Confessions of a Counterfeit Farm Girl

by Susan McCorkindale

  68 Of course Joe Walsh tore out the walls in hotels and had accountants pay for it all. My sons prefer to “remodel” their bedrooms and have us bankroll the repairs. Parenthood: It’s not just a job. It’s a chance to file for Chapter 11.

  69 How it escaped painting I don’t know, but I’m not complaining. The McMen call it “the little girls’ room” and refuse to set foot in it. Thank you, beautiful sister-in-law, for my sweet sanctuary!

  70 Can you believe the woman who invented the Clean Sweep would prefer not to deal with dirt? I’m really unsure what’s happened to me since we’ve moved. I’d like to think I’ve gained a new perspective, but I’m pretty sure I’m simply presbyopic.

  71 They have a women’s section, too. Complete with Wrangler jeans, Carhartt pull-overs, shiny John Deere belt buckles, and sparkly work boot accessories. If I ever launch Sticks Style Magazine, Tractor Supply’s my source for farm fashion. Now, there’s an oxymoron.

  72 This is the country, you’ll recall, so the wildlife options, unlike the shopping options, are virtually endless.

  73 I just kept thinking, Oh, my God, I’m going to get sued, and not only will they win, but they won’t even use the money to hire a maid.

  74 Purchased via the miracle of cyberspace, which, despite living in the sticks, I thankfully still have access to.

  75 I had no idea the Jack Russell Rescue organization existed, but since we started looking for a dog Hemingway’s discovered all this stuff. The Society for the Protection of Saint Bernards. People for the Ethical Treatment of Poodles. (A dangerously fringe group, these folks actually advocate against canine couture. Their motto is “Real poodles don’t wear Prada.” Which I think is fine, because then there’s more for me.) Of course the group I’d most like to contact is the Good Samaritan Recovery Society. Maybe they can help me get past the touch of post-traumatic stress disorder I’ve developed from discovering a kitchen it would take Mr. Clean and a team of bioterrorism experts to tackle. Not that my house is so perfect. But at least I don’t store my kids’ stinky sneakers in a pasta pot. After all, that’s what the freezer is for.

  76 All in all, it’s just like having four kids. Five if you count Hemingway. And I do.

  77 Yes, I’m back to writing a bit of ad copy. It’s easy, pays bundles, and helps foot the shoe fetish I suffer from.

  78 When we head to the poorhouse we’ll be thanking Pete for making that possible, too.

  79 That’s Yiddish for complain, moan, bitch, bellyache. If I have to define one more Yiddish phrase, I’m signing everybody in Fauquier County up for Yeshiva. If I can find one.

  80 Hogs and heifers and horses have that honor.

  81 And without the use of an animal tranquilizer, I’m proud to say . . .

  82 And Hemingway and I obviously have several screws loose, as we didn’t lose the damn thing on the move from New Jersey to Virginia.

  83 And finding them, unfortunately, after they’ve adhered to the dust bunnies beneath the bathroom radiator.

  84 This activity requires paying them day laborer wages, but it lets me flex my atrophying manager muscles a bit, so it’s worth it.

  85 Casey gets Cuyler’s, Cuyler gets Casey’s, and Grundy and Pete swap pet beds.

  86 Before the mortgage payment masquerading as a late fee kicks in.

  87 Please note: If anything pertaining to weaponry is on his list, nothing pertaining to Budweiser is on mine.

  88 See “The Impractical Girl’s Guide to Farm Speak” for more about this Saks of the Sticks. 136

  89 Right next to “premier swine feed,” in case you’re interested.

  90 Comprising soothing eye gel mask, microfiber hair turban, suction-cup supporting bath pillow, and Mandarin White Orange bath salts and body scrub. Ooooh. I love Lucky Chick!

