my purse in search of gum (which is a whole other post), took out the money, and threw it in the garbage.
I'd like to think this was a one-time episode, but no. Tonight, I once again open up the trash to throw something in and... dollar bills. My hard-earned paper-route money, sitting atop the remnants of our visit to McDonald's.
So now I'm stuck routinely checking the trash multiple times a day for useful items that the Baby has decided are no longer useful to him. I guess at least I don't have to worry he'll grow up to be a hoarder.
Phase I: Post-Dinner Cleanup
After dinner, I consistently have to remind Thing 1 and Thing 2 to scrape any remnants of dinner off their plates and into the trash (for Thing 1, almost everything she was dished up; for Thing 2, almost nothing). The Baby, tiny imitator that he is, does this routine without being asked. I am winning at life!
Then one day, when I go to scrape the Husband's plate into the trash, I see a plate and fork in there. The Baby apparently decided that after scraping, the whole place setting just went in there. This has happened more than once. I now know to check the trash after dinner for plates and utensils.
Phase II: Disposable Cup Quandary
We frequently bring home those kiddie cups you get at restaurants - the plastic ones covered in pictures of kids or dinosaurs or, in the case of Olive Garden, random food-people like Olive the... Olive - because Thing 1 and Thing 2 like them, and because they have lids with straw holes, which is nice when you're outside or traveling.
Recently, I've gotten iced coffee, which the Baby thinks is the greatest thing ever. So to appease him and not stunt his growth and not get him hopped up on caffeine, I have been giving him one of the straw cups with juice in it (don't judge - I could let him drink the coffee - and no one wants to deal with a tantrum before they've finished their coffee).
The problem is, he recognizes somehow that these cups are supposed to be tossed after one use. He takes two or three sips, gets bored, and throws the entire cup of juice into the trash. Which I then have to fish out, wash off, and put in the fridge for later. And repeat.
Phase III: Paper
The Baby hasn't gotten the hang of recycling versus trash yet - to be fair, neither has the Husband. And I have faith the Baby will get it before the Husband does. Regardless, to the Baby, paper can go in the trash. Any papers. All papers. But still, imagine my surprise when I open the trash the other day and find... six dollars in bills. That hellion went in my purse in search of gum (which is a whole other post), took out the money, and threw it in the garbage.
I'd like to think this was a one-time episode, but no. Tonight, I once again open up the trash to throw something in and... dollar bills. My hard-earned paper-route money, sitting atop the remnants of our visit to McDonald's.
So now I'm stuck routinely checking the trash multiple times a day for useful items that the Baby has decided are no longer useful to him. I guess at least I don't have to worry he'll grow up to be a hoarder.
Friday, February 17, 2017
Household Creatures
Over the course of my adult life, I've been the owner/servant of several fish, rabbits, ferrets, and a cat. I started with a rabbit, which my boyfriend at the time thought would make a great birthday gift.
Don't give rabbits as gifts
A rabbit is probably one of the worst gifts you can give someone in college, in case you were wondering how that worked out. My roommates were less than thrilled with his ability to nibble on everything in sight and scatter his little rabbit poops everywhere. I was informed that the rabbit was male, and there are no health reasons for getting male rabbits neutered, so I never took him to the vet. When he died under mysterious circumstances a scant few years later, I learned that he was actually a she. I was renting a room at the time, in the city, and didn't have any friends who owned land, and suddenly here I was with a dead rabbit in need of burial. Did I mention that it was cold out, and that I didn't own so much as a trowel?
Don't buy betta fish
Concurrent with the rabbit, I attempted to rescue several fish from the pet store, but after accidentally killing two in a row, I've sworn off fish forever. Fish are blessedly easy to "bury."
Don't adopt street cats
After the fish, the husband (who was not the husband at the time) and I found a kitten in a trash can. We liberated him, but he refused to leave the trash can and we had to drag him out. He is currently the insane diabetic cat that has been previously mentioned in this blog. This week he even ate through a bag of potatoes to gnaw on a potato; nothing is safe. He will eat clothing out of the laundry if it smells enough like food. And twice a day, I get to give him insulin, which after a year of playing with dosages is still not properly managing his diabetes.
Don't expect rabbits to behave
The husband and I adopted two rabbits. The first was a sweetheart, and very well behaved. But he got lonely so we let him pick a girlfriend (don't worry, they were both fixed). The girlfriend hated me. She also was a frequent nibbler - baseboards, books, cords, furniture. Our crib still bears her nibble marks. And she hated me, right up until she got cancer and I had to give her prednisolone twice a day for six months. Since she loved the medicine, she also wound up liking me, and when I had to put her to sleep the day before Easter, we were finally pals.
