I did not actually find this ad under a rock. I found it in the local newspaper, the Litchfield County Times.

Arethusa may be the world's chicest dairy farm. It's owned by George Malkemus, the charming president of Manolo Blahnik North America (can't say I know him personally, but I've interviewed him for fashion stories and he's always a joy), and his partner, Anthony Yurgaitis, an equally big Blahnik bigwig. The place is Farm Fabulous: Sweeping emerald pastures, white fences, meticulously groomed black-and-white cows that match the meticulously painted black and white barns. Please don't ask: There's not a cowpie in sight. And if there were, it would undoubtedly smell like English tea roses or Chanel No. 5 or freshly baked oatmeal cookies.

The cows in this barn live better than I do. 

But enough about the farm. We came here for the shoes, didn't we? 

The sample sale was set up under a monstrous white tent in the middle of a grassy field. By 11 a.m. this morning, when I got there, the place was packed with women pawing the tables of jumbled-up shoes. Those lucky enough to wear small sizes had a cornucopia of goodness from which to choose. I, a graceless size nine, got a near-empty table. Disappointed, I went to the try-on area—a plywood platform with some folding chairs—and vicariously watched the size sevens prance like show ponies in their Mongolian lamb-fur boots and electric lime satin party pumps and periwinkle ostrich flip-flops.

One woman, in a black spandex tennis outfit, was holding a pair of thigh-high seqined stretch boots—very hooker-glam. "Wow, those are amazing," I said to her.

"Aren't they? I'm buying them for my daughter."

"She's so lucky!" I petted the boots enviously. "How old is she?"

"Nine," the woman said. 

Uh, okaaay.

I circled back to the jumbo-size table, where in my absence a miracle had occurred: There were more shoes now! Soon I had gathered a heap of possibilities:

Hello, lovelies. I want to take you all home with me. I stood there, mulling over which of these shoes to make my own. Silver mules: Definitely yes. Buttery-soft suede boots: Heavenly, but maybe I'm too old for fringe. Striped booties: Hm. Where would I wear them? Gold sandals: Ditto. Green velvet rhinestone booties: Beyond divine, but the five-inch heels are diabolical.

I had settled on the silver mules, reluctantly replacing all of the other not-quite-right choices, when Lo!—I spotted a pair of hunter green and bronze boots abandoned on the plywood near a folding chair. I tried them on. Score!

I walked out with two pairs:

Not bad for a day on the farm.

And now, back to our regularly scheduled austerity program. You know what tastes great with self-discipline?

Mmm, mmm. Milk.

---

*Just kidding. It is far from a manse. There's a spiderweb in every corner and mice in the basement.

I've had some readers write to ask about my third novel.

I'm flattered that people would ask, and I probably owe it to the askers to give them answers, so here they are, briefly and unsatisfactorily:

 1. It is not a sequel to the first two books.

2. It is a more serious, ambitious novel.

3. I can't really say much more about it than that.

4. I honestly have no idea when (or even if) it will published. But I am writing diligently and enthusiastically...

Or at least I was. Back in January, my husband, who is an editor and therefore loves enforcing deadlines, persuaded me to finish the first draft by June 30. I am all for a good challenge and took off at a gallop, cranking out hundreds of words a day, seven days a week, for weeks. I love writing, and I love getting things done, and  it was immensely pleasant seeing the pages pile up. Our family even started a graph to track my progress day to day (we're dorky like that) and posted it on the refrigerator.

That fever line shot up like Microsoft stock in 1999. Then, about six weeks ago, life intervened. Suddenly, every chore and task I had postponed to write the novel needed attention now. A certain new, high-maintenance creature arrived in my home. There were doctor checkups to be scheduled, beginning-of-summer preparations to be made, paying work and volunteer work to be completed. A million people called to ask favors I would have felt heartless not granting. There were mountains of mail to be sorted. There were bills to pay, thank you notes to write, e-mails to be answered. There was an astonishing amount of dust. At some point I realized: I used to be a writer, and now I am housewife.

Now, I have no problem with housewives. Far from it. Caring for home and family is important and valuable work, as long as it's a woman's choice. I, however, was a cranky, bitter, unfulfilled housewife straight out of Betty Friedan's The Feminine Mystique, because through it all, I was still trying to maintain my writing schedule. I'd sit down at the laptop. The phone would ring. I'd deal with whatever crisis was in the offing, then go back to the novel. Oops, time for a conference call with my current job. I'd do that, then return to the novel. Oh, no: Time to walk the dog. Every day, this. I'd fall into bed at night and complain, "I worked all day, and I got nothing accomplished." Because to me, everything but the novel is "nothing."

Until a couple of days ago. I was in the kitchen, washing a heap of vegetables. I had just finished doing a mess o' laundry. The bathroom was clean. The windows were clean. The rug was vacuumed. The apartment was momentarily dustless. I thought of my novel, still unfinished. Then I thought, soon summer will be here. There will be a temporary lull in my other work. I'll have finished all of my tasks. The novel will be there. Right now, though, I have dinner to make and socks to pair. And I was at peace. I think this was a moment of zenlike surrender.

