2:57 p.m. . . .
But wait. Blahniks or Botox?
3:00 p.m. . . .
Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the wrinkliest one of all? Not me. I’ve got a date with the derm.
3:05 p.m. . . .
And now I don’t. Fabulous shoes on my feet, or no crow’s-feet? I can’t decide, and frankly, with nary a bite on my listings, I don’t deserve either. And to think I used to call myself a marketing director.
3:10 p.m. . . .
Surprisingly, the prospect of utter failure does not impair my ability to drive. So it’s off to retrieve future Fenderowning fourth grader.
4:00 p.m. . . .
Pull ginormous, I Can’t Believe It’s Not Burned! ham from oven. Set on counter to cool.
4:02 p.m. . . .
Suggest both sons share kitchen table to do homework.
4:03 p.m. . . .
Neosporin and Band-Aids for everybody! Please tell me No. 2 pencils no longer have real lead in them.
4:27 p.m. . . .
Take Casey for crew cut. Stupidly attempt conversation with sweet, foreign barber. Result? Son’s marine-style cut makes stops at mullet and mohawk before arriving at boot camp.
5:00 p.m. . . .
Soothe infuriated, follicle-free teen with milk shake from McDonald’s. Pull up to order board and request milk shake. Pull up to payment window and pay for milk shake. Pull up to pickup window and pick up . . . speed.
5:05 p.m. . . .
Return to McDonald’s. Retrieve forgotten McFlurry.
5:30 p.m. . . .
Head coach (aka Hemingway) and star player (aka Cuyler) off to football practice. Casey Guitar Hero–ing above my head. Ham hanging tough.
6:00 p.m. . . .
Still no prospective tenants. Why aren’t the pictures I posted helping? Hmmm. Maybe it’s because I forgot to take them. Oh, my God.
6:02 p.m. . . .
Pound head on desk. Wonder if it’s too late to offer to band bulls.
6:45 p.m. . . .
Set table. Spy whopping huge check from Dad taunting me from side pocket of pocketbook.
6:47 p.m. . . .
Pour wine and wonder: Take ten years off my face, or face life without the latest Italian footwear?
7:15 p.m. . . .
Chow down on tasty (despite midbake bath) ham and a side of microwaved meat loaf. Make the mistake of mentioning massive birthday gift to “God, I got up too early” husband and Fender-frenzied son, both of whom look at each other like, “Deposit!” Consider suicide as Casey rolls his eyes and mouths, Dumb blonde, in my direction.
9:23 p.m. . . .
Watch future rock star sleep. In ten years, he can foot the bill for my footwear and my face. The Ativan’s on me. Unless, of course, I still haven’t found renters. Then I think we’re talking Betty Ford.
Chapter Four
WHEN IT RAINS, IT PAWS
All those novenas Dame Joan’s28 been making are paying off: I’ve found renters for two of the three houses. Whew! Hemingway’s happy, too, or at least he was until I decided to celebrate my first farm success by getting a puppy. Specifically a six-week-old golden retriever puppy.
Everyone warned me it would be like having a newborn in the house, but did I listen? Do I ever? The dog is up with me at my preferred rising time of “really too early to confess to right now” and, instead of exercising, or writing, or sleeping like a normal person, I’m engaged in a tug-of-war with Tug, as we’ve so aptly named him.
The four-legged, blond ankle biter is bent on consuming chair cushions, table legs, wicker garbage pails, and carpet corners, which, honestly, I’d be fine with if he’d just leave his jaws off the jumble of wires beneath my desk. He’s got two hundred dollars’ worth of doggy toys, but he prefers the power cord, the wire for the printer, and my cell phone charger. When he blows a fuse, I’m going to go ballistic. You know how I hate a blackout that’s not chardonnay induced.
Tug is mine. And Cuyler’s . . .29 But guess who spends the lion’s share of the day washing and rewashing the frenetic fluff ball after every foray through our ponds and streams? That would be me wielding the Fresh ’n Clean tear-free puppy shampoo, Perfect Coat pet spray,30 and more towels than the U.S. Olympic swim team uses in an entire season. I’m getting a little tired of the bath business, so I’ve been thinking of teaching him to shower. He already drinks from the toilet bowl, so how hard can it be?
