I feel like James Earl Jones in one of those old Yellow Pages commercials: I’ve got choices! In fact, I’ve hit the trifecta of B. Days: three barely wearable bathing suits is a windfall.
For a moment I consider keeping the discards, as well: the midnight blue cover-up that makes me look like a monk, the white crocheted bikini that bears a striking resemblance to the backs of my thighs, the chocolate brown tankini that brings out my age spots, the paisley-print one-piece that oh, so subtly accentuates my aircraft-carrier width, even the coral pink pin-dot halter and matching boy shorts that delicately play up the birthmarks on my décolleté and derriere. Maybe someday they’ll look good. You know, about the same time some big pharmaceutical company makes Paris Hilton’s hips available by prescription.
In the interim, I’ve at least found a few suits. I may not really like how they look, but it doesn’t matter. They’ll probably never see the light of day. Unless, of course, it’s a snow day.
Chapter Twenty
HISTO-WHO?
I have a confession to make: I’m really unclear as to our address. I know that sounds ridiculous; even kindergarteners know their address. But back in Ridgewood we had one address. Here we have two. And each has a different zip code. We have a P.O. box because, according to Hemingway, real farmers go get their bills at the post office in order to shoot the breeze with the boys, and we also have a street address. I know this because it’s glued to the fence adjacent to our walkway. What I don’t know is which one to use and when. You’d think someone might have clarified this for me before my budding farmer had a heart attack, but no. I was clueless when I called 911.
Emergency operator: “Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”
Maybe it was the sudden realization that by calling for help I was admitting Hemingway might truly be in trouble, or perhaps I thought the police who’d accompany the ambulance would discover that I mix department store and supermarket cosmetics and haul me in on a makeup misdemeanor, but suddenly I began speaking with the speed of someone on, well, speed.
“Oh, hello! You really do answer on the first ring, don’t you? OK. Well, then. My name is Susan McCorkindale and my address is one-ninety-three Franklin Road in Ridgewood and . . .”
Emergency operator: “Ma’am . . .”
Me, barreling forward: “Oh, wait. Sorry. That’s our old address. Our new address is actually, well, we use a P.O. box. It’s P.O. box four-seventy-six, in Upperville and . . .”
Emergency operator: “Ma’am . . .”
Me, hurtling into maximum Alvin and the Chipmunks mode: “Oh, wait! I’m sorry! I’m sure you want our physical address, which is eight-oh-one-one Quaint Road in Upperville, only we never use it because we have everything sent to our P.O. box since we live in the sticks and it gives my husband a chance to get out of the house and see people when he goes to the post office to pick up our mail, so I always forget that we actually have a street address and that’s probably what you need to send an ambulance and . . .”
Emergency operator: “Ma’am!”
Me: “Yes?”
Emergency operator: “We have your address. What is the nature of your emergency?”
Me: “My husband thinks he’s having a heart attack.”
Emergency operator: “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
It wasn’t long before several good-size emergency rescue workers were squeezed into our small hallway. They checked Hemingway’s vitals, gave him oxygen, and took a history. “So you say the pain started in your forearms and moved into your biceps, and that you got both your dogs from the Rappahannock Animal Welfare League, right?”
The lack of histrionics is one of the things I’m learning to love about the country (although I’ve yet to incorporate it into my own personal approach to things). Even if you think you’re having a heart attack, there’s always time to talk about what really matters. Like our two mutts begging for a belly rub while Hemingway’s being strapped to a stretcher, and whether they’re good for hunting, herding cattle, or just plain playing with the kids. The calm, country way helps keep things in perspective, something I’ll have to bear in mind when I’m having a stroke and the medical personnel ask me if I’m experiencing any sensitivity to light, and if Grundy and Pete prefer Purina or Science Diet.
The long and short of it is, after spending just over four hours in the emergency room while they examined Hemingway and conducted a variety of tests that involved scans and electrodes and monitors with colorful, blinking lights that attracted the boys like a mating call from Nintendo’s mother ship, the doctor determined he should be admitted for observation.
