So, it turns out that for as much as I tell you guys, there’s a lot that I keep to myself. For example, if we’re not friends on Facebook, then I failed to tell you that 18 months ago, we bought a cabin in the Catskills.

I know, right?

It’s a mid-century ranch built into a hill with a finished, walk-out basement on a nice little piece of property on a lake. Fine. A pond. But you can swim in it and canoe in it and it’s full of fish, so that basically makes it a lake. Shut up and let me feel fancy.

So anyway, I failed to mention that we realized dream #1: owning a cabin in the country.

We love the mid century furniture that came with the house, but added some paint and rugs to make it suit our taste.

Sledding in the backyard. Also great for ice fishing, skating, snow-shoeing, etc.

For as long as I’ve known him, Dave has always gravitated toward urban settings. But then we got this place, and gradually he learned how to fish, and got a canoe, and learned what it’s like to get a good night’s sleep with no sounds other than the Peeper Frogs. Before long, he was talking about wanting to kill things and eat them. The country worked its way into his heart.

It probably doesn't hurt that the area looks like this.

And this.

Or that we started doing more things like this:

State lands near our house where we go to climb down boulders to the bottom of a dried up waterfall. Beautiful view and good exercise.

One face of the dried waterfall where some rain water has pooled.

And when you’re spending your time in the country, it’s inevitable that you’ll eventually have some sort of story like this:

You know...sometimes you're just driving along a highway and you find somebody's goat.

I named him Walter. He loved to eat chicken fingers. Dave wouldn't let me coax him into the car. Jerk.

It also doesn’t hurt that the cabin has more bathrooms and closet space than our current house.

Molly loves it here. We've learned that though she doesn't chase cars, she does chase canoes.

The only problem with having a cabin was having to go home on Sunday. Which brings me to the other things I neglected to tell you.

Just shy of a year ago, I got an awesome job which allows me to work full time, but telecommute a few days a week.

Four days after I started my job, Dave quit his. Just submitted his letter of resignation and walked out in order to realize lifelong dream #2: running his own company. He started a marketing agency and within hours of announcing he’d done so, had signed his first client.

Of course, with me telecommuting and Dave no longer working in the city, we realized that there wasn’t much of a reason to live where we currently do. It’s expensive, the taxes are high, and it just isn’t working for us. Don’t get me wrong; it’s a lovely town. It’s just not “our” town.

Because Dave can run his business from anywhere, and because my boss is AWESOME, in just under two months we will realize dream #3 when we sell our house in NJ and move to the Catskills full time.

Need to find me this summer? This would be the place to look.

And I’m totally getting a goat.

Hen: Mom, we’re going to ride horses for Mother’s Day.

Me: Did you just ruin a surprise?

Hen: I dunno.

This afternoon, in the car with all the boys…

Me: Hey Hen, what did you say we’re doing for Mother’s Day?

Hen: What? I dunno?

Peanut: What did he say?

Me: Hen, what did you tell me we’re going to do for Mother’s Day?

Peanut: Lose weight?

Hen: Mom. You’re fat.

Me: I’m fat?

Hen: You have a fat tummy.

Me: Huh. Are you fat?

Hen: No.

Me: Is Daddy fat?

Hen: No.

Me: Is Moon fat?

Hen: No.

Me: Is Peanut fat?

Hen: Yes.

Me: So it’s just Peanut and me in the fat club, huh?

Hen: Yes.

Me: You know, it’s not really nice to tell people they’re fat.

Hen: Is it nice to tell people they’re skinny?

Me: Sort of. I guess.

Hen: Fat’s not nice?

Me: No.

Hen: Skinny’s nice?

Me: I guess.

Today, shortly after the carpet installer enters the house….

Hen: Mom, why’s that man so big?

Me: Shh. Hen. He’s just a man. That’s why.

Hen: But he’s so fat! Why’s he so fat?

Me, dying a thousand deaths: Hen. Shh. That’s not nice. Remember?

Hen, jumping up from my lap: I’m going to go tell him he’s skinny!

Given that the trilogy is actually based on the concept of the Twilight series, but with fewer supernatural beings and more spanking, writing a “50 Shades” fanfic is super meta and may cause a rupture in the time-space continuum Also, I figure literature is kind of like music, in that the further removed a copy is from the original, the worse the quality. Using that analogy, “Twilight” is basically a song on AM radio, and “50 Shades” is a copy of that song made on a cassette recorder held up to the radio speaker, with the DJ talking over top of the music. So, my copy of the copy should be comparable to your drunk Uncle Lou singing along to the cassette tape, using his beer bottle for a microphone while intermittently swearing at your Aunt Sadie to get him a god damn ham sandwich.

So, without further adieu, I present: “50 Shades of WTF?”

“Miss Steele, you beguile me,” Christian’s mouth twitches up, his eyes hooded.

Jeez.  He’s wearing those soft, ripped jeans with the button open and his just fucked hair makes me clench down there. I bite my lip.

“Stop biting your lip. You know what that does to me.” Christian bites his lip. It makes me clench down there.

“Miss Steele. Here’s a balloon shaped like a helicopter. Never leave me. You. Are. Mine. I’ll only anal fist you if you beg me.”

“Ho,” my Subconscious shouts while my Inner Goddess jumps up and shakes her pom poms. Holy cow. I can’t let him buy me all these pricy gifts. “Christian, I’ve told you. I can’t accept this from you. It makes me feel like a whore. And anal fisting is a hard limit. Just let me touch your chest.”

“Anastasia, I’m very wealthy and like all 27 year old men, incredibly suave and worldly. I make $100,000 per hour. I can afford to buy you Charlie Tango balloons. I want to take care of you.”

