Confessions of a Counterfeit Farm Girl

by Susan McCorkindale

  Maybe my decomposing pants aren’t so awful. They’re not fashionable, but they fit. And that prevents me from walking around naked, which I will be if my only other choice is a huge sweater cinched with a belt the width of a Great White, opaque leggings, and leg warmers paired with pumps. What’s next? A Farrah Fawcett ’do à la Car-men Electra on the cover of Cosmo? Now, there’s a look that’ll send sales of Aqua Net soaring. Again.

  It’s sad to say, but the creator of Style Smackdown has yet to win a round. That could all change if bouclé comes back big, but that’s pretty far off on the fashion horizon.

  What’s closer are clam diggers and fringed jean jackets, denim skirts edged with cotton eyelet, and a whole lot of Desperately Seeking Susan-inspired clothing and accessories.

  While I find it tough to believe a new generation of boy toys will be wearing fingerless fishnet gloves, I admit I’m considering purchasing a pair. No, I’m not suffering estrogen-depletion dementia, just looking for a stylish way to hide my hands. Thanks to a sudden influx of age spots (that I’m certain I’ve developed from handling those damn hens), I’ve now got my own animal-print accessories at the ends of my arms. Which, come to think of it, could actually complement that leopard-print bustier.

  Do you think I could wear it with cords?

  Chapter Thirty-two

  MUSTANG SUZY

  I have a confession to make: I’m no Sir Isaac Newton. If you want proof, just ask the poor kids in Cuyler’s second-grade class, whom I attempt to help with science every Wednesday at one o’clock.183 Of course, I may actually be getting better at the subject, as I’m pretty certain I’ve come up with a whole new spin on the gravity stuff.

  Just to be clear, it’s a marketing spin (which means you can take the girl out of marketing, but you can’t take marketing out of the girl), and I really believe it’ll help single chicks stick out in the sticks.

  My experiment was thoroughly inadvertent, but last Saturday afternoon I proved that if you combine one blonde (me) and one laser-red Mustang convertible184 (Hemingway’s) that won’t start, you can make men fall from the sky.

  To be honest, they didn’t exactly come crashing down from the clouds. But they certainly materialized out of the ether as if they could hear the non vroom of my V8 engine. Really. I don’t know how to explain it. I wasn’t crying or kicking the tires or cursing like Tony Soprano. I wasn’t doing a little damsel in distress dance or banging my head against the steering wheel. I was just sitting in the car, trying to turn the key. Sure, I whispered the occasional “Uh-oh. I broke Hemingway’s sweet ’Stang,” under my breath, but frankly that was all.

  And yet they knew.

  One after the other, they began zooming into the never bustling (unless you’re a blonde in a comatose convertible) Marshall Shopping Center (where the draw is a huge Tractor Supply, and the supporting players include a dry cleaner’s and an Alcoholic Beverage Commission store), and parking next to my dead drop-top. It was as if they were picking up signals via ESP or satellite or even Santa Claus.185

  There were men in pickup trucks, vans, and sport utility vehicles. Men on motorcycles and crutches (though not the same men, mind you). Men in sports cars and, yes, convertibles that were actually functioning on that fine day. And they weren’t just coming off the street. They were streaming out of the stores.

  Men in John Deere baseball caps with broken arms corralling kids munching Subway sandwiches. Men leading large dogs out of Best Friends Animal Clinic (“Here, hold my massive Mastiff, Cody, while I try to start your car”), and others carrying coffee from Freestate Coffee Company.

  There were men toting takeout from China Wall, and others lugging large Luzianne iced teas from Foster’s Grille. One man ran over from Radio Shack (“Here, watch my remote-control Ford Ranger while I try your car”), and another cruised my way from the Mac store next door.186

  There were men bearing piping-hot pizzas from Anthony’s (“Are you hungry? How long have you been sitting here?” Not hungry. Not long. Thanks), and men carrying DVDs, videos, snack foods, and game rentals from Movie Gallery. (“Have you seen Half Nelson?” Yes, trust me; it’s not worth the whole two hours.)

  At one point there were about eight guys standing over me, Red Man moist snuff stuffed in their cheeks, giving me directions. “Lift the steering wheel. Lower the steering wheel. Now try the key.” Nothing. “Put it in gear. Put it in neutral. Now try the key.” Nothing. “Turn on the lights. Tap the brake. Now try the key.” Nothing.