Personally, I think the poor man was concerned that if my honey wasn’t already having a heart attack, Casey and Cuyler—who’d consumed every stale piece of candy in the vending machine, blown up and popped half a box of latex gloves, and helped themselves to a couple of hospital gowns and slippers from the supply closet and put on an impromptu freak fashion show in the hallway—would drive him to one before daybreak.
The boys were pretty upset when we had to leave without their dad and the unfinished package of Twizzlers I wouldn’t let them take, but it was nothing compared to Hemingway’s distress when, as we were saying our good-byes, he reached up, grabbed my hand, and said, “Sue, you did give them all the insurance information, right?” And I stopped, looked down at him lovingly, and replied, “Nope. I told them you’re indigent. And incontinent. Should make for an interesting evening. Have fun!” and walked out the door.
Of course I gave them the insurance information. What did he think I was giving the gal in the Santa cap with the clipboard, his Christmas wish list? “Let’s see. He’d like a brand-new brush cutter, a pair of flannel-lined overalls, and for this little trip to the hospital, the sixteen stethoscopes the kids ruined in rigging them into a jump rope and the damage they did to the mobile chest X-ray machine to be completely covered by Blue Cross!”
My actual conversation with little Miss Santa Cap wasn’t nearly as convivial and light, and in fact reminded me more than a little of that fateful day at the DMV.
Miss Santa Cap: “I need to make a copy of your insurance card.”
Me, smiling and searching my bag for my wallet and finding everything but: “Of course. It’s right—holy cow, Casey! Here’s the homework you owed Mr. Mulvey.” I flip a crumpled piece of loose leaf at my lunatic firstborn and cast a quick “Ah kids—can’t live with ’em, can’t kill ’em” glance at Miss Santa Cap. I figure she’ll give me some sort of “You got it, sister” signal, but no. She just looks at me like I’m trying her patience, my kids are trying her patience, even the patients are trying her patience. So I keep smiling (what is it with me and smiling?), and return to my rummaging.
Casey: “Why’d you take it?”
Me: “I didn’t. You must’ve put it there.”
Casey: “Why would I put it there?”
Me: “Maybe for the same reason you think latex gloves look good dangling from your ears.” No kidding. He had the open end tucked over the top of each ear with the fingers flopping around his chin. He looked like a Star Wars character George Lucas left on the cutting room floor.
Miss Santa Cap: “Mrs. McCorkindale . . .”
Me, ducking my head back into my bag: “Yeah. Sorry.” Where the hell’s my wallet? I’m getting nervous now, so I start to talk. Fast. And from inside my spectacular Prada purse—which at this point I may have to barter to help cover the bill (yes, it was that expensive)—so of course I sound like I’m in a wind tunnel. If that’s not bad enough, Miss Santa Cap’s begun tapping her clipboard, and the kids are playing a quick game of mummy with the gauze bandages they found beneath the sink. (Quick because it’s quickly escalating from mummy to hostage, from what I can hear. Casey: “Wrap my feet first.” Cuyler: “No way. Eyes first. I’m a terrorist and I’m going to take you out.” He can, too. I just pulled a plastic pistol out of my bag. Wonderful. Fake weaponry, I’ve got. Wallet, not so much.)
“We h
ave Anthem,” I stammer, literally nosing aside my day planner, makeup mirror, sunglasses, and six tubes of the same shade of lip gloss. (Apparently I have a fondness for ULTA’s Ginger Fizz.) “The premium’s paid up. You know the drill; I give them a thousand dollars a month, they give us a newsletter filled with tips on fighting the common cold, staving off depression, and performing do-it-yourself tonsillectomies on the kitchen table. You know, anything not to cover a claim.”
Miss Santa Cap: “Why don’t I get somebody from patient services. They can work out a payment plan. . . .”
In one second I’m going to slap Miss Santa Cap. I’m not a welch. I just can’t find my wallet. So I do what I should’ve done from the start: I dump my bag by my feet, bend over to search the ruins, and suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, catch a glimpse of my wallet sticking out from behind my right butt cheek. I’d tucked it there for easy access to the change compartment. The boys had been so busy plowing through both vending machines on my dime (make that about fifty of my dimes) that at some point I decided just to leave it out.
