Confessions of a Counterfeit Farm Girl

by Susan McCorkindale

  No such luck.

  I guess it was too much to expect that Casey would be excited to see the farm, especially since he was emotionally and physically exhausted from the drive down.

  After making about two hundred trips in and out of our old house to pack the Durango (my car) and the Mustang (Hemingway’s car), and waving good-bye to the massive moving truck containing all our worldly possessions, we got on the road sometime around nine fifteen. Hemingway had Cuyler, Inky the cat, and Jerry, the small hamster with the big stink. I had Casey, my coffee, a box of Kleenex, everything we could possibly need for our “few” days at Oakfield, and hunger pangs. What can I say? When I’m happy, I eat. When I’m miserable, I eat more. And since I hate to eat alone, I forced my eldest to join me.

  Between the two of us we scarfed down four bagels, a package of Twinkies, twelve chicken strips, innumerable French fries, one large vanilla milkshake, two jumbo-size Three Musketeers bars, and a six-pack of Poland Spring water. And, just in case my driving buddy didn’t find consuming all that junk food distracting enough, I challenged him to a rousing game of “spot the religious billboard,” which, despite his matricidal state, he won quite handily.

  Over the course of the trip, Casey caught all four GOT GOD? signs, spied several spiritually themed satellite dishes, including one Impressionist-style rendering of the Three Wise Men I totally missed the first time, and two obviously new placards that implored travelers to JUMP FOR JESUS! Six hours, four bathroom stops, and two big bellyaches later, we arrived at Oakfield.

  As for the reason we’re still here, well, it’s very simple. Nate’s Place isn’t ready. Which of course I knew it wouldn’t be. I love my husband, but he thinks everything takes fifteen minutes. “We’ll close, hire a contractor, and boom, it’ll be done.” Might as well call in the mice that made Cinderella’s dress, dear, because you are living in fantasy land. Sure, the closing occurred in October, but we didn’t find a contractor until sometime in November, and they didn’t start ripping out the kitchen until late December. So the fact that it’s February and Nate’s Place is basically uninhabitable really isn’t a surprise.

  What is a surprise is that I suddenly don’t hear my sons. In my own house this would make me happy. But here at Oakfield it gives me hives. Last time they were this quiet I discovered Casey caressing the plasma screen TV in the den with his Rastafarian-length fingernails—why that boy won’t use a nail clipper I’ll never know—and Cuyler playing aquarium with his Aunt Nancy’s $5,500 Herend dolphins. An improvement, I guess, over the day I found them playing hide-and-seek behind the custom Scalamandre drapes in the dining room, but not by much.

  We need to get into our house before we wind up in the poorhouse. Because replacing whatever it is they just broke (the crashing sound followed by shouting, tears, and recriminations is a pretty good indication it’s something pricey) is probably going to put us there.

  Suzy’s Oh-So-Brief Book of Estate Etiquette

  The rich really are different, and they don’t like that fact pointed out to them. So if you want to hang with the Cartier crowd, bite your tongue when the following bon mots threaten to tumble out.

  Mind if I help myself to one of your dog’s Fiji waters?

  There are more pet beds in this place than we have people beds.

  Are those Kohler fixtures in Secretariat’s stall?

  Six sinks and two dishwashers. You people must eat like pigs.

  I think I went to college with your cleaning lady.

  Did you get your flat-screen TV at Wal-Mart, too?

  I’ve never seen so much cashmere in one closet.

  Beige is a brave choice for a kid’s bedroom rug.

  You know, those Waterford Lismore goblets look just like Mikasa.

  The only antique in my house is my mother-in-law.

  That’s a Stark carpet? Looks pretty luxurious to me.

  Funny, I thought Oneida made French fries.

  We’ve got a La-Z-Boy recliner that looks a lot like your Ralph Lauren.

  Hey, we picked up that Picasso print, too! Posters.com, right?

  Chapter Five

  A TALE OF TWO TURTLENECKS

  Living at Oakfield has not only been giving my sons a serious case of the DTs (as in “Don’t touch!”), it also has me questioning my hip, New York-honed sense of style. Why? Because the dress code here in affluent horse country means the women wear one turtleneck on top of another.

