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Nancy, our protagonist, is a fiftyish, empty-nested, suburban housewife who dearly loved being a professional mom. Now, however, since her three children obstinately refused to evade adulthood, she’s become a rudderless, quasi-agoraphobic malcontent. She’s always wanted to be a writer, but inspiration continues to elude her. Until one fine day, she hits upon the bare bones of an idea she thinks she may be able to flesh out into a novel. And from her first few pages, she finds her story is practically writing itself.
This surprise bouquet of serendipity at last liberates Nancy from her dungeon of self-pity. But freedom, alas, proves to be fleeting. In the early stages of her writing, she happens to watch a TV movie whose leading man she instantly categorizes as a hands-down Ten. And with the stealth of a cat burglar, her imagination, with no input at all from her decision-making process, casts the actor, one James Powell, as the hero of her burgeoning novel. Which would seem to be merely a harmless little ripple in the calm waters of her mind. Ah, but in short order, the ripple morphs into a tsunami, and Nancy’s entire consciousness is taken hostage by a questionably-sane obsession with the gorgeous Mr. Powell. The poor woman can barely think of anything but her “Jamie,” as she’s rechristened him. As she confides to her best friend, “If I pour a cup of coffee, I’ll wonder what he puts in his. If I’m broiling a steak, I’m curious about how he likes his cooked.”
Just as her book is nearing completion, Nancy learns that Jamie is about to relocate to New York to star on Broadway. And ironically, he soon takes up residence in the very neighborhood in which she grew up. Deciding it must be kismet, she begins to spend her afternoons sallying forth on a crusade in which her longing for “Jamie Sightings” acquires the dogged persistence of discovering the Holy Grail. She remains undeterred by the small factoid that she’s been happily married for nearly thirty years. But why should she feel any guilt? Her incessant preoccupation with Jamie includes virtually no undercurrent of a lascivious nature. (She may be crazy, but she’s not delusional. He is, after all, barely thirty.) She only wishes she could somehow, well, just meet and get to know him. I’ll only reveal that, because her novel, miraculously, becomes a runaway bestseller, she ultimately does get the opportunity to do just that.
There’s an abundance of additional twists, turns, and significant characters that tie the story together, but I’ve given you the crux of it. “C.O.W.” is highly entertaining because, first of all, the story revolves around such an absurd premise. And the recounting of the still more absurd lengths Nancy goes to in the course of her Jamie Search is filled to the brim with grins, giggles, guffaws, (and any other alliterative synonym you can think of.) This is a novel about an aging former hot babe written by a similar woman who’s now charitably described as a “senior citizen.” And I promise you, it’s really pretty damn funny. Would a sweet old grandma lie to you?