Confessions of a Counterfeit Farm Girl

by Susan McCorkindale

  At the time I was certain the whole scenario had scarred me for life. I also thought that only my brothers behaved this way, and that when I finally met my Prince Charming, he’d no sooner lift a cheek and let one loose than my brothers would lift a hand to help around the house.

  But it was not to be.

  The man I met, fell madly in love with, and married is the absolute king of breaking wind, the president of passing gas, and the grand titan of the sneak-attack toot. I can’t tell how you many times I’ve been quietly reading a book, only to suddenly find myself surrounded by an aroma so awful I’m sure the cat is decomposing under the couch. Then I look up, and there’s my Hemingway, snickering away behind his book, pleased as punch with yet another SBD201 delivery.

  As you can imagine, between my husband and my sons I really have to work to keep the house from smelling like the public restrooms in Central Park. That means scented drawer liners, potpourri closet caches, air fresheners in every room, and a growing tolerance—even pursuit—of odors other women find repulsive. The pungent smell of cooked broccoli? Bring it on. The nose-wrinkling tang of canned tuna? I’ll take it. The overpowering stench of cabbage, salmon, and tripe cooked stovetop? Let’s make two pots!

  The way I see it, the stronger the stink, the greater the odds I’ll actually disguise the heady “bouquet of boy” that fills the house.202 Of course I’ve yet to find the right combination of food and/or air fresheners that does the trick, but I’ll keep trying. I’ve no illusions of ever beating them in the body odor game, but if I can win the occasional round—like when company’s coming—then at least I can finally stop using clothespins as party favors.

  And Now for an Insect Aside . . .

  TO: Friends & Family

  FR: The Virgin of Upperville

  Date: Sunday, 8:30 p.m.

  Subject: Nervous Ticks

  Up until this morning, I was a tick virgin.

  Then Cuyler came in from the fields with one wedged in his upper back.Why am I sharing this horrifying tidbit? Because gross as it was, it was fascinating to watch.

  First, I thought the tick was a chunk of dirt, so I tried to wipe it off. Nothing doing. Upon closer inspection (and in my advanced myopic condition, I do mean nose-to-skin, squinty-eyed action), it appeared the dirt was moving. Kicking its back legs, to be exact. That’s when it hit me that my poor baby wasn’t covered in ordinary farm filth, but in fact had a creepy-crawly bug breaststroking its way into his sweet shoulder blade.

  Having made this discovery (and yes, the legs twitching in the wind was what gave it away), I did what any dyed-in-the-wool suburbanite would do: I screamed. Then Cuy screamed.And I’m sure the tick let one loose when I tugged it out with the tweezers.

  A hot shower, complete alcohol rubdown, and healthy dose of Neosporin later, my little pajama-clad man was watching TV, and the tick (what tick?) was a pest of the past.

  Tonight I retire a titan of tick extermination. Who says I can’t master this sticks stuff Suzy style?

  Love,

  Susan

  Chapter Thirty-six

  THE SECRET’S OUT

  It’s no secret how I feel about Victoria’s Secret. When I’m in the store, a forty-five-minute trip from Nate’s Place, so I don’t go too frequently, or curled up with my morning coffee and the brand-new sale catalog, I feel a rush of hope so intense you’d think the Capri pant had finally been declared dead. As I prowl the aisles and peruse the pages, my whole being tingles with the sense that anything is possible, that life is beautiful, that tomorrow truly could be a brighter day. Particularly if I buy the Body by Victoria Padded Demi with Secret Embrace Technology today.

  Right now, for a mere twenty-eight bucks, I can get boobs. Something I’ve wanted since my best friend Roma returned from summer camp with cleavage three days before we started seventh grade. I spent every morning that year stuffing balled-up Saran Wrap down my starter bra, and every evening massaging Miracle Gro granules into my sweaty chest. Afterward I’d stand in the shower and pray while, apparently, the fertilizer pooled in my posterior. Thirty years later the real miracle is finding pants that fit my 38DD derriere.

