Confessions of a Counterfeit Farm Girl

by Susan McCorkindale

  And now back to me, my cute guy, and the gutter.

  “You’re right,”157 I continue. “The Banana Republic and Panera Bread ideas were ridiculous. But now I’ve got a much better one.”

  “Lift your end higher.” In case you’ve forgotten, we’re on ladders. I hate ladders.

  “I can’t. I’m afraid I’m going to fall.”

  “Stop looking down.”

  “I feel unbalanced.”

  He shoots me a look. “Do you really want to give me an opening like that?”

  “I’m not kidding,” I whine.

  “Neither am I.” He’s laughing at me. What a cutie. How is it I want to kiss him and kill him at the same time? Ah, the mysteries of marriage. “I want to make it a Jazzercise center.”

  “Make what a Jazzercise center?”

  “The Butler building.”

  “You’re definitely unbalanced.”

  “I’m serious. My friends and I would have a blast! We’d dance to all my favorite disco tunes, like ‘Night Fever’ and ‘Staying Alive.’ You know how much I love Barry Gibb and the Bee Gees, right, hon? Right?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “And ‘It’s Raining Men,’ ” I continue, warming to my mission and sorta, kinda forgetting I could plunge to my death at any moment. “Such a cool song. But of course if it were raining men it would just be one more thing you guys would leave for me to clean up, right?” I pause, smirking, and wait to see if he’ll take the bait. He doesn’t.

  He simply shoots me the McLook.

  Undaunted, I plow forward. “I mean, how much could it cost to convert it into a Jazzercise studio? A little heat, air-conditioning for the summertime, new flooring, mirrors, a stage, sound system. The hens will have to find someplace else to hang out, but really, it can’t be that much. Can it?”

  He stops hammering and surveys the gutter. “OK.” He looks back and forth along the length of it. “OK, then. Good.”

  For some reason I think he’s talking to me. “So I can do it?” I yell at the top of his head, because suddenly he’s climbing down the ladder, leaving me alone up in the stratosphere. I hate being alone up in the stratosphere.

  He stops mid-descent and looks up at me. “You want to turn the Butler building into a Jazzercise center?”

  I nod.

  “And I suppose we’ll put the tractor and the boys’ ATVs in our bedroom?” he replies, looking at me with those blue eyes that still, after all these years, make me weak in the knees (which is not a good condition for anybody on a ladder), and then says, “I don’t think so, Sue.”

  He’s on the ground now, walking away. I skip the remainder of the rungs, leap down, and dash after him. “That stuff can go in the barn, can’t it?” No reply. He’s either ignoring me or he’s gone conveniently deaf, so I resort to a trick I picked up from an old Kibbles & Bits commercial:158 I sort of hop up and down next to him while we’re walking. It’s my way of making sure the sound of my voice actually reaches his ears. Or at least the ear of the side I’m on. “I’d get certified to teach, too,” I say, jumping up and aiming for his right ear. “Then I won’t need to hire an instructor. That’s smart, right?” Hop. “I mean, remember how”—hop—“I used to love teaching kickboxing? And don’t forget”—hop—“I got my personal trainer certification159 too. I know I never did anything with it”—hop—“but this would be different. This I’d actually use.”

  He stops, puts his hands on my shoulders (stopping my further impersonating a pogo stick), and looks at me. “You’re nuts, you know that? It would cost fifteen or twenty grand to refurbish the Butler building. It’s a shed, Suz. It’s meant for farm equipment, not fitness.”

  Notice he didn’t actually say no.

  And that means just one thing. If I take it slow and play my cards right, the Butler building will be a Jazzercise center in no time. The fact is it’s already my personal roller rink. From there, it’s just a few short steps (and some well-placed strobe lights, a fog machine, and my iPod in a speaker dock) to disco.

  And once I teach the hens to Hustle, I’m home free.

  Jazzercise, anyone?

  A note from the blonde in the boonies: “But more, much more than this, I did farm life my way. . . .”

  I’m a Jersey Girl; you had to know I was going to invoke Sinatra at some point. To be frank, or at least to paraphrase him, I think I’m finally getting this farm stuff under my Dolce & Gabbana belt and doing it my way. Not that my way always makes Hemingway happy. I’m pretty sure he thought that once the girl left the city, the city would leave the girl, but I’m simply incapable of making that kind of metamorphosis. In fact the reverse is true; I’m doing my best to Park Avenue this place up. You might say I’m on a mission to cosmopolitanize the country. Or at least my little corner of it.