  Since I can’t wear a single turtleneck without turning into a pool of perspiration before I even step out of my bedroom, the thought of wearing two starts me shvitzing23 from my scalp to the soles of my feet.

  From what I’ve seen among the social elite in my sister-in-law’s circle, the first layer is always a crisp white cotton number. And the second one, the “show” turtleneck, is always something fabulous, like a periwinkle blue, apple green, or pale pink cashmere sweater.

  Now this is a lovely look if you don’t break into a sweat with every breath, as some of us older folk have begun to do, or if you don’t mind being choked to death all day. Unfortunately I do, and I do. So while the style is rich and sophisticated, this is one time I’m glad to be poor and trashy (by comparison, of course).

  I’ve noticed a few other questionable fashion favorites, as well. Like bright pink corduroys embroidered with lime-colored poodles, worn with a pair of four-hundred-dollar emerald green Gucci slides (with pink and green socks, I swear), and a navy blue cashmere crewneck. The whole ensemble probably set the woman wearing it back a thousand bucks. Money I would’ve suggested she spend on glasses, a personal shopper, and some fashion magazines, but that’s just me.

  Speaking of fashion magazines, it’s as if no one around here reads them. Or even knows they exist, for that matter. I can find no other reason for the millions of women wearing too-tight khakis or, worse yet, “mom jeans”24 paired with ballet flats, and accented with custom-made belts emblazoned with photos of their favorite horses and hounds.25

  The other thing I’ve noticed is that the women around here like to wear riding pants. You know, the skintight, Lycra-like jobs that look a whole lot better on stick-figured eleven-year-olds and women with bodies like Angelina Jolie than on most adult females. My mantra is, “If you’re not willowy, you shouldn’t be wearing ’em!” Apparently, though, I’m the only one of that opinion, as everywhere I look women of all shapes and sizes are parading around Middleburg26 in riding pants so snug they appear ready to pop off and blind anyone walking behind them. I’m also of the opinion that going blind would be a blessing if that happened.

  Needless to say, in my low-rise, boot-cut jeans, spike-heeled black boots, and endless, straight-from-working-in-New York City selection of sweaters, tees, and tops also in basic black, I stick out like a sore thumb. And you know how I hate to stick out.27 I like to fit in, be part of the crowd, just another one of the girls. You know where this is going, right? No, I didn’t try to squeeze my ample Italian ass into a pair of riding pants. But I did, however, attempt to wear two turtlenecks.

  Yes, I, the Sultana of Sweat, the Princess of Perspiration, and my husband’s favorite, the Mistress of the Instantaneous Migraine, got it into my obviously empty head that I should try to step it up style-wise and go for all the Town & Country class I could muster. This in turn led to the Great White Turtleneck Search—as I only possess two items of white clothing, both of which are sweat socks28—which led to a trip to the Fun Shop.

  Now, the Fun Shop is a small boutique bursting with all manner of lamps, picture frames, plates, placemats, throw pillows, martini glasses, coasters, wall calendars, wine carafes, funny cocktail napkins, clocks, kids’ books, toys, hand towels, tablecloths, magnets, mints, soaps, bath salts, body lotions, paintings, plaques, planters, teapots, and of course women’s turtlenecks.

  Of course.

  You wouldn’t know this unless you shopped there with a local, so I dragged my sister-in-law along after confessing my desire to take a stab at this fashion feat. (Me: �
�What do you think if I try the two-turtleneck trick?” Nancy: “You? You can barely wear a bra beneath a T-shirt.” Me: “You know what they say. When in Rome . . . ” Nancy: “Yeah, wear riding pants.” She paused. “OK, I’ll help you with the turtleneck. But remember, we don’t do jodhpurs.”)

  Half an hour later I was the proud owner of a bright white PB&J brand turtleneck, and a jumbo-size bottle of Excedrin, which we got at the Safeway across the street.

  Ahh. I wasn’t just going to have a headache. I was going to have an aneurysm. Time to confirm we’re still covered by Blue Cross.