  When none of these tips did the trick, they began taking turns getting into the car and attempting to start it themselves. They forced the steering wheel right and then left. They jiggled the clutch. They popped the hood and poked around. They climbed back in and stared at the dashboard, the ignition, and the key. And then they leaned back, pondered my predicament, and rendered their opinions in a language I simply don’t speak. “Maybe the en-gine’sseized.” (The engine seized? Seized what? What could an engine possibly take?) “I think the starter’s shot.” (Starter? Isn’t that a line of athletic apparel?)

  As the number of white knights who rode to my rescue swelled into the double digits, I toyed with the idea of jogging over to the supermarket to buy beer. After all, it was hot, they were trying to help, and the whole endeavor had taken on the air of an impromptu car-care party not unlike those I used to host when I was the marketing director for Popular Mechanics.187

  Anyway, while they made manly conversation about my cute coupe, it dawned on me that, if I were single, this would be the perfect way to meet men. Forget blind dates, bars, clubs, Match.com, and all that crap. Simply buy, borrow, or steal a convertible, cause it near-irreparable damage, then sit in it and wait.

  Like I said, this old marketing chick’s no Newton. But I think I’ve finally found an experiment I can do with Cuyler’s class. In fact, we’ll make a field trip out of it. The heck with hitting another cavern or corn maze, tractor pull or pig race, poultry show or 4-H petting zoo. We’ll simply head straight to a mall, disable the Mustang, and test my theory on Guys and the Gravitational Pull of Ragtops That Won’t Run. If it works, great. If not, we’ll all take the school bus back. I’ve got a case of Coors we can split.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  HOW YA GONNA KEEP HER DOWN ON THE FARM ONCE SHE LEARNS TO DRIVE TO D.C.?

  For some reason the theme from Love Story has been playing in my head since I awakened early this morning. Normally this would annoy me, but when I went to get a spoon to stir my coffee, new words to the first verse sprang to mind. My revised and ready-for-the-recording-studio version goes like this:

  Where do I begin?

  To tell the story of the field mouse that’s moved in.

  He’s taken residence in my utensil drawer.

  I know because he’s left me mouse droppings galore.

  And he must go.

  In all seriousness, there’s nothing quite as stomach turning as discovering tiny turds sprinkled among the silverware. Cuyler splattered in chicken crap comes close, but even that doesn’t pack the wallop of wondering whether any of us have unwittingly ingested the “gifts” our uninvited houseguest has given us.

  Speaking of houseguests—the welcome kind—my dear friend Trish paid us a visit this week. I haven’t seen her in a year, so when she called to say she’d be in Washington for a meeting, I knew immediately it was time to make my virgin visit to MapQuest. I pulled down directions, gassed up the ’Stang, and left Hemingway pacing the porch, muttering, “How am I going to keep her down on the farm once she learns to drive to D.C.?”

  He needn’t worry.

  Washington is nice, but it’s just not New York. Sure, there’s ample opportunity to plow down pedestrians who disregard the DON’T WALK signs, and a Starbucks188 beckons on almost every block, but there’s no obvious shopping. And I know because I conducted cutting-edge consumer research. With my eyes.

  As I sat illegally parked and praying a police officer wouldn’t boot me from my spot and send
me back into the land of NO LEFT TURN and unlimited opportunities to get lost and miss retrieving my pal, I looked around. The office buildings and crowded sidewalks gave the District a somewhat New York feel, and the well-worn, fluorescent-lit dry cleaners and delis, color copy centers and shoe repair shops, banks and burger joints, nail salons, pawn shops, and tattoo parlors added to the almost Big Apple-like ambience. But the lack of a single clothing store was where D.C. and NYC really parted company.

  I learned later that in D.C. the stores are in malls. But who has time to run to a mall? I need a Talbots on the corner. A Banana Republic just steps away from my subway stop. An Ann Taylor, or at least an Ann Taylor Loft, tucked inside the lobby of my office building. The lack of easy-access retail makes me wonder how working girls handle such fashion crises as salad dressing-stained blouses or chocolate-smudged skirts.189

  Clothing calamities aside, without as much as a J.Crew or Kenneth Cole within walking distance, what do D.C.’s professional women really do for lunch every day? And please don’t tell me they eat.