  I call it farming, counterfeit farm girl style, and am seriously considering patenting a program based on its principles. My mission? To teach other city chicks how to survive and thrive in the sticks. I’ve provided a brief primer over the next several chapters, so check it out. Together we’ll discover ways to escape fowl fashion choices, ferret out a hairstylist who actually subscribes to In Style, and most importantly, find other fish out of water to befriend. As the song sort of says, I’m living a life that’s full and traveling each Virginia byway. But more, much more than this, I’m faking this farm stuff my way. . . .

  Part Four

  FARMING, COUNTERFEIT FARM GIRL STYLE

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  HAWKING EGGS IN ESCADA

  Have I told you about Hemingway’s vegetable garden? Whereas I can’t grow weeds,160 my husband’s produced enough produce to run a salad bar seven days a week.

  One day recently I walked into the kitchen and discovered about twenty pounds of lettuce soaking in the sink, a massive mound of carrots dimpled like the worst case of cellulite the world’s ever seen sitting on my counter, several Tupperware containers packed with tomatoes I’m pretty sure Progresso would pass on, and a colander full of lumpy green beans awaiting their turn for a bath. All we needed were some French, Italian, and blue cheese dressings, plastic containers and cutlery, and an Asian woman screaming, “Who nex?” and I would have been positive I was back on Forty-second and Lex at lunchtime.

  To be clear, Hemingway’s bounty goes way beyond the aforementioned fresh foods161 to include corn, which he’ll probably harvest soon, so pray for me, and pumpkins, which really shouldn’t make their debut until October unless the high-society horsey set we’re surrounded by decides to host another pre-Halloween party. And of course eggs.

  Truth be told, I am sick of eggs.

  Twice a day Casey checks for eggs, and twice a day he leaves the basket full of the light brown orbs, often sticky with the yolk of an egg that broke or that the chickens ate, on the island in the kitchen. This makes me crazy for two reasons. One, because that damn basket is covered in chicken cooties and shouldn’t be touching my kitchen table. And two, because he leaves them for me to wash, dry, plop in an egg carton, and cart the carton down to the refrigerator in the basement.

  And that’s when the fun really begins.

  Our basement fridge, like the kitchen fridge, is full. Not of fabulous foods and lip-smacking libations, decadent desserts and connoisseur-class condiments, but of eggs. Dozens and dozens of eggs. It doesn’t matter how many I load in the car and deliver to friends, the kids’ teachers, our family doctor, his office staff, our dentist, his office staff, the postmaster at our post office, the local librarians, the bank teller at the drive-through window,162 even the lady who runs the recycling center, there are always more eggs. It also doesn’t matter how many I poach, hard boil or scramble, let the kids color,163 or use for cutlets, soufflés, brownies, quiches, or cakes. There are always more eggs.

  So when I’m standing in our basement, trying to work the twenty-fifth carton of eggs into the fridge and the only spot left is the back corner of the bottom shelf where Hemingway’s Budweiser is cooling, you can count on on
e thing: He’ll be pouring himself a warm one.

  It has occurred to me that the hundreds of pounds of produce and unceasing production of eggs are an opportunity to make money. Specifically by selling our all-natural, home-grown goods at a farmer’s market. But that would mean I’d have to admit to being a farmer, or at least being married to one.

  And what’s left of my formerly sophisticated marketing director self is just not ready for that.

  Of course if I were to market our eggs I’d need to call them something.164 I’m partial to Nate’s All-Naturals as an overall brand name, because when I’m ultimately forced by the organic farming militant I married to expand the line from Nate’s All-Natural Eggs to Nate’s All-Natural Green Beans, Lettuce, Carrots, Corn, Tomatoes, Broccoli, Cucumbers, Spinach, Zucchini, Asparagus, and Ativan (hey, the least he can do is grow something to soothe my anxiety), it’ll make each launch a whole lot easier.

  Oh, my God. Can you even believe I just used the word launch in relation to a line of produce? Magazines, sure. I’ve helped introduce at least a dozen of those in my day.165 But fresh veggies? What does a canned, low-sodium, frozen, chopped chick like me know about promoting newly picked produce?