  91 Right. Pralines and Cream in a sugar cone, please.

  92 Who knew my marketing skills would come in so handy in the hinterland?

  93 What, Garnet Hill’s no good?

  94 And I’d need a drink.

  95 Nothing like getting a little religion with your Baby Ruth.

  96 It’s true: The mere mention of snow sends hordes of hoarders to the supermarket and gas station. No one is about to risk a Donner Pass repeat as long as there are still SpaghettiOs and Ball Park Franks at Food Lion.

  97 Which might explain why so many people down here leave them up all year . . .

  98 We did, however, see several that would be perfect in the cat condos PetSmart sells.

  99 My two favorite brands of chardonnay.

  100 Aka Joan, Joanie, Joanie Poo, JP, and The Joan of the House.

  101 Where they refer to her, respectfully, as Mrs. C. My dad was a teacher, too, and everyone called him Mr. C. I attended the school where he taught, and was christened “Little C.” I still “c” a therapist over the whole thing.

  102 Take that, David, Nick, and Dan!

  103 I’ve shared that story, haven’t I? My spectacular toile-covered living room sofa (aka “the sofa that started it all”) is the reason we met Miss Contractor/Decorator/ Furniture Hostage Taker 2005. I saw the sofa in some home magazine, Googled its manufacturer to find out where I could purchase it locally, and wound up in Miss Contractor/Decorator/Furniture Hostage Taker 2005’s shop. We got to chatting, I ordered the sofa, and before the ink was dry on my check she signed on to helm the Nate’s Place Remodeling Project. The rest, as they say, is history. And so is my relationship with her.

  104 Told you!

  105 My unique A-cup condition is the one thing I inherited from my mom; my brothers got her square jaw, high cheekbones, and wide-set eyes. I got my dad’s teeny, tiny, pimple-size face and pointy chin. I’d cry, but it comes in handy for opening canned goods.

  106 Obviously I’ve got a Brit thing, too. The figgy pudding didn’t fall far from the tree.

  107 Welcome to the Suzy School for Living Your Life with Your Head in the Sand. For just $99 you, too, can learn how to never face reality again! Discover the tricks to mentally checking out of conversations and situations that pain you. Classes meet once a week over margaritas. Guest speakers do not include Elizabeth Gilbert, Pema Chodron, or the Dalai Lama.

  108 My mom had four kids without as much as an aspirin to take the edge off. But pierce her ears? And endure that kind of pain? She’d much rather cope with the swelling, itching, and occasional “What is that in the Petri dish?” discoloration that comes with clip-ons.

  109 My brother Nick and I share custody of a photo of my mom taken when she was in her early thirties. In it she looks just like Jessica Lange. When I was a kid, I used to worry she’d one day wake up and realize she had the whole package—beauty, brains, talent—and hightail it outta there. She never did, and to this day I love her most for her total lack of self-esteem. Thanks, Mom!

  110 Now that I think of it, horses might be nice, too. It’s the riding pants portion of that program that gives me pause.

  111 The forceps of the bovine OB-GYN.

  112 And she didn’t even dust!

  113 The woman who tried to steal the 1980 Boston Marathon. Rumor has it she skipped half the route by hopping on a bus, then jumped in from the crowd and made for the finish.

  114 Ben the rat. You know, from that old Michael Jackson song. I realize it’s not the most recent social reference, but believe me, Ben was big in his day.

  115 That arctic time of year when normal women want toasty, soft sweaters, but magazines and catalogs converge to torture us with the latest in near nakedness, i.e., stuff only starving (but warm on the beaches of Bali) models can wear. 116. My kids love living in the sticks. Why? Because come winter there’s simply no school. If it snows, there’s no school. And if it just looks like snow—in another state—there’s no school.

  116 It’s more comfortable to go naked in the nine-hundred-degree heat we get down here. Granted, my clothes-free form is not pretty, but what’s more important? My comfort or scars on my sons’ psyches? That’s right, Dr. Freud. Now come here and hol
d my socks.