  Anyway, this darling bargain demi promises to boost my boobies a full cup size without anesthesia and a cosmetic loan from Capital One. That makes Hemingway happy, particularly since he thinks the five grand I’d like to spend on breast augmentation would be better invested in replacing his knees. So what he can’t get around? At least I’ll look like I do.

  Obviously surgery is out of the question, and frankly I worry about having something unnatural in my body again. (The jury’s still out on the two boobs I’ve given birth to.)

  If you’re thinking I’m a shallow, self-involved wife and mother who should learn to see the glass as half full, think again. I’m actually a shallow, self-involved, flat-chested wife and mother who’s sick of seeing her Maidenform half full. Clearly, Victoria’s not the only one with a secret.

  To satisfy my quest for breasts I’m buying the adorable demi in Buff, Whisper Pink, and Miami Tan. If it came with Jamie Foxx or Colin Farrell from Miami Vice, that would be the best, but as we’ve already seen, you can’t ask for miracles. Unless of course it’s the original Miracle Bra. With its removable pads and contoured underwire cups it’s more than manna from heaven. It’s manna for hooters.

  I figure once I’m through purchasing all the turbocharged mammary maximizers Victoria’s Secret stocks and I’m pushed up so far my chest protrudes from my cheekbones, it’ll be time to tackle my aforementioned gluteus maximus. I’d kill to make it more minimus, and the VS Uplift Jean could do just that. For sixty-eight dollars the pants promise to shape, firm, and lift, something I didn’t think could be achieved without our hay elevator, several Jaws of Life-type tractor attachments, and power-assisted liposuction. I plan to purchase several pair; I just need to decide what style: the Sexy, the Ultra Sexy, or the Hipster. I’m leaning toward the Sexy (hey, you’ve got to walk before you run in your four-inch Steve Madden stilettos), and as far away as humanly possible from the Hipster. I may be foolish enough to want to dress like a twenty-five-year-old, but at forty-something it’s just tempting fate to wear fashions that practically invite fractures.

  Despite Hemingway’s stance on elective surgery, I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about tummy tucks, body contouring, and boob jobs. I fantasize about being sucked in, pushed up, and slimmed down. Of walking into a spectacular “spa-maceutical” complex I’ve dreamt up, which I call the Center for Surgical Magic, and selecting Jessica Simpson’s figure, Sienna Miller’s face, and Kate Hudson’s hair from an à la carte menu of unlimited options. I’d have a quick consultation with the Nip/ Tuck dudes, be whisked off to the OR for a complete overhaul, and awaken the world’s hottest woman.

  But of course that’s all just a fantasy. One that would cost me about three hundred grand and my sixteen-year marriage. Better to stick with Vicky and the Very Sexy Seamless Collection. Unless I discover its very special ingredient is sticky Saran Wrap. It’s no secret how I feel about that stuff.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  MEET THE LOB SQUAD

  It all started when I made the mistake of recently reminding Hemingway that I’ve always wanted a tattoo. “Susan,” he replied, his face contorted like he just found a spider in his Stoli, “a tattoo shows a distinct lack of breeding.”

  Excuse me, but did he just diss my mom and dad, my Irish-Italian upbringing, and my steadfast conviction (pounded into me by both my parents) that penne Bolognese is an acceptable breakfast food?

  I think so.

  Offended but undaunted, I broach the topic of tattoos with the one clique I count on to help make all of life’s crucial decisions (i.e., highlights or lowlights, Botox or bangs, six weeks or six months of sleep-away camp for my crotchety eight-year-old): the girls.

  Every day I thank God for my girlfriends. All of them: my old friends up North, and my new ones here in horse country. When the chips (and salsa) are down, a
nd it’s time to choose between a fourth margarita or a first mojito, my girlfriends order the former and tell me it’s the latter. And what do I know? It’s my fourth margarita.

  Anyway, we’re racing down the highway in my friend Deb’s Excursion, a vehicle so massive I have to wonder how she handles it (particularly since she’s about as big as her own eight-year-old), when I announce that I want a tattoo.

  No response.

  Considering there are four women in the car, all of whom are doing their most passionate Pink impression, laughing and sampling each other’s lip glosses, and generally celebrating the fact that for the next few days they’re free from playing farm wife, chauffeur, and head chef, this doesn’t surprise me.