So, for the next couple of weeks, I am going to surrender to being the best, most contented housewife I know how to be. After that, I'll go back to being a novelist. The chores and tasks will again pile up. Dust will settle. This is sure to frustrate me on its own level. I'll have to remember to be zenlike about that, too.

P.S. *Something tells me this title is going to reel in a lot of random creepy men looking for porn. Sorry, random creepy men, there's no porn in this blog. But you know where you can find a ton of it? In my first two novels. Seriously. They're nothing but hot, sexy, porny porn. Buy them both. Buy them for your creepy porn-loving friends. Buy multiple copies to stash in your various dungeons. Here's a link. Thank you and enjoy the porn! 

I ordered them online and waited excitedly, whiling away the days by posting this photo on Facebook. A couple of dozen people weighed in. "They remind me of Dittos," one said, referring to the 70s jeans that featured big bell bottoms, bright colors and a booty-loving cut. "I think I had these in the sixth grade," said another. Some people loved them, some hated them. A few kindly assured me, "You can pull them off."

Now, this is true of me. I generally can pull off the slightly outlandish ensemble. There's a freedom in being odd-looking to begin with, and I am on the tall side, both of which help. And please don't hate me, but clothing tends to fit me. (I think it's the consolation prize I got for being pale, deaf in one ear, and debilitatingly anxious, plus other even less attractive traits I'm not fool enough to point out.)

The pants finally arrived. Since so many had been asking about them, I announced

Yes, I know, the vintage clogs look awful. My Facebook fashion critics agreed. Many didn't love the top, either.

the news on Facebook. "Try them on!" people exhorted. "Post a photo!" So I did. To be honest, I was wondering about the fit. Particularly in the front. They looked funny in a way I'll only describe using the words of the great philosopher Clinton Kelly: "The little nubbin in the boat." It appears, he writes, "when a woman is wearing pants that are too tight in the thigh, too loose in the waist and too high in the rise." The only solution: Buy the pants in a bigger size and tailor them down.

Long story short: I called the store. I ordered a second pair of red pants the next size up. I waited excitedly for them to arrive. They showed up today, I tried them on. The little nubbin was still there, only this time the pants were too big. No tailor in the world could save these pants for me.

Both pairs went back this afternoon. I'm a little sad they didn't fit. But as my fashion writer friend Teri pointed out on Facebook, "Like most good dressers, you are well aware that you will be truly satisfied when you get EXACTLY what you want...."

She's right. What do you all think of these?

*Dear friends who keep asking about my third novel: This is why it is taking so long.

On Tuesday, we brought home our brand-new dog. On Thursday, I lost him.

I was taking him for a walk in my Manhattan neighborhood when another dog lunged at him. Lil Moe, a sweet, slender racehorse of a Minature Pinscher, the first dog I have owned since childhood, freaked out and jerked backward, out of his harness and leash. He bolted down the sidewalk and vanished. He had no ID tag, no collar, nothing.

A rapid-fire series of instantaneous, simultaneous emotions: Disbelief: This isn't happening. Hope: He won't go far. Shock guilt terror panic grief. Then you run. You run blocks and blocks in your hipster platform sandals after the vanished dog, knowing the dog will not turn back; he is terrified; he barely knows your voice; he's brand-new to the city and couldn't find his way home if he wanted to.

And as you sprint past, people on the sidewalk register something terrible in your face. "He ran down 86th Street!" they call. "He's running up Lex!" "There's a man trying to catch him!" You wait for the screech of brakes and a tiny, helpless, frightened creature bloodied in the street.

                                                               *

I ran and ran until I couldn't run anymore, and then staggered, out of oxygen and energy, sobbing to every stranger, "Did you see a little red dog?" A deliveryman left his truck to join the hunt. Professional dog walkers took my number and started calling other dog walkers to spread the word. A woman at a bus stop said, "I'll ask Michael. Michael can do anything." She meant Saint Michael. I am not religious, but I wanted to sob my gratitude against her kind shoulder. 

An hour later I was plastering the neighborhood with one hundred LOST DOG signs. I hung them on lamp posts, on mailboxes, at subway entrances. I walked up and down, block after block, still crying, knowing the dog was never coming back. He could have been anywhere now--killed by a taxi, cowering under a parked car, injured and hiding in Central Park. I thought about telling my family I'd lost the dog. I thought about breaking the news to the breeder, with whom I'd been communicating for two months, who had written me two hours earlier, "I am sure he is happy. Just let him know you love him." I thought, I have killed an animal.

My cell phone buzzed. Someone had texted me:

"Hello, I was the gentleman that chased your dog to Lex and 86th. I just wanted to wish you well and I am sorry I could not catch your dog. Good luck."

I called him back, crying, and thanked him for trying.