  117 And the overwhelming urge to buy me a Mercedes . . .

  118 Yes, my UPS man loves me. I tip him not just for bringing the millions of boxes to my door but for putting up with my manic response. “Oh, my gawd, I hope one of these fit! The stuff you delivered yesterday? Complete crap! Why doesn’t somebody give those kids in the Chinese sweatshops a size chart?”

  119 And tempting the great Canine Commando in the sky to secure him a spot on Road Kill Hill.

  120 I know. You need a drink. I needed one, too.

  121 Also known as numbers 19, 27, and 93.

  122 Numbers 19 and 27, in case you’re keeping track.

  123 I’m five-five on a good day; five-three when my kids have been crushing me with their many needs.

  124 OK, I admit it, they’re tight. Really tight. I tried them on and looked like a bunny stuffed into a Glad sandwich-size Baggie. Particularly unappetizing, trust me.

  125 For a minute I actually thought the prize van had finally arrived, and then I remembered I’m married.

  126 He’d been at the bank, post office, and hardware store. Who knew it was farm errand day? “You did, Sue. I told you this morning.” Note to self: When Hemingway speaks, take nose out of Vogue and listen. At least a little.

  127 Who knew I’d have such professional success here in the sticks?

  128 Or, horrors, a heel!

  129 And they say hens and female humans have little in common.

  130 I myself skipped that excursion, though I did see several former residents of the snake house at the handbag trunk show I attended instead.

  131 This isn’t something we ever had to do in suburbia; in fact we didn’t even have such an animal. But here in the hinterland it’s a must.

  132 Although I’m partial to my honey’s literary nickname, his pals prefer to call him Stu.

  133 No matter how I felt in my Family Circle days.

  134 I confess this cookbook’s a complete fabrication. But I really believe there’s a market for it, so why don’t they make one?

  135 Could it be that my sweet son has finally found his sport?

  136 And please don’t forget, I grew up going to the Jersey shore, where we girls hit the beach “faces on” and big hair high, so I know what I’m talking about.

  137 Even a novice could deduce this guy was more comfortable at the wheel of his Porsche than at the helm of a four-horse phaeton.

  138 A plus? There’s even the slightest possibility it could be a plus?

  139 Yes, there’s a difference. See the Impractical Girl’s Guide to Farm Speak for clarification.

  140 In his yellow period, I might add. I know, I know. It’s a bad joke. But I couldn’t resist.

  141 With no intention of putting it down, I’m sure.

  142 Of course, if you’re sitting, as I always am, being the lone female in the family, this interesting positioning means I can peek around to see how badly my butt belongs back at the gym. Not something I do frequently, I assure you, but I digress.

  143 In our brand-new condo in a town that will remain nameless but to me will always be known as the absolute armpit of New Jersey . . . sorry. I know I already said that. I seem to have some sort of post-traumatic condo disorder from our days in (shhhh) Little Ferry.

  144 If you’re having trouble envisioning my predicament, picture one of our 350 cows stuffed by its hindquarters into a Kohler. Now add to this vision a pretty pink flowered nightdress the size of Disney World draped over said cow, and you’ve got one scary sight indeed. Agreed?

  145 I’m sure the folks at General Mills love this unique use of their product.

  146 Which kind of frightened me, as there are days I can barely dress and accessorize myself.

  147 And who can resist a sale? 149. I’m talking no-customers-in-ninety-minutes quiet. . . .

  148 How appropriate.

  149 I am too, but unfortunately my accent is a bit more Brooklyn than Bologna.

  150 Something I’d been suggesting she do all along, IN THE DRESSING ROOM.

  151 Which made them a tad more tolerable.

  152 For a complete definition, see The Impractical Girl’s Guide to Farm Speak.

  153 Hemingway lets the chickens free range, which means they go (and I do mean that literally) wherever they want. The Butler building, the window boxes, the backseat of the Mustang. Yeah, that went over well.

  154 Not to mention gorgeous and in the most amazing, inspiring shape. She’s not just one hot mama; she’s one hot grandmama.