Of course, if I could just get him to use the toilet or even the grass, I’d happily spend the rest of my life hosing him down. Why? Because bathing him five or ten times a day would sure beat chasing the Master Defecator from room to room in rubber gloves and a state of near hysteria:
No! No! Not the living room rug!
What is that on your brand-new dog bed?
We do not defecate in seventy-five-dollar football cleats!
But didn’t I just let you in?
At this point we’re out of Bounty, club soda, and Clo-rox wipes. Not to mention butter knives. I used every last one picking poop out of the sea-grass rug.
What we’re not out of is dog food. Sure, Grundy and Pete eat it. (Hell, Grundy and Pete will eat whatever I put in front of them.) But Tug is a pup of a different palate.
Right this second he’s in the backyard feasting on a calf’s head he found.31 And my thoughtful farmer? He’s photographing the whole thing to make sure I see the “meal replacement” my purebred prefers to the pricey stuff I purchase.
Guess I should be happy the Master Defecator doesn’t bring a hunk in the house.
Of course, this may be Tug’s way of telling me that the bones and raw food diet is indeed what he likes best. This “natural” approach is also known as BARF,32 which is interesting, as that’s typically my sons’ response to almost everything I set before them. Who knew they had so much in common with a canine?
Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. Doesn’t matter. My boys gag and retch, roll their eyes and clutch their throats. And then, if it’s a regular night and not one on which watching something on television rests on their actually swallowing something I’ve made, they sidle up to the garbage pail and spit.33
Tug, of course, is having no such response to his entrée. He’s chowing down and enjoying it just fine.
Which makes me wonder: If the meals I fix make my honeys hurl, maybe they should simply have dinner with the dog. I’m unsure he’ll share his calf’s head, but I spied a plump hind portion he might be convinced to part with.34
But back to the glaring fact that my first official farm task is unfinished.
I still have one tenant house available.
It’s the most romantic little cottage, tucked out by the old grain silo, just before the woods. The views from the quaint front porch, with its sweet swing and steps that beg for flowerpots, cross-legged copper frogs, and signs that say things like, I LOVE IT WHEN YOU TALK DIRT TO ME, and
HENS, GO HOME,35 are spectacular. The prettiest on the property.
It’s got two snug-as-a-bug bedrooms, one bath, a bitesize eat-in kitchen, a sunny entry foyer, and a petite but bright living room. I absolutely love the place. And that’s the problem. I don’t really want to rent it. I want it for me. To work in. Think uninterrupted thoughts in. And sometimes—dare I say it? Hide in. Virginia Woolf was right: A woman needs a room of her own. And if I could finagle a whole house? I think she’d be pretty damn proud.
Yeah. Like that’s gonna happen.
We need the income, and honestly? I’m just too type A to quit before something’s a hundred percent t’s-crossed, i’s-dotted done.
On top of that, there’s the fact that I put the cart before the horse and bought myself a congratulatory gift. A gift that’s suddenly finished with its calf’s head and running for my sea-grass rug.
Anybody got a butter knife?
Chapter Five
DRESSED TO KILL
I’ve worn shoes that pinch, bras that bruise, and sweaters that suffocate. I’ve worn khakis that camel-toe, suits
that scratch, and ball gowns that guaranteed I’d spend all night sipping Beano.36 But never in my forty-something years of suffering for beauty has an article of clothing actually attempted to take my life.
Until last week.
That’s right. Around eleven o’clock Wednesday morning, my cousin Lisa’s one hundred percent silk, one hundred percent sexy Rag & Bone dress tried to kill me.
Now, I can see a tube top trying to take me out, particularly since I’m over the age of twelve and probably shouldn’t even be in the same time zone with that junior fashion staple, but a sleeveless, V-neck sheath? Shocking.