How little Miss Santa Cap, who was sitting directly across from me, didn’t see it, I don’t know. But I hope she gets coal.
So they kept Hemingway overnight, during which they monitored every flutter, twitch, and tremor. In the morning they announced there was something amiss with his cardiogram, and told him to come back for a stress test on Monday. I asked if a visit to Chuck E. Cheese on Sunday (don’t ask: We promised the kids, so we were committed; or maybe we should be committed) counted as a stress test and they said yes, actually, and promptly offered me a battery-operated defibrillator. I took it, bundled my man into the car, and hustled him home.
OK, I’m just kidding about the defibrillator. The truth is they didn’t want Hemingway anywhere near noisy, germy Chuck E. Cheese. But I figured if we packed a Stoli-filled flask and his new nitroglycerin tablets, gave him a piece of pizza, a cup of Chuck E. Cheese tokens, and exclusive access to the sharp-shooter game he’d be fine. And he was.
Hemingway went for the stress test today, and even though we’ve yet to hear from the doctor, we’re pretty sure it went well. For one thing he didn’t drop dead on the treadmill, so that’s a good sign. It’s possible that the twitching in his arms and pressure in his chest were brought on by histoplasmosis, a condition contracted from chickens. After the doctor rules out heart issues, Farm Boy will be paying a visit to a pulmonary specialist to check on this possibility.
If his beloved birds have made him sick, I’ll feel bad. But not so bad that I won’t butcher the little beasts and put up a nice pot of chicken soup.
Happy Health News from the Hinterland!
TO: Friends & Family
FR: Suzy Nightingale
Date: Wednesday, 7:25 p.m.
Subject: Hemingway’s “Heart Attack”
Hey all,
Thank you so much for your concern about the health of my dear, sweet Hemingway. His condition is indeed dire.
In fact not only will he live, but he’ll be forced to spend the rest of his days with his “till-death-do-us-part,” black-rooted, blond-tipped beauty, me (as opposed to the sexy sports-caster he was going gaga over during Sunday night’s Giants game), and his two surly sons.
He’s a lucky boy, that Big Mac of mine.
Early this afternoon we received word that his nuclear stress test was completely normal, which is more than any of us can usually say for Hemingway, so, gang, he’s going to be fine.
Now all I need to do is watch him for signs of a cold. If he starts sniffling, coughing, or complaining of body aches, it could be histoplasmosis. And that would spell the end of his foray into chicken farming. A tragic loss to the organic egg community, for sure, but a necessary one for the sake of my honey’s health and my peace of mind.
After all, I’ve waited sixteen years to kill him. No damn birds are going to beat me to it.
Love,
Susan
Chapter Twenty-one
BURN CALORIES: RUN FROM COWS
You haven’t lived until you’ve nearly been killed by an angry cow.
I made this exhilarating discovery recently while zipping around the farm on Casey’s military green Honda Recon. With Hemingway on his red Rancher ES ahead of me, Grundy galloping a football field length ahead of us, and Pete darting dangerously in and out of my path,119 we zoomed over to the field where the “ladies” are currently living.
When it’s just me and my favorite farm boy, I simply wave to the gals as we go by, and silently agree to keep my distance until we meet in the butcher section of the supermarket. But with the dogs in tow, there’s no such thing as a civilized social call.
The crazy mutts bark and nip at the 1,500-pound beef-cakes until a chase ensues. And of course one did. Before we knew it, Grundy was chasing a cow. Then several cows started chasing Grundy chasing the cow. Desperate to save the dog from being trampled to death, we took off in pursuit of the cows chasing the dog chasing the cow, completely unaware that we’d angered a trio of future flank steaks who were now chasing us as we chased the cows chasing the dog chasing a cow.120
Suddenly, over the roar of the ATV engine, I heard heavy breathing. I turned and there were Carmela, Denise, and Angeline121 coming up fast. They were so close I could almost feel the breath billowing hard and fast from their flared nostrils, and, had I been brave enough, I could have easily reached out to touch the muscles rippling under their skin.