  During the long ride from the city back to the sticks, Trish and I had plenty of time to discuss the topics nearest and dearest to our hearts: kids (she has two; I have two), husbands (can’t live with ’em, can’t kill ’em), parents (there’s no keeping up with them; they’re worse than the kids), work (we’re against it, particularly housework), friends (thank God for them), former co-workers (without them we’d be completely lost and out of the loop), the latest issue of O, The Oprah Magazine (and how something as simple as refusing to do laundry five days a week can go a long way toward helping you “live your best life”), the power of the Pottery Barn catalog to make us want to set fire to our homes, sea salt pedicures, facials, favorite steak houses, and most important, recent footwear purchases.

  Now, one of the things I admire most about Trish is the restraint she displays in the shoe department. Unlike my immediate declarations of love for every Jimmy, Salvatore, and Manolo I meet, Trish plays the footwear field, coolly refusing to commit to so much as a flip-flop before survey-ingthe store’s entire selection. While I’m busy whispering, “We could be so bad together” to a pair of four-inch stilettos in strip-club scarlet, my much more practical pal is mentally flipping through her suit collection to determine which pumps, loafers, slides, slingbacks, sandals, or mules would make the perfect match.

  And if she doesn’t make a match, she does NOT make a purchase. I swear it’s true. I’ve seen her not do it.190

  As it turns out, Trish’s latest buy was the boots she bought to tour our farm. And I never thought I’d hear the end of it.

  “Look at this!” howled Hemingway. “She doesn’t even live on a farm and yet she has the good sense to bring the proper pair of shoes! Susan, these are boots. Boots, this is Susan. Maybe someday you’ll both meet again in a place called Tractor Supply.” Sure, hon. And maybe someday you’ll be able to get a tailgate protector for the pickup truck and a multipack of pig ears for the dogs at Neiman Marcus. But until that time, nothing doing.

  In the end, we tooled around the farm in the aforementioned pickup, and our tootsies never even touched the ground. So what did it really matter if any of us were wearing boots or bedroom slippers? Despite my pointing out the property’s problems191 my dear friend found it breath-takingly beautiful. She even promised to come back this summer and bring her family. If I know Trish they’ll all have boots, so I have about six months to get some.

  Finally it was time to cruise back into the capital and find Union Station. I was following MapQuest’s exhortation to “Make a SLIGHT RIGHT,”192 when I realized that doing so would result in the car being surrounded by a SWAT team guarding a slightly ominous government building. Now, I love a man in uniform as much as the next girl, and I don’t think we looked suspicious, although if we’d been in New York without so much as a big brown bag from Bloomies between us we’d have been photographed and fingerprinted faster than Paris Hilton can run in her Prada pumps, but I didn’t want to take any chances. I veered out of the turn, stayed straight, and drove us directly into the land of bodegas and abandoned vans.

  Eventually I found Union Station. Trish made her train, and I made my way home, Keith Urban, Dixie Chicks, and Martina McBride taking turns blaring on my CD player. You’d think with all the country music that’s become the soundtrack to my life lately, the field-mouse ditty that keeps playing in my head would have a whole Hank Williams thing happening. So maybe I’ll rework it to the tune of “Hey Good Lookin’” and sing:

  Hey, little field mouse,

  Why you in my house?

  How ’bout takin’ your turds and leavin’ town?

  Or maybe I’ll just go buy a mousetrap.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  45 IS THE NEW 35

  Having worked in magazines, I know better than to buy the bunk they splash across their covers. Lines like STROLL AWAY TWO SIZES! and NO-SWEAT SUMMER SLIM-DOWN! are designed to make you part with your money, but they’ll never help you part with those extra pounds. For starters, strolling doesn’t burn fat. Speed walking and running from incensed flank steaks do. And if you’re speed walking193 you’re sweating, so there goes headline number two, no?

  You understand what I’m talking about. Lines like BATHING SUITS FOR EVERY BODY mean they’re showing Hefty sacks that cinch at the waist, or worse, real women in real bathing suits they really shouldn’t be seen in. Admit it; you’d rather be subjected to those annoying Victoria’s Secret Angels bursting out of bikinis than some Nancy from Next Door packed into one to prove “it can be done!” despite having six kids.