  And if I embark on this endeavor, will the natural-food fashion police force me to trade my Manolo Blahniks for a pair of Birkenstocks?

  I won’t do it, you know. I’ll market Nate’s All-Naturals, and I’ll pop those Ativan all the way to the bank in my Balenciaga boots. I may be the only vendor at the Farmer’s Market hawking crops in couture, but if I play my cards and my arugula right, my tent will be the talk of the Range Rover, Hummer, and Escalade crowd.

  In fact I won’t have just one tent. I’ll have several in order to accommodate all of Nate’s All-Natural foodstuffs. Which means I’ll need staff. And my staff will need a uniform. I could go with something Eddie Bauer-bland like khakis, polo shirts, and deck shoes (shoot me), or I could go with something along the lines of the Robert Palmer girls: little black cocktail dress, fishnets, and heels. Not the usual look for pushing overpriced eggs and artichokes on the affluent, but can you imagine the news coverage?

  BORED, FAKE FARM GIRL AND FORMER

  MARKETING PRO LAUNCHES ORGANIC

  PRODUCE LINE. EMERSON, LAKE &

  PALMER LEND SUPPORT WITH

  GROCERY STORE TOUR.

  That’s right. Before long, Nate’s All-Naturals will enjoy prime real estate in the produce departments of the nation’s swankiest supermarkets. And my little black cocktail dress-clad team will top their ensembles with a sexy wrap to stay warm, of course.

  Speaking of warm, I think I’m actually starting to warm to these wacky ideas. Now if I can just persuade my former Family Circle cohorts to kiss off publishing for produce and join me in the sticks, I’ll have the perfect staff. I realize they’ve all moved on to big new jobs making nice big bucks, but this is a big opportunity too.

  Together we can put an end to the old “bib overalls and pitchfork” perception of all things organic, and usher in a new era of fashionable fresh food, of bounty and beauty, of high yield in high heels. This is important work we embark upon, people!

  And if it sucks, we’ll open a salad bar.

  Who nex?

  Red Haute and Green: Suzy’s Tips for Looking the Part When Killing Your Plants

  Unlike Hemingway, I’m no one to ask for gardening tips, “green” or otherwise. But I take great pride in looking the part and protecting the earth when I set out to unintentionally kill my plants. Here’s how you can, too:

  1. Starting in February, I scour eco-couture-minded magazines, catalogs, and Web sites for the latest earth-friendly fashions. I pick up soy-based track pants and hoodies, and the occasional pair of posh hemp boots that are perfect for early spring when it’s still cold and Hemingway’s riding me to help plant some Savoy cabbage seeds he’s got to get in the ground now.

  2. Next, I move on to organic cotton Capris and T-shirts, shorts, and vegan-approved earth shoe-type slides that look cute whether I’m lunching at a chic café or being forced to harvest corn. In fact one of my favorite green gardening accessories is an organic cotton tote bag I bought awhile back. It’s flamingo pink and it looks fabulous with my 90 percent organic cotton floral Capris. (The other 10 percent is some Mother Nature no-no like Lycra or spandex; bad for the earth, but good for my girth.) The tote’s got ten pockets and a spacious interior, so it can hold gardening gloves, a wide-brimmed hat, sunblock, bandana, hand fork and trowel, shears, and clippers. And maybe someday, when its compartments aren’t crammed with the contents of an entire Clinique counter, it will.

  3. I’m also a sucker for stylish, cool-sounding eyewear. I’d been a fan of the Uvex Tomcat because frankly, any goggles that appear to be named for Tom and Katie Cruise are too funny not to buy. But as they’re about as good for the environment as Mr. Cruise’s soft shoe was for Oprah’s sofa, I’ve switched to sunglasses made of sustainable wood. The bad news is that they’re pricey as Prada’s. The worse news is that they make me look like The Fly.Poor eco-couture eyewear selections aside, I’m proud to have fashioned a wardrobe of unrefined fabrics. I’ll never be one of those people with an organic knack for gardening, but if you need help in the designer green dressing department, let me know. I’m a natural.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  BROKEN BY SPRING BREAK

  Being on a five-hundred-acre farm, you’d think I might like to know the answers to such questions as, What the hell is a skid loader? Do you spell bush hog as one word or two? And how should I respond to someone who calls about buying the hay elevator and asks what kind of shape it’s in? My reply: “It has its ups and downs.” No sale; big surprise. But no. Answers to all those questions can wait while I solve a much more crucial query: Who the hell invented spring break?

