Thursday, July 2, 2015

Goat First

[Today we have another guest writer: Bella, aka child #2--age 17.  She has gone from goat exhibitor extraordinaire to ... picture of preppy.]
In the cutthroat environment of a New England prep school, being a goat farmer isn’t exactly the way to the top of the social food chain. Committing to an Ivy for hockey helps, throwing big parties on the Upper East Side doesn’t hurt, having golden blonde hair and a bulimia-esque physique might get you there… but goat farming? Probably not. So how does one turn this potential deficit into an asset? The key is timing- and whatever you do, DO NOT GO IN GOAT FIRST.

1. First, when you introduce yourself, emphasize the conventionally WASPy aspects of your identity. Be sure to wear pearls and ridiculously bright sundresses. Talk about your new horse and upcoming lacrosse game.

Girls’ lacrosse- running around in skirts on 

a $1M turf field is harder than it looks.
Lilly Pulitzer sundress:
practically the springtime
uniform at boarding school.

        2. When you are certain that you’ve been accepted as “one of them,” you can begin to test the water. Ask your new friends about their pets back home- usually a golden retriever or Labrador whose sole purpose is to lie in a dog bed and come when called. Occasionally someone’s family might have a cat or even a turtle instead (horses do not count as pets; they’re closer to skis or racing shells or ice skates). 
        A prep school crew on the water.

        This is a pet...
        These are a couple of glorified pieces of
        sports equipment.

        3.     Announce with an air of confidence and a straight face that you have thirty goats at your house, and that, no, they are not for milk and, no, they are not for meat. Sometimes people will think you’re joking, so it helps to have a few photos on hand as proof.

        And, voila, all of a sudden you’re more interesting than the rest of the Lilly Pulitzer-clad, field hockey playing, boat-rowing kids at boarding school.  Be prepared to be called a hick for a while, but at least you’re a classy hick.

         Some evidence to prove that you aren’t joking.

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