500 Acres and No Place to Hide

by Susan McCorkindale

  If you’re wondering if I’ll get flowers, chocolates, or any other gifts for this month’s Hallmark holiday, the answer is no. I don’t want flowers. They die, and that makes me sad. I don’t want chocolate. I eat it, and that makes me fat. And getting the little silver wrappers out of the weave in my sea-grass rug120 ticks me off, too. Sad, fat, and angry. Not exactly the perfect mix for amour.

  As for other presents? Well, any Valentine’s Day that doesn’t involve a surgical procedure is gift enough for this girl.Yes, twenty years ago this Valentine’s Day I celebrated this most romantic of holidays in the hospital. I was married six whole months at the time, and I can still hear my brand-spanking-new husband hollering, “I knew I should have gotten the extended warranty!” as they whisked me off to the OR to remove my spleen.

  Every year since, I’ve sent my surgeon a card. I always ask to visit my dearly departed vital, and he always asks how things are going with my therapy.

  Of course the one trip I am making right this moment is back to the store. I picked out a love note for my true love, but I completely forgot the stash of red Swedish Fish and two-pound bag of Twizzlers I always give him. Yes, he gets candy. But no flowers. And definitely no surgical procedures. The only one who’s operating on my man is me.

  Love,

  Susan

  Chapter Twenty-two

  AIN’T NO WAY TO TREAT THE LADIES

  Facebook. Twitter. Instant messaging. E-mail. All this advanced technology. And still they’ve got to totally flatten my ta-tas to make sure they’re tumor-free. Priorities, people. Priorities!

  I remember my first mammogram. I stood there, pressed against the machine and thinking, My God. This contraption’s like something out of The Crucible. Did having teeny-weeny breasts make me a witch?

  I know it makes me a bitch; I kvetch pretty regularly about being last in line when God handed out hooters. Of course, on Double Dose of Big Fat Butt Day I was the first one through the door, but again, that’s something I’ll address in The Counterfeit Farm Girl Goes to Purgatory: Like My Life Here Hasn’t Been Hell.121 But really, I hadn’t cast any spells, chanted, or even levitated Hemingway’s sweat socks into my bra. And yet there I was, feeling as if I were about to be pressed to death, one ta-ta at a time.

  Anyway, I recall the nice technician telling me to put my arm this way, and lean my shoulder that way, and please stay still while she compressed my minuscule mammary into the shape and—sadly—size of a silver dollar. Then she actually asked me to hold my breath.

  I looked at her like, People breathe during this procedure? Then she flipped a switch, and boom. It was over. Until we had to do it again. And again. How the mosquito bites that masquerade as breasts on my chest managed to cast a shadow I’ll never know. But they did. Twice. Each.

  Ouch.

  Can you imagine if men had to endure this to protect the health of their . . . you know? We’d need to have curb-side pickup for the number of guys dropping like flies from all manner of you-know maladies. There’s no way they’d go for protecting the family jewels by crushing the crown. No, the you-knowgram would be much more pleasant than the mammogram. For starters, it would probably be done in a sports bar with a couple of pitchers of beer and a football game blaring.122 And it would in no way, shape, or form involve squishing the little sports fan.

  All this is not to say I don’t get my annual mammogram. I do. Sometime right after my birthday I celebrate the fact that I’m one year closer to death by trying to prevent it. And afterward they usually send me for an ultrasound; seems I’m so filled with fibroids my virtually nonexistent jugs are tough to judge. My favorite part of that particular procedure is when I’m lying on the table and the tech walks in and asks if there have been any new developments. I lift the sheet, glance down at the girls, and reply, “Nope. Still flat as a four-year-old.”

  But I digress.

  I guess I just don’t understand why, in order to protect a woman’s breasts, we have to practically pancake them. Is no one working on correcting this situation? Sure, it’s a little more pleasant since my first visit with the vise; some hospitals give you fluffy robes and slippers, bottled water and chocolates, soft music, a million magazines, and the occasional chair massage. But they’re not fooling anyone. This isn’t some spa appointment and I just happened to select “mammogram” off the menu. The hell with that.