The other rabbit lived on, dying the slow death of old age, and had a seizure while we were away on vacation, so the poor person I had hired to watch over him had to see him over to the other side.
Don't be me
At some point, the husband also decided we should get ferrets. I was not a huge fan of this proposition, as they don't live very long. Case in point, the older ferret - a scant three years old - developed pancreatic tumors. After a week and a half of feeding the ferret special superfood every three hours and administering prednisolone twice a day, the ferret developed an ulcer. So on the morning of the biggest snowstorm of the year, I had to call around and find an open vet's office that could handle ferrets. Then we (ferret and I) drove through the snowstorm so that I could watch him curl up one last time and ease out of his misery.
When I returned from the vet, the baby was puzzled as to why the ferret was no longer in his carrier, and Thing 1 and Thing 2 asked when we could get another ferret. To which I replied, "We can get another pet when you're ready to put it to sleep."
I'm not anti-pet; I'm anti-dying pets
I probably won't win parent of the year for that response, but it's the truth. Pets die. Pets get long-term illnesses. Pets can be loving, and fun (not fish; fish are neither), but at the end of the day you just might wind up getting ferret blood on yourself as you take your poor little friend on a snowy car ride. And you'd better be prepared with a shovel and a plot of land, or a place to put his little box of ashes on your mantle.
I hope you have better luck with your pets than I do as a
-Real Housewife of the North Shore
Don't give rabbits as gifts
A rabbit is probably one of the worst gifts you can give someone in college, in case you were wondering how that worked out. My roommates were less than thrilled with his ability to nibble on everything in sight and scatter his little rabbit poops everywhere. I was informed that the rabbit was male, and there are no health reasons for getting male rabbits neutered, so I never took him to the vet. When he died under mysterious circumstances a scant few years later, I learned that he was actually a she. I was renting a room at the time, in the city, and didn't have any friends who owned land, and suddenly here I was with a dead rabbit in need of burial. Did I mention that it was cold out, and that I didn't own so much as a trowel?
Don't buy betta fish
Concurrent with the rabbit, I attempted to rescue several fish from the pet store, but after accidentally killing two in a row, I've sworn off fish forever. Fish are blessedly easy to "bury."
Don't adopt street cats
After the fish, the husband (who was not the husband at the time) and I found a kitten in a trash can. We liberated him, but he refused to leave the trash can and we had to drag him out. He is currently the insane diabetic cat that has been previously mentioned in this blog. This week he even ate through a bag of potatoes to gnaw on a potato; nothing is safe. He will eat clothing out of the laundry if it smells enough like food. And twice a day, I get to give him insulin, which after a year of playing with dosages is still not properly managing his diabetes.
Don't expect rabbits to behave
The husband and I adopted two rabbits. The first was a sweetheart, and very well behaved. But he got lonely so we let him pick a girlfriend (don't worry, they were both fixed). The girlfriend hated me. She also was a frequent nibbler - baseboards, books, cords, furniture. Our crib still bears her nibble marks. And she hated me, right up until she got cancer and I had to give her prednisolone twice a day for six months. Since she loved the medicine, she also wound up liking me, and when I had to put her to sleep the day before Easter, we were finally pals.
The other rabbit lived on, dying the slow death of old age, and had a seizure while we were away on vacation, so the poor person I had hired to watch over him had to see him over to the other side.
Don't be me
At some point, the husband also decided we should get ferrets. I was not a huge fan of this proposition, as they don't live very long. Case in point, the older ferret - a scant three years old - developed pancreatic tumors. After a week and a half of feeding the ferret special superfood every three hours and administering prednisolone twice a day, the ferret developed an ulcer. So on the morning of the biggest snowstorm of the year, I had to call around and find an open vet's office that could handle ferrets. Then we (ferret and I) drove through the snowstorm so that I could watch him curl up one last time and ease out of his misery.
When I returned from the vet, the baby was puzzled as to why the ferret was no longer in his carrier, and Thing 1 and Thing 2 asked when we could get another ferret. To which I replied, "We can get another pet when you're ready to put it to sleep."
I'm not anti-pet; I'm anti-dying pets
I probably won't win parent of the year for that response, but it's the truth. Pets die. Pets get long-term illnesses. Pets can be loving, and fun (not fish; fish are neither), but at the end of the day you just might wind up getting ferret blood on yourself as you take your poor little friend on a snowy car ride. And you'd better be prepared with a shovel and a plot of land, or a place to put his little box of ashes on your mantle.
I hope you have better luck with your pets than I do as a
-Real Housewife of the North Shore
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