I have always thought of cows as slow, lumbering animals. I thought wrong. These mamas can move. They were closing in on my right leg when I let out a holler. Hemingway flew off his four-wheeler, strode right up to the barreling beasts, and—wagging his finger in their fly-swathed faces—yelled, “Back away from my wife or you can forget about the range cubes I promised for dessert!”
Carmela and Denise122 stopped dead in their tracks. But Angeline, who obviously didn’t care about tonight’s post-dinner confections, continued inching toward me, baring teeth that had clearly never seen a Waterpik or a Crest White Strip. I was fixated on this fact, and lost in wondering when I’d last done a little whitening, when I heard Hemingway yelling at me to drive up the hill.
“Go! Go!” he shouted, and I would have gone. Except that at that very second a massive Black Angus bull with a gold hoop the width of my wrist through its nose took the opportunity to rise up and mount one of the ladies Hemingway was lecturing. And I thought for sure I’d be checking the “widow” box on my income tax returns this year.
In a flash, the cow quickie came to a conclusion. I came to my senses and literally headed for the hills. And my cattle-whispering husband walked away from the becalmed bovines, hopped back on his ATV, and joined me on the rise, where I proceeded to make a plethora of questionable pronouncements including “THAT WAS AWESOME!” and “WE COULD HAVE BEEN KILLED!” and “CAN WE DO IT AGAIN?”
Nothing like a little adrenaline rush to make you say things you’ll regret in a big way. Because I did regret it. Every word of it. And sooner than I ever thought possible.
About a week later I went for a run. I didn’t mean to. I meant to walk. But as I strode purposefully across the pasture, my goal being the fifty acres of woods behind the old grain silo and ultimately a wonderful, flat, green-gray rock upon which I typically sit and ponder this country turn my life has taken, the cattle took note of my presence and began to approach. They do this all the time to Hemingway, and, as I’ve explained, he’s comfortable with it. But my husband is six feet tall,123 weighs a bit more than I, and is usually carrying range cubes—the dog biscuits of the bovine world—which the ladies eat out of his hand. Yeesh.
Anyway, there I was, sans snacks, and wearing leather gloves most likely fashioned from one of the gals’ moms. No wonder they were ticked. One of them, number 93 (aka Angeline, again), was mooing loudly, frequently, and, I might add, frighteningly, as she trotted toward me. Within seconds she was in a full run, and this signaled the rest of her pals to also pick up the pace.
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br /> Now, I know what to do in these situations. I’m supposed to stop, face the barreling beasts, and say, “KNOCK IT OFF” in my loudest, most confident “Don’t pee in the bushes, boys!” voice. And I did that, but cows listen about as well as kids, so I repeated myself—another technique that’s never worked with my sons, so why I thought it would save my hide I have no idea—and nothing. No matter what I said, how loud I said it, or whichever way I flailed my arms, they were coming.
So I decided to get going.
Stupidly, I turned and ran. Sweat pouring down the back of my neck and butchering a perfectly good blow-out, I ran as fast as my flabby, muscle-atrophied little legs would carry me and was immediately reminded of why I quit high school track: running sucks. Even with death in the form of heated heifers hot on my heels, it’s a heinous form of exercise.
Luckily I didn’t have to do it for long.
If I’d been looking where I was going—instead of alternately down at the ground to dodge meadow muffins and behind me to gauge my rapidly decreasing distance from the girls—I’d have seen our tenant driving toward me. As it was, the ladies saw him first and, as cows instantly respect things that are taller than they are (and his Ford F-150 pickup probably looked like the Great Bovine Buddha), they slammed on their hooved brakes and bowed their matted heads in homage. I, of course, had no idea they’d stopped pursuing me, and nearly plowed directly into the guy’s grille.
Confessions of a Counterfeit Farm Girl Page 13