  155 It’s literally a barn built into an embankment. We use it to store hay and other stuff that attracts creepy-crawlies.

  156 Oh yes, at six feet tall and 210 pounds, my man’s obviously malnourished.

  157 I always lead with “You’re right” when I want my own way. It usually works. Usually.

  158 You know, the one where the little dog keeps hopping back and forth over the big dog, trying to get its attention. At five-five, I’m the little dog; at his afore-alluded-to six feet, Hemingway’s the big dog.

  159 I don’t think I’ve mentioned that. I am, or I was, a certified personal trainer. It was one of the ways I passed the workday at Family Circle. I got certified to beat other people’s butts into shape. I never actually pursued it, and eventually I let the whole thing lapse. It just didn’t seem smart to give up a six-figure salary to earn sixty bucks a session.

  160 It doesn’t matter if I prepare the soil. And fertilize. And follow the nursery’s instructions down to the last detail. I can kill all manner of vegetables and fruits faster than moviegoers can flee a Pauly Shore film. I swear, the plants and shrubs mock me when they see me approach. “Here comes black-thumbed Thusie!” they whisper. Yes, they lisp. It makes it even more painful.

  161 So why he wanted me to have my own garden, I have no idea. But he did. You should have seen me plant the tomatoes, lettuce, cucumbers, and carrots he insisted I start from seeds. My back ached. The wind whipped my hair. And Hemingway stood there smiling and saying, “Look at you! You’re getting the gardening bug!” (Just between us, he’s getting the gardening bug. I put the biggest one I found beneath his pillow.)

  162 Bet you didn’t know you could fit a dozen eggs in one of those narrow deposit drawers, did you?

  163 Who cares if it’s not Easter? We have too many eggs!

  164 Notice I said market and not sell; if I’m even going to contemplate this lowly undertaking, I’ve got to spin it so I can stand it.

  165 Years ago, I helped launch several new magazines. There were two titles: Country Living Gardener and Country Living Country Cooking, which I thought were the height of hilarity. I distinctly recall poking fun at the yellow-clogged people profiled in each. Now I think they’re getting the last laugh.

  166 A brief note about rain in rural America: If it looks like rain, the power goes out. If it rains in the next county, the power goes out. And of course if it actually rains on our house, on our farm, on our kids and pullets and pups, the power goes out.

  167 Yet another benefit of living in the boonies!

  168 Talk about making lemonade from lemons. Oh, who am I kidding? My breasts aren’t even that big.

  169 The original perch snapped under our fat fowls’ burgeoning heft. For everything you ever wanted to know about chicken tractors—including what they hell they are—see The Impractical Girl’s Guide to Farm Speak.

  170 If you think the eating’s gotten a little funny around here, you ought to join us for the drinkin’. To quench his thirst while tackling his farm tasks, Casey scoops water from the fresh, flowing streams on the property. This is fine, until he tires of drinking alone and decides to join the cows for a cold one in a stream they’re using. Not a good idea, particularly since cows shit where they eat (and drink), and city slickers gone cuckoo for country can catch E. coli. Case of course didn’t know this, and was just bringing the water to his lips when Hemingway stopped him. (Perhaps you heard his scream?) Whew. It’s really too soon to be on a first-name
basis with Fauquier Hospital.

  171 Yes, the nice folks at 4-H are going to teach my eldest to use a rifle and shotgun. This should improve his social standing and allow him to attend his buddies’ birthday parties without embarrassing himself. See, the invitations to several have said things like, Join us in bagging a buck for Billy’s birthday! Wear your camo and bring your ammo! But my kid can’t bag anything but groceries. I don’t want to turn him into a sharpshooter, but if he wants to attend one of these parties where “There’ll be lots of pizza and cake, but no gift bags. The kids can just keep what they kill!” it’s time for some target practice.

  172 Salon Emage in Warrenton; ask for Ashley. When I go home, I hit my other favorite salon, Panico in Ridgewood. Ask for Christine. Tell them both that Susan sent you.