At the time of the attempt I was staying at Lisa’s and enjoying a brief break from wrangling cattle, kids, and Tug, whose new trick is coming home so covered in manure and flies that he looks like a light brown cow.37 As befits her Sex and the City, take-no-prisoners, single, successful, professional-woman persona, Lisa lives in a glorious, glass-walled, three-story town house in Edgewater, New Jersey. Of course, her home overlooks the Hudson, and the views of the New York City skyline from each floor of her totally “I read Vogue” abode are spectacular. But the best thing about the place, other than the fact that there are four wall-to-wall, double-shelved, multimirrored closets, and the fact that those très big repositories are bursting with all manner of fashion fabulousness, is that Lisa and I? Wear the Exact Same Size.
Okay, that’s a lie. The really, truly, absolutely beautiful best thing about Lisa’s is that Nate’s Place? Is Six Hours South.
This means there are no ornery billy goats trying to barrel their way through the front door, no dogs dropping germ-infested, still slightly fur-covered cow, deer, or fox bones at my feet,38 and no mice living large among my soup ladles, spatulas, and other assorted utensils (which I almost never use to cook with, but that doesn’t give them the right to commandeer them, does it?).
I know you think I’m exaggerating about our lively livestock and three dog-obedience-school dropouts, but I’m not. The cows frequently make a break for the farm next to ours, necessitating full-scale search-and-recover missions followed by hours of manicure-busting fence board repairs. The hens, still traumatized by the Great Banty Bloodbath, won’t lay eggs in the coop and instead prefer one particular window box on my front porch, which they flock to like a fertility clinic for fowl. And the goats? They do their damnedest to get into the house at least every other day. In fact, the morning I left for Lisa’s, Duke, one of our two Boer wether billies, tried to accompany Pete, Tug, and Grundy when they came in from their morning constitutionals.
For a full fifteen minutes, while I gathered my iPod and a couple of bottles of water, threw in another load of laundry, and brought toilet paper up from the basement,39 the stubborn beast beat his head against the front door. Why did he want in? Hell if I know. Maybe he’d gotten wind of my reputation as the world’s worst housewife and figured I wouldn’t notice if he ditched the goat crib for my crib. But this, my dears, is why they call them dumb animals. While it’s true I’m no Hazel, and ages ago a local cleaning service deemed my domicile too tough to tackle,40 that doesn’t mean I’m good with livestock in the living room. Or kitchen. Or anywhere other than the great outdoors.
Anyway, I certainly didn’t let him in, and to say it really got Duke’s goat when I stopped him is an understatement.
What’s not an understatement is that shopping my cousin’s designer clothes–filled closets makes me happier than a pig in shit.41
Lisa leaves for work, and I employ myself by rummaging through her things, trying stuff on, and calling her with every find. “Do you have plans for the naughty black-and-white BCBG Max Azria necklace dress or can I borrow it? And how ’bout the bodice-hugging floral from Blumarine? Can I take that, too? Great, thanks. Now tell me about the Michael Kors merino sweaterdress. Black boots with that, or chocolate?”
Heaven.
But back to nearly being bumped off by that racy Rag & Bone.
See, I’ve developed a habit of bringing nothing when I visit my cousin. Except for my toothbrush and some underwear,42 I don’t even pack. I simply strolled in, gave Lis a hug, and headed for the closets. I spied the hot ’n’ homicidal Rag & Bone beauty sometime after my arrival late Sunday and thought, Hmmm, that would be perfect for Wednesday night. I’d better try that on.
But I didn’t. I simply stepped out of the shower and attempted to slip into it while I was still damp. Okay, maybe I was a little more than damp. Maybe I was closer to dripping. Okay, let’s be safe and say I was soaking. There, I said it. I was soaking.
And, of course, it got stuck.
I had my head and right arm in, when suddenly the fabric shellacked itself across my shoulders. I couldn’t shake it loose or pull it down and yet I tried, like a lunatic, to put my left arm in. It snagged around my wrist and there I stood: naked, wet, and wondering whether Lisa would have to leave work to cut me out, or if I’d have to really humiliate myself and call 911.
Hello, Officer. What’s that? The nature of my emergency? That I’m au naturel? Yes, see, I was duking it out with a dress and it got stuck and now my privates are public, which is where the whole au naturel thing comes in, of course, and, well, do you think you could just send, say, a few of your female associates and a pair of scissors to assist me?