  I know I would.

  I also know that after more than twenty years in magazine marketing I should be smarter than to be sucked in by the words framing Oprah’s smiling face. Specifically the words 45 IS THE NEW 35! God help us all. Particularly those of us who are forty-five.

  Do they have any idea of the maintenance mania that headline has unleashed? From cow country to the West Coast, women in their midforties are kissing their families good night and disappearing into their bathrooms for up to two hours of cleansing, moisturizing, exfoliating, toning, applying, removing, smoothing, patting,194 and praying. Oh yes, they’re praying. They’re praying the hundreds of dollars in skin-care, preservation, and rejuvenation products they’re using actually work. And that their husbands don’t complain, when they finally come to bed, that it’s like sleeping with a baby seal.

  Of course Hemingway doesn’t complain. He likes that I look like a kid. He thinks it gives him permission to keep acting like one.

  But I digress.

  In addition to the wrinkle-defying feats taking place in powder rooms from the Atlantic to the Pacific, the hinterlands to high-rises, there’s teeth whitening, callus buffing, and pedicure repairing. There’s cuticle pushing, elbow sloughing, and a whole lot of loofah-ing. There’s hair removal, cellulite fighting, and moisturizing bronzer applications that miraculously make pockmarked thunder thighs look lots thinner.195

  Of course the worst part isn’t the beauty routine that routinely takes all night. It’s deciding what to buy. The $100 “teenage skin in a tube!” miracle serum that promises to make me irresistible to acne-flecked high school fresh-men (thanks, but I think I’ll pass), or the similarly overpriced line filler that claims to turn back the clock with one swish of what looks to be a putty knife slathered in Burger King’s special sauce. (Fast food on my face? On second thought, I’ll take one of those teens.)

  Frankly it’s all so exhausting. And that may be the skin-care industry’s ultimate evil plan. If they can deny us our beauty sleep in the name of looking young, lovely, and rested, we’ll become increasingly dependent on their magic microspheres, elastomers, and GABA, their bio-maple compounds, peptides, and antiglycation serums. We’ll keep spending exorbitant sums on these snake oils. We’ll stay up into the wee hours applying them196 and in the end, despite devoting half our lives to de-puffing and plumping, resurfacing and restoring, freezing and hy
drating, lifting, smoothing, and de-sagging, we’re going to look nothing but beat. Why?

  Because we’re never going to get to bed.

  Thanks to the 45 IS THE NEW 35 headline, I expect to soon see one that says MISSING: 45-YEAR-OLD WIFE AND MOTHER. LAST SEEN ENTERING BATHROOM BEFORE AMERICAN IDOL AND STILL NOT BACK AT BREAKFAST. Could she be covered in moisturizer, enveloped in Saran Wrap, and tucked into the tub? She could. Or maybe she simply decided to save her sanity, embrace her smile lines, and take off out the window to meet the girls for margaritas. Now, that would be the smart move.

  The other bone I’d like to pick with the magazine industry is in regard to the current trend of telling women of a certain age (aka my age) that the only makeup they need to look their best is moisturizer and a little mascara.

  I’ve seen this nugget of nonsense in no fewer than five women’s publications. And please don’t tell me it was their annual MEN EDIT THE MAGAZINE! issue, or we’re going to have much bigger problems than being encouraged to forgo our foundation.

  Have you ever tried this moisturizer-and-mascara-only trick?

  I have. The very same day I received my subscription to one of the afore-alluded-to magazines, I listened to its obviously sleep-deprived beauty editor and went cosmetics commando.

  I scrubbed off my base, blush, eye shadow, and lipstick, slathered on enough moisturizer to polish our pickup, and touched up my mascara. I even pulled my hair back with a headband to highlight my “healthy glow.” Then I stepped out of the bathroom and scared the hell out of sweet Hemingway.

  “Cramps, huh?” he asked, all bear hugs and blustery concern. I looked at him like he was nuts. I felt fine; dewy-fresh and fabulous. I had no idea that to him I appeared to be glistening with the fever that foreshadows an Ebola breakout.