  Matters of health insurance handled, I proceed to wear my new PB&Jer topped by a luscious chocolate brown cashmere turtleneck Nancy gave me for my birthday. And in no time I’m in a full-on, hair-frizzing, makeup-melting, body-soaking shvitz the likes of which you’d expect to experience if you lived someplace really warm. Like the sun.

  To make matters worse, if indeed there is anything worse than being able to quench your thirst by sucking on your sweater, I also began to choke from the garments’ vice-like grip around my throat. No matter how I pulled and tugged and yanked and stretched the necks of both those shirts, they simply snapped right back—just like the Playtex 18-hour girdle my grandma used to wear. The one that forced her spleen to the top of her spine.

  I was about to black out into my breakfast when it came to me like a mild stroke that it didn’t matter if I ever achieved Town & Country- or even Southern Accents-style sophistication. What matters is that I’m me. Blond, blue- jeaned, and black-topped, and able to give dead-on directions to the Stone Pony in Asbury Park while smashed on mojitos at the height of a hurricane.

  What was I thinking wearing two turtlenecks so tight my skull was about to explode? And besides, if I want my head to pop off, I simply need to squeeze into a pair of riding pants. One glimpse at my butt in those babies and I’m certain to need a neurologist. Or at least two Excedrin.

  Good thing I bought the big bottle.

  Saturday Night’s Alright for Sweatpants

  My sweet, beautiful sister-in-law Nancy lives the life of my dreams.

  Last weekend she and Doug were out at a white-tie dinner with the President. And Dick Cheney. And Condi Rice. And the guys who made JibJab. (Just kidding.)

  To be honest, what got my attention was not whom she was out with, but the fact that she was out. On a Saturday night. Dressed like an adult in a dress, heels, hair, and makeup. And where was I? Curled up on the couch at Oakfield, in a pair of hot pink sweatpants bedecked with red cherries and hearts and the words SPLASH OF LOVE splashed across them everywhere. She’s resplendent in Ralph Lauren, and I looked like a mental patient dressed for a party (at which the guest of honor was the ever lizardlike Joaquin Phoenix in Ladder 49, and the menu consisted of Klondike bars and beer).

  Now, I’m not making fun of mental patients. They deserve to go to parties. But so do I.

  Maybe if I encourage the kids to finish driving me mad, Hemingway will institutionalize me. Then I can enjoy some really red-hot Saturday nights at the asylum.

  After all, I already have the outfit for it.

  Chapter Six

  COCKTAILS WITH CARMELA

  My indoctrination into the lifestyles of the rich and rural continues to leave me feeling like I never should’ve left the Tri-State Target Zone. So what, I could be killed by terrorists? At least I’d die surrounded by friends, wearing a miniskirt, midcalf boots, and just one turtleneck, thank you very much. Up North I fit in. I could make cocktail conversation. And nobody cared that I sound like Carmela Soprano.

  To be fair, folks in this neck of the woods don’t make that big a deal of my regionalism. They simply hear me speak, slap their hands over their mouths (as if to prevent catching what’s obviously a communicable communication disease), and burst out laughing. Once they get their breath, they usually say something sweetly Southern like, “My, but you do sound like that Mrs. Soprano, don’t you!”

  Yes, I do, and to my way of thinking it’s a whole lot better than sounding like a six-year-old sucking on a helium balloon.

  But moving on to my inability to make cocktail conversation.

  Talking to total strangers is my forte, and I can land a new “best” friend in just under two martinis. But when the topic’s drinking and deer hunting, like it was at a party Hemingway and I attended last weekend,29 I have a tough time doing anything other than looking aghast.

  “You need to absolutely, positively, outfit both your boys in bright orange parkas and ski pants during hunting season.” This from a wiry-haired, makeup-free mom with a rock as big as one of my butt cheeks on her manicure-less left hand.

  “Red’s good too,” added a short, hippy woman in a crushed velvet Juicy Couture tracksuit that had clearly never been paired with anything this side of a running shoe.