  So I say it again. Loud. And this time I connect.

  “Houston, we have a redneck,” says Jenn, the youngest and most conservative of the crew, and the only one we practically had to hog-tie and toss into the car. Why? It seems she’d never left her kids in her husband’s care for more than a day. Why? She said she was worried they’d subsist on peanut butter sandwiches, but I think she was afraid they’d Gorilla Glue the goat pen. Again.

  “Me, too! Me, too!” shouts Deb, flicking the iPod off so fast I’m sure she’s going to flip the space shuttle spiriting us and two hundred pairs of shoes, T-shirts, shorts, sweatpants, sweatshirts, blow dryers, curling irons, flat irons, several bottles of tequila, a gallon of margarita mix, a case of chardonnay, and a cardboard box bursting with Cheezits, Doritos, Tostitos, and all manner of no-nos for our “yes, yes!” girls’ getaway weekend. “I always think about getting one!”

  “If you want one, get one. What’s the holdup?” snaps Diana, Deb’s younger sister, and the only one among us who’s single, childless, and completely unaccustomed to having to make decisions by committee.

  “The holdup is Hemingway,” I respond, clutching the dashboard and wondering how Deb’s managing to do ninety in the left lane while craning her head around to catch every morsel of conversation, and if it’s really going to hurt when we hurtle into the median. “He’s completely anti-tattoo. He says it shows a distinct lack of breeding.”

  “Houston, we have a blue blood!”

  Did we have to keep invoking Houston? For a split second I secretly hope Jenn’s little guys are enjoying a farm-wide Krazy Glue free-for-all, and then I catch myself. She’s a dear friend. And no one deserves to find a frog in the freezer. Again. “Trust me,” I reply, “Houston cannot help us.”

  “A lack of breeding!” Diana bellows. “He’s what, related to the royals or something?”

  Bingo. My mother-in-law, God rest her soul, was a Brit. She wasn’t related to the Queen Mum, but from the way she talked about Diana, Charles, and their two princes you’d have thought they were old cricket partners.

  I share this tidbit with my friends and watch happily as it completely unhinges them. In seconds we’re all laughing and chanting, “Lack of breeding! Lack of breeding!” and listing things and activities we love that attest to our spectacularly poor pedigrees.

  Ankle bracelets. Cobalt-blue hair extensions. Cold pizza and beer for breakfast. Black nail polish. (Trust me: There’s nothing like the reaction folks give a Goth mom.) Spiraling into hip-shaking, sexy-pout-making, disco mode in the middle of the mall at the first Muzak-y strains of “Let’s Stay Together.” (And continuing to dance no matter how fast our mortified offspring freak out and fly into Aeropostale. Puh-leeze. Like they weren’t headed there, anyway.) Toe rings. Trashy novels. And of course, tattoos.

  Clearly we were a quartet of classless acts.

  And if you’re going to have an act, you’ve got to have a name. In honor of the fact that we all suffered from a Lack of Breeding (proving once again that birds of a trashy feather do indeed flock together), we christened ourselves the LOB Squad. We selected a mascot, the lobster, and several questionably conducted hours later (sorry, true LOBsters don’t transgress and tell) began our assault on the sleepy hamlet of Nags Head.

  As the lead LOBster, I took it upon myself to set the tone for the weekend. Upon arrival at Deb’s beach house, I dashed to the third-floor deck and proceeded to dance atop the picnic table. Sure, drunks do this all the time. But only those whose lineage is seriously suspect can strut their stuff sober. (Belated apologies to Deb’s husband, Mark, for the stiletto scratches he was forced to sand, and thanks to her sweet son Camden for returning my feather boa. Beats me how it got into the hot tub.)

  After this, it was all downhill, which is how we LOBSTERS like it. I have a vague recollection of the four of us collecting seashells after too much chardonnay, attempting to affix a gargantuan plastic lobster to the Excursion’s grille, and consuming at least our respective body weights in Bombay martinis and scallops soaked in garlic sauce.