Worse yet, the V-neck was wrapped twice around my neck. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, and couldn’t imagine what people would say if I showed up with all my girly goodies hanging out.43
It took about fifteen frantic minutes of yanking, pulling, and praying I’d suffocate before I froze to death, but finally I wrestled the dress off and hung it up. Then I dried myself practically to the point of chafing and slipped that baby right on. It fit, it looked good, and I wore it that night.
Then I stepped out of the restaurant and into a downpour. Trust me when I tell you, that sucker’s no fun to sleep in.
Suzy’s Pig-Buying Primer
Remember the Mother Goose nursery rhyme, “To market, to market, to buy a fat pig. Home again, home again, jiggety-jig”? It was always one of my favorites, though I think Mama G really copped out on the closing. I mean, “jiggety-jig”? How’s about “Home again, home again, to roast it with figs”? Of course, I don’t intend to roast or fry or bake or in any way cook and consume my hogs (because, believe me, sooner or later Hem will tire of my begging and I’ll get those haute Hampshires). No, my plan is to treat them like pets. Two-hundred-and-fifty-pound pets that can do double duty as flypaper, but pets nonetheless.
If you’ve got it in your head that you’ve got to have hogs, here are some tidbits to help you get started:
Determine whether you really have space for swine. I know how tempting it can be to say, “I simply must have that adorable Duroc!” and just assume the boar can bunk in with your kids. But real swine need a real pigpen, something with a roof and walls to protect them in bad weather, and a decent amount of ground to root around in, get muddy, and, as I’ve already mentioned, take a poop and a chill in. If you place the pen near the vegetable garden, you can toss them discards. And if you build it a bit bigger than usual, the little piggies you gave birth to can have pajama parties with the ones you bought.
Learn the lingo. The pursuit of the porcine has a language all its own. And unfortunately, it’s not pig latin, so eventually I’ll have to learn it. For now, here are the basics. A boar is an intact male, and a barrow is a male tweaked to sing soprano in the Vienna Boars Choir. A gilt is a female that’s yet to have piglets, and a sow is a mama hog that’s had at least one litter. Armed with this impressive volume of knowledge, it’s time to...
Pick your breed of pig. Will it be Berkshire, Black Poland, Yorkshire, or Chester White, and why? I love the Black Poland because its white feet remind me of the cowboy boots I wore as a gun twirler on my high school color guard (boots that were, I’m relatively certain, a direct descendant of Nancy Sinatra’s). Of course, there are more practical reasons to select a particular breed of pig. For instance, if you’d lik
e lots of litters, spotteds are reputed to make good moms. And if you’re the low-key type, the Landrace has a docile temperament (and really cute, droopy ears). The best way to choose is to get online and do some research, and pay a visit to a pig farm or livestock barn. Getting a copy of Storey’s Guide to Raising Pigs is also a good way to go.
Sow, what’s in a name? There are no hard-andfast rules to picking pig names. Babe’s nice, and Wilbur works. But both are a bit overused. To help you get creative and think outside the hog pen, try this trick. Pretend you’re an A-list celebrity about to have a baby or adopt a child from some country the rest of us didn’t even know existed, like the People’s Republic of Crest. (National motto: Gingivitis Can Bite Us.) Then open a book or a newspaper, close your eyes, and—quickly, now, speed is of the essence—point to a word on the page. See? Taxi is a perfectly good name for a pig. And Lunar is lovely, too.
Please pass on these pigs. I’m not talking about the ones sporting manicures or pinky rings, or reeking of cologne, or unable to talk about anything but their golf game, what they earn, how much property they own, or how frequently women tell them they should be a porn star (wink, wink). I’m sure you already know enough to 1) not let these pigs engage you in conversation, and 2) hit them with your car. I’m talking about the pigs you’re considering purchasing. A head that looks too big for the animal’s body could mean the hog’s “over the hill,” swollen feet might mean arthritis, and a lackluster hair coat can indicate stress. (Yes, pigs suffer stress; they’re afraid one of the aforementioned assholes will buy them.) In any case, if you see any of these signs, please skip that swine.
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