Confessions of a Counterfeit Farm Girl

by Susan McCorkindale

  173 Would somebody please tell me the trick to dyeing organic eggs? The boys and I tried for an hour to color our homegrown pale brown orbs with a Cray-Pas kit before giving up and breaking out the big guns. Sure, Hemingway’s Panther Air Rifle and blue paintball pellets were probably a bit of overkill, but the four pretty eggs we netted are nice.

  174 Hemingway, the hens, and the pigeons have yet to depart the Butler building, but don’t worry; I’m turning it into a disco/Jazzercise center. . . . Soon.

  175 On behalf of the millions of women who put up with Ally’s absurdly short suit skirts each week for a few minutes with Bad Boy Bobby, all I can say is, gee, thanks, Dave.

  176 Obviously, all those concerns I had about being “too Suzy for the sticks” were unfounded. I’ve been blessed with a whole slew of new Southern girlfriends who love me for the lunatic I am. And they don’t even mind that I sound like Carmela Soprano!

  177 Though leaving the feathers on didn’t go over big with the family.

  178 My plan for having them suck the pimentos out of green olives went really awry.

  179 This from a woman who hardly watches TV. Unless of course it’s The Sopranos.

  180 If I do sixty-five where it’s fifty-five, I can get there in twenty-five. Minutes, that is. And to me that makes it local. Hmm. I may be getting the hang of living in the hinterland after all.

  181 Like my kids’ fast food toy collection, this is another box I can’t believe I paid to move. Every book Hemingway and I read on relocating said, “Pare down, pare down, pare down.” Did we? My under-bed storage box of Kodak moments from my Duran Duran days says, “I don’t think so.”

  182 I wore one of those patchwork rabbit fur horrors in junior high, and to this day I’ve got guilt over it. And the thought of all those dead bunnies makes me feel bad, too.

  183 Being able to help out in my kids’ schools has long been a dream of mine. Now that we live on a farm and I have free time, I’m realizing I’m really too stupid to be of any assistance.

  184 The key here is the convertible. Ditch the Dodge Ram. Trade in your Toyota Tundra. And forget that titanic Chevy Tahoe. Think small. Sexy. “Topless.” Trust me; it’s an attention getter.

  185 Why not? If he sees you when you’re sleeping and he knows when you’re awake, then he probably knows when your car is acting up, so don’t curse at it, for goodness’ sake. Or really, you’re never going to get that Gucci bag you’ve been after.

  186 Please don’t tell Hemingway. He’s a PC guy with a massive distrust of all things Apple.

  187 Yes, I directed marketing for that magazine for two years. No, I never actually read a page of it. Obviously.

  188 Be still, my latte-loving heart.

  189 Not to mention the sudden, sickening realization that the suit and pumps that exuded power and confidence in your bedroom mirror at six a.m., as little as four hours later actually make you look like a cross between an escort and one of Santa’s elves in the conference room.

  190 And she’s seen me buy the stilettos that to this day remain in their box, begging for a night on the town or even an afternoon of aerating the garden.

  191 Lack of a Starbucks, hair salon, and shoe store to name three.

  192 What in hell is a “slight right”?

  193 Or running—let’s not forget the running!

  194 Gently, please.

  195 I don’t know how this works, and I don’t want to know. I just want the folks at L’Oréal to know that should they ever stop making Sublime Glow there’ll be nothing sublime about the response from me and my millions of cottage cheese-addled pals. Why? Because we’re worth it.

  196 And, if you’re like me, wondering who the hell concocts words like glycation.

  197 Will someone please teach the damn deer to look before they step out into the street? And as long as you’re giving lessons, try talking some sense into the squirrels, groundhogs, and foxes, too. Don’t bother with the turkey buzzards, though. When I’m zipping along and discover them munching on an eviscerated buck in the middle of the road, I hit the gas just to nail their nasty butts.

  198 Which is where I’d keep my two animals if I could ever pry them off the PlayStation.

  199 Black marker. On a white wall. Is it any wonder I keep my painter and not my pediatrician on speed dial?

  200 I know he can’t bring live animals or toys for show-and-tell, but sweet Mrs. Harrison’s never said a word about bodily secretions.

  201 Silent But Deadly.

  202 If I ever hit on the right recipe, I’m giving it a shot on the “girls.”

  203 OK, I confess. Putting these suckers away does not sadden me. I won’t wear them, but Hemingway insists they hang in my closet “just in case.” Just in case what? Just in case I finally suffer a massive head injury and spend the rest of my life wearing “mom jeans” from John Deere?

  204 Until the day Brett Favre retires; after that, all bets are off.

  205 Which makes taking the pedicure cure impossible.

  206 Like to a farm—hint, hint, Hemingway! Just kidding. Our move to the hinterland has actually been very good for my head.

  207 The chemical in the brain that makes you feel good.

  208 The area of the brain that stores memories.

  209 Which is a lot lately. See, there is this wonderful little publishing house called Penguin and they’ve offered to buy a book I’ve written. This book, in fact. For some reason they think my new life in the country, on a cattle farm, with nary a Starbucks in sight, is funny. So now I get to head north for meetings and lunches, the likes of which I’d never ditch in favor of managing my minibar. If I still had one, that is, which I don’t. And I don’t think my Snow Day Survival Kit counts.

  210 Possible Guidos. Let’s keep up here, people!

  211 Yiddish for “crazy.” For a real freyd (joy, delight, treat) pick up a little tome called Yiddish with Dick and Jane.

  212 Looking for a true exercise in futility? Try finding a Passover card in cow country. Go ahead. Try. I hate e-greetings, but sometimes there’s simply no other way to say, “Happy Seder!”

  213 Capo is Mafia slang for “captain” or “crew leader.” The aforementioned Christopher Moltisanti is a capo. Can you say “Suzy loves The Sopranos”?

  214 A secret, may I remind you, that stays here.

  215 I’d say breasts, but since there are plenty of guys who’d benefit from a little Victoria’s Secret Ipex action, it’s safer to go with something gynecological.

  216 The kids got earplugs.

  217 For the mathematically challenged (like me), that’s thirteen years. And thirteen years is a long time to go without tinkling the ivories, particularly if you’re one of those people who’s used to tinkling every day.

  218 The wall just happens to be in the living room. This allows me to bop back and forth between my piano and my laptop all day long. When I can’t write, I play. When I can’t play, I write. Clearly moving to the farm has cured me of the Clean Sweep!

  219 Although a few pair in Burberry plaid might make the whole thing more palatable, not to mention chic.

  220 How did we survive before DiGiorno?

  221 Funny Times. It’s the gold standard of humor writing. And no, they still haven’t published any of my stuff.

  222 A pipe blew up under Forty-second Street. It wasn’t a terrorist act, thank God, but it was terribly frightening and reminiscent of September 11 nonetheless.

  223 I know; it’s summer. Hemingway got a little ahead of himself in the planting department. Again.

  224 Again.

  225 We’re not Greek, but it could work. After all, our last name does end in a vowel.

  226 Oh, God, I am so shallow. Other people have their lives flash by. I have visions of the perfect lake house.

 

 

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