Others, like me, are born without the ability to produce enough serotonin,207 and with a smaller-than-normal hippocampus. 208 According to medical science, both of these differences are irrefutable proof of depression.
I wish I’d known all this when I was twelve. At least then I would have understood my freakish response to the first blush of spring. While my friends took off to hit tennis balls, hang out at the pizza parlor, and spy on cute boys, I hid in my room, under my desk, crying into a dog-eared copy of My Darling, My Hamburger. Years later I read that Helen Gurley Brown once did something similar. I still felt like a mutant, but it’s comforting to have something in common with the original Cosmo Girl.
Despite myriad advances in medical science, there’s nothing anyone can do about my humble hippocampus. This is actually fine with me; it’s nice that some part of my person is petite. But my serotonin level is a whole different story. My antidepressant acts like a push-up bra for my brain. It boosts, pads, and pumps. It adds, if you will, a full cup size to my serotonin stores. The result, to paraphrase Billy Crystal’s famous Fernando, is that most days I not only feel good, but I almost think I look good, too.
So why am I telling you all this? Because I’m one of those people you’d never suspect gets depressed. So if it can happen to me, it can happen to anybody.
Hemingway describes me as exuberant, fun-loving, and always laughing. My staff at Family Circle gave me a charm bracelet inscribed with the words SUZY SUNSHINE as a going-away gift. And several of Cuyler’s second-grade buddies refer to me as the silly mommy who can’t do science but tries, anyway.
Maybe not the most mature reputation, but I like it.
Most days I’m fine. But there are times, like when the leaves fall off the trees and a dead one shows up in my living room (demanding, in that passive-aggressive manner Scotch pines have perfected, to be decorated), that I can’t fathom how I’ll muster the strength to make merry (or make the beds, for that matter). I always come out of it, thank God and the nice folks at Forest Laboratories, and I find it helps to tell my better half, and sometimes a girl-friend, how I’m feeling.
It doesn’t stop me from heading down the rabbit hole, but at least somebody’s there to toss me a bag of baby carrots and a copy of Vogue.
Chapter Thirty-nine
JERSEY GIRL
You can take the girl out of New Jersey, but you can’t take New Jersey out of the girl.
Seems every time I go home to visit,209 I come back with hair as big as a round bale and a North Bergen accent so thick it clears the cows from my path faster than a cattle prod.
On the ride up, I belt out a duet with Keith Urban during my fantasy debut at the Grand Ole Opry. (I have to admit, I’m a crowd pleaser in my Lucky Brand jeans, black leather top, and four-inch stilettos.) On the way back, it’s me, Bon Jovi, and the Boss in an imaginary SRO performance at the Stone Pony. (Same outfit, in case you’re wondering. I’m a firm believer in sticking with what works.)
And while I’m actually in New Jersey, I do Jersey girl things.
Like test drive Corvettes and Camaros with salesmen who look more than a little like The Sopranos’ Christopher Moltisanti. Then I come home and try tearing around on our New Holland Quicke, which never works, as that tractor is totally misnamed.
I also play a little game I made up called Spot the Guido. With the influx of Egyptian, Indian, and Greek men, who are as strikingly dark and swarthy as the Italian boys I grew up with, it’s getting tougher and tougher to tell the wiseguys from the wannabes. Tougher, but not impossible.
For starters, when a group of PGs210 strut into the diner where my cousin Lisa and I are simultaneously scarfing down chicken Caesar salads and tearing into all the great stuff we just got at Guess? (“Don’t you just love this sweater dress? And what about these boots? Feel these boots! Careful! Don’t drop ’em in the dressing!”), their cooler-than-thou attitudes, leather jackets, and tans immediately trip my “game on!” trigger.
Me, looking nonchalantly in the direction of the PGs: “What do you think?”
Lisa, giving them a split-second once-over and concluding: “The leather’s fake.”
Me: “The tans are real.” I pause to surreptitiously stare, chew, and dump what has to be the sixteenth whopping dollop of Caesar dressing on my “dietetic” lunch. “God, don’t you wish you could get that in a bottle?”