  At some point we got really crazy and took a whole bunch of pictures in which we actually all look good. To my mind this can only be credited to the amazing feats digital photography lets you perform in terms of erasing orange Doritos stains from the sides of people’s mouths. And Corona bottles from their hands. And the wall clock that mars the snapshot of somebody’s mom dealing blackjack by giving away the precise, pre-dawn time that particular Kodak moment was captured.

  The only thing we didn’t do was get tattoos. We plan to when the four of us return for the Second Annual LOBSTER Fest in a few weeks. Or, I should say, Diana, Deb, and Jenn plan to. I got mine a month ago. The timing was never right when I wrote ad copy out of our home in Ridgewood, and when I was running the corporate rat race, top jobs and tats just didn’t mix. At least not in my mind.

  One of the best things life in the boonies has given me is the chance to be myself: the fake farm girl in the tight jeans with the beautiful orange-and-yellow butterfly on her right shoulder.

  I’m sure my virtually blue-blooded better half would’ve preferred it someplace more discreet, like my inner ear, but I opted to wear it loud and proud.

  After all, I’m a LOBster. What I lack in breeding I more than make up for in brass.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE

  For as long as I can remember, the change of seasons has made me sad. Deeply, painfully sad. And not just because at some point I have to put my peep-toe stilettos and lightweight bib overalls203 away for the winter. Getting the blues is how I’m built.

  Spring to summer is relatively easy, and the start of football season makes summer to fall bearable.204 Fall to winter is when things begin to get dicey. And winter to spring? Hurts like a pair of supertight Spanx at a sit-down dinner.

  If you’ve never been depressed, you’re probably wondering what I’m talking about. Depression is more than feeling down. And teary. And irritable. And hopeless. And overwhelmed. And indescribably exhausted. (And yet ready, willing, and somehow able to bite somebody’s head off for something as small and inconsequential as allowing—no, encouraging—the chickens to roost in the window boxes you just planted with two hundred dollars’ worth of Gerbera daisies, petunias, and impatiens.) Sorry. I think I already mentioned feeling irritable.

  Depression is also physically painful.

  At my most depressed my legs and back suffer like a piñata at one of Cuyler’s birthday parties. The soles of my feet hurt to the touch,205 and my upper arms ache and twitch as if the alien baby from It’s Alive is incubating in my biceps. It wants out. I want it out. But all I can do is wait it out.

  When I was first diagnosed and still couldn’t quite believe that I, a card-carrying class clown and resident funny girl among my friends, was depressed, I was certain these symptoms signaled the flu. I recall going to the doctor on at least three change-of-season occasions and demanding drugs. I wanted relief and I wanted it now. Each time I showed up, my doctor checked me over from head to toe. He did blood work. And he listened to my list of ills, all of which were highlighted prominently on the WARNING SIGNS OF MAJOR DEPRESSION poster on the back of the examining-room door. And then, in the absence of fever, chills, and the other
fun stuff that accompanies influenza, he gently reminded me to take as good care of myself as I do my family, try to do less, and take my Lexapro.

  Hello, my name is Susan and I take happy pills.

  Now, if the mere mention of antidepressant medication gets you going all Tom Cruise, my advice is that you stop reading right here. If you’re one of those folks who’d rather have a loved one go around nearsighted and walking into walls than give them glasses, put this down. If you’re still wondering why people with skyrocketing cholesterol need Lipitor or Zocor or Crestor or any one of those “ors” and not just a little self-discipline in the diet department, please take your club and go back to your cave. We’ll call you the day the wheel makes its debut.

  I love my antidepressant and have written long imaginary letters of gratitude to its inventor. This isn’t to say it always works perfectly. As I’ve mentioned, the change from winter to spring hurts with the ferocity of realizing I’ll never own a Birkin bag, a Porsche Boxster, or even a few of the five hundred acres on which we reside. But I work a heck of a lot better with my daily ten-milligram dose than I ever did without it.

  Some people experience major depression at the death of a loved one, a big move,206 the loss of a job, or the birth of a baby. With the help of talk therapy and occasionally a course of (please, don’t tell Tom) medication, they get better and that’s that.