  Really. Whose idea was this brief educational breather? And have they ever had to endure the ten-day severance of scholastic structure with a seven-year-old and a fourteen-year-old? I’ll grant you, the first two days are fine. But the next eight are a nightmare of nonstop movie rentals, snack foods, sugar highs, muddy clothes, trips to the mall, music videos, and screaming matches at the PlayStation.

  And that’s just how I survived my sons’ academic abyss.

  Of course we did our best to keep our two chicken-chasing, manure-tossing madmen busy during their instructional interlude. They cleaned out the old chicken coop, gathered eggs, pulled weeds, and chopped wood. They straightened the smokehouse, bathed the dogs, watered the tulips, and washed the truck. By Tuesday, both boys figured out that if they simply went outside like we’re always asking them to do, their chores dwindled considerably. By Wednesday, Hemingway and I figured out that their foray onto the farm extended only as far as the Butler building, where our two connivers hid crouched over their Game Boys, completely oblivious to the dollops of pigeon poop hurtling onto their heads. Clearly, I’m raising brain surgeons.

  On Wednesday night it poured cats, dogs, and deer, and Cuy and I played an aggravating game of Aggravation by candlelight.166 He was winning, and ultimately won, so I was aggravated. Every time I came close to bringing a man home, he landed on it and I had to start over. I got so incensed, I started noshing and, before I knew it, had consumed almost an entire bag of sour cream and onion potato chips. Sodium count: 2,400 milligrams. In the morning the bags under my eyes were as big as breasts. But it was nice to finally have a pair.

  To be fair, I have breasts. But the fact that they’re about as voluptuous as the Gerber Baby’s really bothers me. In order to combat my despair at having seen deer better endowed than I,167 I’m constantly on the lookout for all the latest padded, cup-size-boosting bras I can get my mitts on. And you know what that means. Even out here in the hinterland—no, especially out here in the hinterland—I’ve got to have my Victoria’s Secret catalog.

  I’ve also got to have electrical power in order to make my phone or online purchases. And since, as I mentioned, we frequently forgo that modern convenience,
getting the latest fuel-injected, cleavage-enhancing miracle of mammary maximization from the leading manufacturer of such is not always possible. I guess I could drive the ninety minutes to the closest Victoria’s Secret store, but I really hate to do this, particularly since I already spend too much time carting around the two boobs I gave birth to. But I’ll get into that shortly.

  No, when it’s time for a little padded push-up pick-me-up, I do what I did that fateful day: throw both boys in the car and drive thirty minutes to the “local” Old Navy. Not because Old Navy sells bras, mind you, but because I needed a ruse to get the kids to accompany me to the Kohl’s next door. And nothing elicits cooperation like the lure of camouflage-print cargo pants, anoraks, T-shirts, backpacks, boxers, and belts.

  Ten minutes and two hundred dollars on bogus military attire later, my boys were ready for buzz cuts and boot camp. But not before I found a bra.

  I should’ve made a beeline for Kohl’s lingerie department, but I made the mistake of first hitting home furnishings. Like most women, I could spend hours shopping for picture frames and pillows, scented candles and duvet covers, wreathes and wind chimes. But like most kids, my sons have a fifteen-minute department store best behavior maximum before the threat of losing all their video games and several vital organs wears off and they go back to being themselves.

  I’d wasted at least that amount of time mooning over some rooster-shaped oven mitts when I heard scuffling, shouting, and the general mayhem of unsupervised young men.

  My young men.

  To my horror, my sons were engaged in a full-blown SpongeBob Squarepants vs. Washington Redskins pillow fight in the main aisle of the store. To make matters worse, several other children had chosen sides and were cheering them on. I flashed on Lord of the Flies just as fluff began to fly out of SpongeBob’s yellow head. One of the sales clerks noticed, too, and, although I made a big show of how the boys were going pay for the pillow themselves, in the back of my mind I kept thinking that if I didn’t find the perfect bra I could simply tape the cotton cascading out of SpongeBob’s cranium to my chest and call it cleavage.168