Lisa, who can eat, drink, and even lick her lips without removing a single layer of her forty-dollar Chanel lipstick, stops and looks at me in total exasperation. “You can. I keep telling you. Mix Aveeno with Neutrogena, and bam, you’re bronze.”
I won’t bore you with the rest of our girl talk, but suffice it to say that those guys were not Guidos.
The track-suited sextuplet in the booth behind us, however, sure was. What gave them away? Maybe it was their velour outerwear and tight, wife-beater tees. Or maybe it was their booming loud “business” conversation, bellowed into their cell phones (“Whadda I look like? A geriatric transportation service? You want me to take Nana to see Aunt Grace, ya gotta give me gas money, Ma”). Or maybe it was simply the fact that they were each wearing what had to be the entirety of Target’s gold jewelry department on their person. Take your pick. In the end, it all points to GUIDO.
When I’m not test driving cars or forcing friends and relatives to play the silly games that go running through my head, I like to stock up on stuff I just can’t get down south. This includes all manner of New York Giants gear, Italian cold cuts (like Provolone and prosciutto. Correct pronunciations: pro-vah-loan and pro-shoot, not pro-shoot -o, thank you very much), and holiday gifts for my Jewish pals.
I’m not kidding. When I’m in Jersey, I make it a point to pick up as much Jewish paraphernalia as possible. Hanukkah-candle gift packs. Blue and silver wrapping paper. Bags of chocolate coins wrapped in gold foil. Why does this make me so mashugga?211 Because frankly I still haven’t recovered from my first holiday in the hinterland when I discovered that the local Wal-Mart offered a whopping two Hanukkah cards from which to choose and not a single roll of appropriate gift wrap. I should’ve known I was going nowhere when I asked a salesperson for assistance and he responded, “You know, I don’t think we celebrate that holiday here.”212
I also like to pick up presents for my new southern girlfriends. And to be honest, it’s not so much about the gift as it is where I get it. Like the costume accessories I found for a friend’s party at The Fun Ghoul.
Mush all three words together and say it really fast: TheFunGhoul.
That just kills me. I mean, who can resist shopping at a place with a name like that? I’d planned on bringing flowers or dessert or a few dozen of Hemingway’s organic eggs, but when I passed a billboard that screamed, THE FUN GHOUL COSTUME COMPANY. WE SWEAR OUR STUFF’S THE SCARIEST! all other hostess-gift options went out of my head. I raced in and rang up fifty dollars’ worth of horns and halos, thrilled that my passion for Italian invectives had led to a purchase that would surely give my new pals the giggles.
My other favorite hotspot is Capo Vino.213 Yes, I can get La Crema Chardonnay and Kendall Jackson Merlot at my local Giant. But it’s the customized Capo Vino bag, emblazoned with the words #1 WITH A BULLET that makes a gift of their grape a big hit (pardon the pun).
Of course the one place I no longer shop is Made Menswear. The last time I was there I bought Hemingway the one and only flannel-lined denim work shirt they had on hand, and he hated it. “Sue,” he said, opening the bag and pulling out what I thought was the perfect find for my farm boy, “this is Guido gear.”
“What?” I replied, practically deaf from the crunch of the Aussie Sprunch coating my mane and cementing it into the biggest head of curls south of Seaside Heights. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the fact that there’s a zipper where the buttons should be. And look at this,” he continued, cracking up, “there’s a Kangol cap attached to the tag.”
“Correction,” I responded,
“a fuzzy Kangol cap.” I was laughing so hard I could barely breathe. “Hold on to your hay bales, hon. You’re the Godfarmer!”
Oh yes, each time I go north I bring a bit more of the Garden State back with me. Right this instant I’ve got huge hair, a rejuvenated Jersey “honk,” and a hankering to pierce my belly button. I’d get a gold hoop, but then I’d look like one of our bulls.
It’s bad enough I’m going Guidette. But I draw the line at bovine.
Chapter Forty
GO AHEAD, MUDDY MY DAY
I have a confession to make: I’m starting to enjoy farm chores.
I’d appreciate if we could keep this tidbit between us, as around here I’ve got a “too cool for agricultural school” reputation and I don’t want the barn cat out of the bag just yet. I also don’t want Hemingway getting the crazy idea I’m ready to ditch my low-slung Lucky jeans for flannel shirts, overalls, and muck boots. When the fashion magazines feature the stuff, fine. Until then, Farmer Suzy’s herding cattle in couture.