Holy cow. I reach out to touch Christian’s chest but he flinches.

“Anastasia. My mother was a crack whore.”

I envision a scared, hungry, grey-eyed little boy and can’t imagine what he endured. I roll my eyes at him.

“Did you just roll your eyes?” Christian’s eyes are hooded and I know I’ve made his hand twitchy.

“Why do you get to roll your eyes at me, but if I do it, you’ll punish me with your twitchy hand?” I’m frightened of what he wants to do to me, but at the same time I clench down there. My Inner Goddess wakes up and rubs the dust from her eyes, clapping like a little child. My Subconscious rolls her eyes.

“Fair point, well made, Miss Steele. I’m going to fuck you now. Fast and hard.” He brushes my nipples and my sex clenches and the world dissolves around me as I erupt in a mind-shattering orgasm even though I never had sex or masturbated before last week. He’s so good at sex. I worry that I will never have anything to teach him because he’s a sophisticated, worldly 27 year old. I feel his erection against my leg and cannot believe I have this effect on him. I am stunned at the size of his erection even though I’ve never seen or touched one before, but I’m certain that his is unusually large and spectacular because he’s 27 and so rich. He removes a foil packet from his pocket and my sex clenches down there as I erupt in another explosive orgasm. “That’s right baby. Come for me baby. Oh, Ana, you’ve bewitched me. Never leave me.” He pins my hands over my head and I know it’s really so I can’t touch his chest because his mother was a crack whore and I wonder if he let that pedo Mrs. Robinson touch him then he penetrates my sex down there and I erupt in convulsive orgasm and he quickly follows and collapses on top of me.

“Ana, why didn’t you answer my email? When I don’t hear from you every 4 seconds I worry about you.”

Holy cow. I have an email address? “Christian, what’s Google?”

“Miss Steele, wait, what did you say your GPA was at that university where I make massive financial contributions?” He scowls, his mercurial mood shifting in a frightening but certainly not emotionally abusive way. I clench down there.

“Christian, you frighten me when you’re like this.”

“Come for me, baby” he looks at me with hooded eyes and I dissolve in an earth shattering orgasm.

I’m awesome at writing. Where’s my publishing contract?

Dave: I thought you were going to pick up Peanut.

Me: No. you can……I’m hungry.

Dave: Make dinner.

Me: Ha. You have a long ear hair. Right there. Ooh, and right there. And there.

Dave: Huh.

Me: Can I pluck it? With my tweezers.

Dave: So, you won’t pick up Peanut, and you won’t make dinner, but you’ll pluck my ear hair?

Me: YES. Can I?

Dave: I don’t care.

Me: Yay!

Dave: Have you showered today?

Me: No.

Dave: You smell.

Me: Like what?

Dave: Cheese. Are you gchatting with Ratty about plucking my ear hair?

Me: Yes.

Dave: You lead a fascinating life.

Me: A carpeted garage?

Peanut: Yes. I’m going to be that fancy.

Me: Wow. That is fancy.

Peanut: I’m going to have a huge mansion.

Me: Oh yeah? How are you going to make all that money?

Peanut: Gambling.

Age 16. I discover  the tanning booth. A love affair ensues.

Age 18. My grades are awesome and I’m already accepted into my college of choice, so I get to cut out of school for a week and go to Florida with the family I babysit for. Two days after I get back, I leave for Florida again on Spring Break with my friends. My skin is so brown I have a hard time finding make-up that’s dark enough for me.

Ages 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25. I visit the tanning booth on and off. It makes me feel better in the wintertime, and keeps my acne under control. Plus, I’m young. Who worries about things like wrinkles?

Age 26. Another horrible sunburn. This time I’m wearing sunscreen. But somehow I’ve missed a six inch spot on the left side of my chest. The skin on my boob bubbles. It hurts like a motherfucker.

Age 33. That mole looks funny. In fact, I don’t even remember having a mole there. My mom comments on it. My husband comments on it. I figure I should probably go have it removed.

So, this is what it looks like when, at age 33, your mole turns out to be Basal Cell Carcinoma. The mole was smaller than an eraser, and so superficial the doctor didn’t even have to go all the way down to the fatty tissue. The amount she had to scrape and burn off is about the size of a quarter. Provided the biopsy shows that all of the cancer was removed, treatment is done. There will be checks every three months for the next year to make sure there’s no recurrence. That’s it.

I am lucky.

Lucky it wasn’t bigger.

Lucky it wasn’t on my face.

Lucky it was easily treated.

Lucky it wasn’t melanoma.

I’d rather not take my chances again.

You shouldn’t either.

Wear some damn sunscreen.

On the PATH train, minding my own business, engrossed in The Hunger Games.

The man sitting, facing me: Excuse me. Would you like my seat? Do you need to sit down?

Me, smiling, thinking he’s so polite: No, that’s okay. I’m just fine. But thanks.

It’s not every day a man on the train sees you’re really engrossed in your book and thinks you might be more comfortable sitting. Such a pleasant surprise!

But, why me? I mean, I know I look cute today, but offering me a seat just because I’m reading? I notice the woman standing next to me is reading, too. As are several other women without seats.

Then I notice the man is staring. At my stomach. In my blousy top.

I think of several things to say to him.They fall in a very limited range along the spectrum from “Not pregnant, just fat” to “fuck you.”

The train doors open and people spill in. I’m cramped, crowded, my personal space invaded.

“You know what?” I say to the man. “My feet ARE bothering me a little bit. I think I’ll take you up on your offer. Thanks.”

I settle my ass, not pregnant, just fat, into my seat.