A woman stopped me as I was hanging my fiftieth or so sign. Her eyes were wide. "I just saw your dog!" she said. "A man was holding him in a towel. He was asking a doorman on the south side of 89th or 90th Street if he knew whose it was!"

After I left, she texted me:

"I'm the girl you just saw. I think it was 90th! There is a school on the south side of 89th."

Then:

"I hope you find him!"

Lil Moe had run several blocks, then curled up in a doorway. A man named Greg found him huddled there like a tiny, scared faun. He picked the dog up, carried him upstairs, and made "Found" posters. Then he walked from apartment building to apartment building, asking doormen if they knew the dog, leaving his phone number with each one. I told him, "You are the kindest person in the world."

Moe is back. He has a small ding in his fur but is otherwise unharmed. I went alone to Petco to buy him a stronger harness. Two customers helped me pick one out, and when I mentioned my dog had been lost, they said, "You mean the little red dog? We heard about him. We've been looking for him all afternoon!"

I called to thank the woman who'd led me back to Moe.

A dogwalker called to ask how I was doing. She was thrilled at the good news.

A woman spotted my Lost Dog sign and Greg's Found Dog sign a block apart. She called excitedly to tell me. When I told her the news she said, "Hug him for me!"

Another woman called this morning. She said, "I met you yesterday and was up all night worrying about your dog. Did you find him?" She said, "That makes me so happy."

Sometimes it takes a terrible incident to remember the beauty in human beings. New York can be a harsh place. People can be terrible. But if you are in trouble, any stranger will help you. We're never alone.

I made dozens of new friends yesterday--faceless strangers I'll pass on the street and won't even know.

I called the man who chased Lil Moe down 86th Street. He said, "God bless!"

This afternoon I'm going to church to light a candle for the woman who spoke with Michael.

Not gone for good, just for now.

Meanwhile, here are a few of my favorite posts:

What Not to Do, in which I stumble onto a taping of What Not to Wear and make a fool of myself.

It's Only Natural, on baring it all in the locker room.

Senior Moment, in which I realize my husband and I are 25 years older than we seem.

See you soon,

Lauren



 If you have ever edited one of my stories, and you and I are still friends, rest assured that this video is not about you.

If, however, you once edited a story of mine and we haven't spoken since...

It seems the first installment of Adventures in Freelancing struck a nerve, at least with writers. Here's the second installment. And to my friends who happen to be publicists, trust me, this is absolutely not about you. XO

I had to have a pair of leopard-print flats.

It was an odd attraction. Generally I think leopard print, unless on an actual leopard, is tawdry, the kind of smack-him-in-the-face, sexified look favored by aging drag queens, the staff of Cosmopolitan, and women who wear inch-long bedazzled acrylic nails. Also, haircalf, which is regular leather with the fur still attached, has always grossed me out. But for two years I've been looking for the right pair of flats to go with leggings and other fall wear. Leopard goes with nearly everything—even other patterns, like stripes or florals—and is ever so much more interesting than black. 

Still, I left the store without the flats. I just didn't want to spend the money.

Two weeks later, I was still obsessed. OK, I thought. I'll look for an inexpensive pair. And thus began my descent into fashion foolishness.

Too clowny...The cheapest, non-tawdry flats I could find were at Banana Republic. Ugh. They were $98, already more than I wanted to spend. But the shoes were nice and plain. As if leopard isn't tarty enough on its own, too many designers pile on the rhinestones, studs, bows, or giant logo toe medallions. (I'm talking to you, Tory Burch.)  

Unfortunately, they were hideous on. You can't tell from the photo, but the toe is really round. I looked like I was wearing clown shoes. 

too blistery...Next up were from Steve Madden. They were $130—not that much more than $98, I convinced myself. And even though the print was too loud, I was prepared to buy them, except that they hurt like a jungle cat gnawing on my feet. Feeling phantom blisters already rising, I rejected these, too.  

too clunky...The Donald J. Pliner flats were $215, not even $100 more than the $130 shoes, and therefore practically the same price. But they wouldn't do. They just weren't right. Next!  

too sloppy...The Kate Spade flats had a lot of promise and were a mere $245, which, if you think about it, is just $215 with a little triangle on top of the "1." I was sure these would be it. They were not. They, too, gouged into my feet, and for the price they didn't look that well made. Ai yi yi. How hard could it be to find one pair of leopard flats when every single manufacturer had a version of the style?

...and just plain too much.Not hard after all. I did in fact find the perfect pair of shoes, from Stuart Weitzman. They are comfortable, simple and well-made. I've already started wearing them, and it's not even really fall yet. Happy ending, right? 

Um, almost. You'll note I did not list the price. It was so outrageous that I can't bear to think about it. Suffice it to say that I had to raid my grocery budget. My family will be eating pasta and beans for weeks. And I'm feeling—not guilty, but silly and self-indulgent. Sigh. Strange things happen when people succumb to leopard-lust. Which I guess is why drag queens and the Cosmo crowd love it so much.   

Oh, and if you simply must know how much the shoes cost, click here and gasp.