Why are farm chores suddenly so much fun? Because the other day I got to play in the mud. Being a red-blooded, chardonnay-drinking, Desperate Housewives- addicted American woman, mud is a substance about which I have mixed emotions. Mud applied to my body, in the warm cocoon of a four-star spa, makes me swoon. Mud on the dogs, the kids, and the kitchen floor makes my blood boil.
And as my sons will tell you, you should never, ever get mud on Mommy.
I was lunching with a dear friend when Hemingway called to say he was stuck. Since my better half is a writer who also has a bad back, being stuck could have several connotations. Was he stuck on a line of dialogue or a specific detail? Or was he flat on the floor, unable to get up?
Neither, it turned out. He’d driven the pickup into a far field to check a pond or fence or some such foolishness and gotten stuck in the mud. Why he was telling me I couldn’t imagine, and since my soup was cooling, I was pretty hot to hang up. I offered one more half-listening, but loving-wife “Oh, dear, I’m so sorry,” and was signing off when I heard him say, “I need your help.”
My help? My help? Who is this again?
“I’m going to have to pull it out with the tractor,” he continued, “and I need you to steer.” Steer the pickup? The thing’s the size of a school bus. And besides, it’s in the mud. “Sweetheart,” I said, “did you mean to call me?”
Forty minutes later I was standing on the steps of the tractor, my honey at the helm, winging my way across the pasture. Winging is probably pushing it, as our New Holland Quicke doesn’t move faster than five miles per hour. But in any case, we were heading out through the mud toward more mud.
And frankly, I was having a hard time acting put-upon.
Oh, sure, I kept my petulant-princess puss on my face, and threw in a good deal of eye rolling to reinforce my disdain at having been dragged home for such a dirty endeavor. But the fact is—and please, this has to stay here—I was having fun.
It was sixty degrees and sunny, our two sopping-wet mutts were racing ahead of us, and with every turn of the gigantic tire to my right I was thwapped with mud. It was in my hair, in my hood, and all over my cute little BARN BRAT cap.
I was a complete Glamour “don’t,” and I didn’t care.
Finally we reached our destination: the mud-stuck pickup truck. Hemingway positioned the tractor in front of it, affixed the tow rope, and told me to keep the windows open so I could hear him. Famous last words. I turned the ignition and hit the gas. The wheels spun like my head at a designer handbag sale. In seconds I was splattered in slime.
I took several whopping chunks to my cheeks and direct hits on both eyebrows. I had long, goopy drips down my neck and in my ears. But the coup de gross was an oversize molelike dollop near my mouth that gave me a quasi-Cindy Crawford-like sex appeal, if you could get past the fact that I was probably covered as much in manure as I was mud.
At some point during my baptism by grime we managed to free the truck. I was still in the driver’s seat, frosted in filth, when I felt Hemingway watching me. I’m sure he was wondering how long it would be before I completely flipped out.
But I didn’t.
Instead I peeked in the rearview mirror and played connect the dots with the muck on my mug. I swirled and smooshed and patted it deep into my pores. It wasn’t exactly a mud pack at the Ritz-Carlton, but it served its purpose: I popped my head out the window, came nose to nose with one of the cows that had come to watch, and giggled as it recoiled in horror.
You know you look bad if you can give cattle the creeps. And what’s more fun than that?
Suzy’s Top Ten Farm No-Nos
According to some insurance company quoted in Progressive Farmer, a magazine I now read concurrently with Vanity Fair and ask myself such crucial questions as “Which bush hog would Sandra Bullock buy?” and “How is it no one’s ever suggested Burt’s Bees for poor Orlando Bloom’s chapped lips?” farming is third in dangerousness behind oil rig operator and fireman. And this makes me wonder if, when Denis Leary’s done with Rescue Me, he’ll do Harvest Me? Might make a nice follow-up, no?
