By accident of birth, I am lucky enough to be spending the summer in an Arcadian home in the Hamptons. The view is gorgeous, the gardens lush, my kids can swim and go boating; it’s so perfect it’s ludicrous. So why is it that all I can do is hear the theme from the classic seventies TV show “Greenacres” in my head?

I know I’m dating myself, but I’m feeling a little Eva Gabor. I haven’t gone so far as to put on a boa or anything, but I do seem to have developed a vaguely slavic accent and a penchant for flow-y hot-pink house dresses. Plus I’ve started to say Dahling. For those of you too young to have any idea what I’m talking about, Eva Gabor and Eddie Albert starred in Green Acres, a classic seventies sitcom about a quintessential city woman who marries a farm-loving millionaire who wisks her away from New York City and makes her live in an upstate farm. Hilarity ensues.

Now, I love nature and all, but, like the Gabor sisters, I’m a city-girl at heart. As my friend, the hilarious and talented writer/performer David Rakoff said in one of his essays (and if’ I’m bungling this, sorry, David. I’m in the Y%*#$ country, and your book is in the city) – well, as he said: in New York City “you want greenery? order the spinach salad.”

Here, I can’t walk out the door without getting attacked by some giant bug that, if it stung me, would give me lips like Lisa Rinna’s. I can’t take a walk without stepping into what I will decorously refer to as scat. The relentless outdoor time has turned my hair from artfully streaked blond, to brassy rooty porn star. Yet this is my biggest pet peeve: what’s with all the noise?

Starting at around 11pm (just about when I’m getting into bed) the bullfrogs in the pond go into mating-call overdrive. It sounds like a bunch of teenage boys forcing burps in the Junior High cafeteria.

If I manage to fall asleep anyway, I get the 4AM wake-up call: the birds. And I don’t mean Cinderella type chirping. I’m talking Hitchcockian. I feel like Tippi Hedron which, let me tell you, does not really jibe with the whole Eva Gabor thing. Whole different fashion gestalt.

I know the city has its noises. But they’re MY noises. Gimme a couple a sirens and a few bums shouting obscenities over a bull-frog looking for love any day.

I’d come up with more — but the cicadas and crickets are so loud I can barely hear myself think! Thank God I’m spending a night in little-old peaceful NYC this week. Lord knows I need the beauty rest.