  “Our kids wear yellow. Every year, yellow,” yawned an exhausted-looking pregnant woman whose four Hanna Andersson-clad horrors were alternately crawling beneath the table and trying to decapitate the dog. “With black snow boots, so they look like bees,” she concluded sleepily. “My husband keeps bees.” If he also keeps birds, all bets are off.

  “Let me see if I’ve got this straight,” I interjected, covering my mouth a bit in a halfhearted attempt to soften the honking nasal sound Mrs. Soprano and I seem to share. “We grant permission to people to hunt on our land and we have to outfit our kids in a particular manner to keep them from being mistaken for deer by some overserved marksman and shot?”

  Lots of nods, serious looks, and nods. No one speaks, though. It’s as if they’ve been beaten mute by my New Jersey-by-way-of-Brooklyn timbre and need time to recover. For a split second I stand there, not so much speechless as terrified of speaking and bursting blood vessels in the brains of my fellow party guests. Finally I err on the side of shutting the hell up (not something I’m good at, but I’m getting there), and sneak off in search of Hemingway.

  “Unbelievable,” I whispered when I found him at the bar, nursing some kind of fancy British lager (a tough break for a Budweiser guy). “We moved here to get away from the madness of Manhattan, only to risk getting popped on our own property. What do you think of my forming my own MADD spin-off called Mothers Against Drunk Deer-hunters? You think any of those babes in there’ll be board members?”

  “Don’t count on it, Carmela.”

  The death-by-deer-hunting diatribe was surpassed only by one woman’s dissertation on the area’s best private schools. There are several, and almost everyone we meet wants to know which institution of exorbitantly overpriced education our kids attend. You should see their faces when we state, proudly, that both Casey and Cuyler go to public school. They look at us like we’re religious zealots denying our kids measles, mumps, and rubella vaccines, not to mention Internet access, video games, and the chance to spend every waking moment wearing khakis, but of course that’s not what they say.

  “You can get a very solid education in public school,” said the wiry-haired mom with the diamond I’d willingly die for.

  “My oldest, Robert, spent a full year at one before he went back to boarding school in Switzerland, and it didn’t hurt him a bit,” said the Juicy Couture chick.

  “My husband went to public school,” Preggers yawned.

  Hmm. Private school may have some merit.

  Of course the funniest conversation I had that day began with this simple query: “Do your kids ride?” To which I can only reply, How did I not know she meant horses?

  Maybe I’d had too much wine. Maybe I was dumbfounded by the discovery that the sticks might be no safer than the suburbs. Maybe I was simply exhausted from trying to master a flat Midwestern accent on the fly. But when Juicy Couture asked, “Do your kids ride?” the only thought that came to mind is the one that came out of my mouth: “No. I make them take taxis. The subway’s just too unsafe.”

  I guess if Juicy had been wearing jodhpurs I might have realized what she was referring to. But she wasn’t, and I didn
’t, and the whole thing went from the sublime to the seriously insipid really quickly.

  “I meant horses.”

  “Oh, sorry. Of course you did. I’m so used to riding the subway,” I replied, my fingers making those stupid air quotation marks around the word riding. “But to answer your question, no, they don’t. Yours?”

  “Yes. My girls study at Miss Patty’s over in The Plains. Lots of boys train there, too. You might look into it for Casey and Cuyler.”

  “Maybe I will,” I said, smiling hard and hoping my brilliant pearly whites made up for my sounding like a moll. “We’re football people, though, you know?” I continued, “Tackle in the fall, flag in the spring, speed camps in the summer.” I paused, waiting for her to say her son plays, too, or her husband’s a diehard ’Skins fan, or something. Playing football, watching football, bitching about the Giants; that’s all common conversation up North. So I’m figuring it’ll work its magic and in just under a case of merlot (not my usual two-martini triumph, but I’ll take it), I’ll have made one of those best friends I was bragging about earlier. But no. She simply stared at me, her face a combination of disbelief and condescension. So I stammered on. “Stu30 coaches, the boys play, and I’m in charge of ice packs.”

  “Isn’t that dangerous?”

  “Ice packs?”

  “No, football,” she practically spat, as if I used lead paint like mayonnaise in my kids’ lunches. “So many players get paralyzed!”