All kidding aside, this frightening fact has spurred me to pen a list of the top ten things you should never do on a farm. Maybe it’s a little odd for me—a Jersey girl who wasn’t raised among beef cattle and bush hogs, and whose closest contact with a farm animal was the rooster on the cover of a Corn Flakes box—to do this, but I think my brief tenure here in tractor land makes me the perfect person to expound on this subject. Particularly since I’ve done almost all the dumb things described here and can tell you in no uncertain terms: Don’t try this at home.
1. No “dynamic duo on the tractor!” tricks. Hemingway and I should never have been on the New Holland together. It’s just plain dangerous. In fact the majority of accidental farm deaths are caused by people piling onto tractors. If the folks at your house have a penchant for riding around in pairs, get a bicycle built for two.
2. Don’t chase chickens. See how they run when you approach? That’s chicken speak for “Back off, buster, or I’m breaking the eggs.” Those feathered fiends can be pretty feisty, so keep them away from kids’ eyes. (Not to mention fresh manicures; trust me when I say that pockmarked polish is not pretty.)
3. Don’t forget to buckle up. For about ten minutes Hemingway and I thought it was fine to go sans seat belts as we raced around our back forty. (Hey, it’s not the highway, so it’s OK, right? Wrong.) One good smack to the skull later, I learned the hard, headache-y way that buckling up in the farm truck might save me from being killed if the thing overturned. Plus I wouldn’t have to live on Tylenol.
4. No scaling the grain silo. You’d think Casey and Cuyler were training for the X Games the way they gravitate toward our abandoned grain silo. Twice I’ve caught them trying to climb it; once with a “parachute” they concocted in case they fell. No one should ever hike a grain silo or hide inside one. That trick’s best left for when your mother-in-law comes to town.
5. Power tools are not movie props, no matter what your budding horror movie maker says. Casey insists he’s on his way to being the next Wes Craven. This means he likes to scream, “Action!” and chase Cuy around with a chain saw. Why he can’t remake Scarface and practice with the plastic AK-47s we have piled high on the porch I’ll never know.
6. The barn is no place for a barbecue. Sure, this statement seems obvious. But if you haven’t made it clear to your kids that hay bales, wooden ladders, and rafters ignite pretty readily, take it from me (and Ladder Co. No. 3): tell them today.
7. Don’t join the cattle for a cold one. To cows, the water in that stream is free-flowing Poland Spring. To humans, it’s more likely a massive case of E. coli. Why? Because cattle use streams for a whole lot more than quenching their thirst, if you get my drift. Unless you’re up for some serious gastrointestinal distress, resist the temptation to drink with your ruminants.
8. A farm is not a petting zoo. You may be surrounded by the most docile cattle,
sheep, and donkeys. But even laid-back livestock will flip if besieged by a group of seven-year-old boys at a birthday party. (Right, Cuy?) Encourage your kids to speak softly to farm animals, stand far from their hind legs, and remember: Baby bulls are best left unleashed. (If you take nothing else from number 8, that tidbit’s the ticket.)
9. Don’t hop the electric fence. Or the barbed wire or four-board fence, either. Hurdling anything on a farm is asking for trouble (and quite possibly a tetanus shot). Save it for the track.
10. Use your head; wear a helmet. To me, the idea of racing around on my four-wheeler without my matching helmet makes about as much sense as going barefoot in a ball gown. I simply believe in the power of accessories. In this case, one saves your look; the other, your life. See, there really are benefits to having been raised reading Vogue.
Chapter Forty-one
SOOZAPALOOZA
When I’m not pretending to be put-out by doing farm chores,214 I’m back to doing the three things I love most but didn’t have time for when I was running to and from Family Circle every day.
Like writing humorous, slice-of-life essays and ad copy. The ad copy pays well, is great fun, particularly for those of us who enjoy playing Name That Tune with words, and I get to work for several of my dear friends without having to leave my living room. So what’s not to like?
The humorous, slice-of-life essays do not pay well, if they pay at all, and in fact typically leave me in a state of high anxiety and abysmal self-doubt as I await my next rejection letter from some newspaper or magazine. So why do I do it?
Because what I really want is to be the next Nora Ephron.
And the only way to do that is to get published. And the only way to get published is to start by getting rejected. And that part I’ve got down cold.
Confessions of a Counterfeit Farm Girl Page 22