  When I get pampered I want a hot-stone massage and a mineral mud body wrap at Salon Emage,123 thank you very much. Not twenty minutes in a hyperclean trash compactor.

  No, it’s not fun, but it’s a necessary evil. One I’ve learned to follow with two other necessary evils: shopping and wine. I schedule my appointment just late enough in the afternoon so that when I’m finished, there’s still time to treat myself to something sparkly, usually a new pair of earrings. Nothing expensive. Just something fun to draw attention up and away from my poor, beat-up bosom. I tend to gravitate toward hoops. Really, really big hoops. Hoops so huge I can slip them over my head and hula. Which I don’t do, because they’d probably get caught around my throat, and God knows what kind of nifty medical equipment the hospital would employ to free me.

  Doctor: Looks like we’ll need the larynx crusher for this one.

  Nurse: But, Doctor, she just had a mammogram.

  Hasn’t she been flattened enough for one day?

  Once I’ve shopped, it’s on to chardonnay. Sometimes I meet my girlfriends at a restaurant. Other times I come home and have a glass with my honey. And yes, there are times when I sit on my sofa and say a prayer. Of course, I thank God for my good health. But I harangue Him, too.

  We’ve got the iPhone. And Kindle. And Skype. And yet the mammogram remains the Model T of medical technology. I’m not asking for a sunroof, Lord. But shock absorbers sure would be swell.

  Of course, God has bigger fish to fry, so I’ve decided to take matters into my own hands. The next time I go, I’m videotaping the entire experience and putting it on YouTube. And I’m getting my films and loading them on Facebook. If I have to flash the masses to improve mammography, I will.

  Care to join me?

  Write your congresswoman, the American Medical Association, or President Obama. Hell, write to Michelle. Go for your mammogram and demand a better mousetrap. Together we can effect change, spark a revolution, and maybe even force the geeks who gave us Google and Twitter to use their brainpower for the titters.

  If it works, it’ll be the biggest thing my tiny breasts have ever done. And then I’ll have to decide: Do I want a medal or a chest to pin it on? Believe it or not, I’m thinking medal. All of a sudden I’m jonesing for a new piece of jewelry.

  Cupcakes Got Your Goat?

  TO: Friends and family

  FR: Suzy@stuckinthesticks.com

  Date:Thursday, 8:17 a.m.

  Subject: Suzy’s Snow Day Science Experiment

  We’re having a wild snowstorm here in the hinterland, so the boys are home. Hemingway and Cuy are out feeding the cows, and the dogs are literally soaking themselves in the white stuff. Casey is demonstrating that he’s the true brains of the bunch by staying in bed. And I’ve secured my spot on the other end of the spectrum by washing the kitchen floor.What is wrong with me?

  The worst part of today’s snow day is not that the kids are certain to kill each other over what game to play on the Xbox or that the kitchen floor and the bathrooms—yes, I made the mistake of cleaning those, too—will soon be filthy again, or even that in about ten minutes Hemingway’s going to run in and drag Casey kicking and screaming out into a snowdrift.

  No, the worst part of today’s snow day is that there are forty-eight cupcakes sitting on my dining room table. They were supposed to be delivered to Cuyler’s school this morning for a bake sale or a class party or some such nonsense I signed up for. Only now, of course, that nonsense, whatever it was, is postponed due to precipitation. Sure. I can bring them in tomorrow and the kids can eat them then. But I fear there’ll be none left. Already they’re
calling my name. Suzy . . . Suzy . . . You’re too old for bathing suits and sundresses . . . CAVE and

  CONSUME US!!!!

  In an effort to fight back and not have to live on water with lemon and the occasional can of soup for what’s left of my life, I brought a few out to the cows. I thought of it as a sort of snow day science experiment. I wasn’t sure cupcakes would rank up there with range cubes, but if they did, I’d have forty-eight fewer things to worry about.

  So I traipsed outside with my Giants cap barely protecting my blowout,124 carrying a couple of yummy yellow-cake-buttercream-and-sprinkle-covered confections.And the cows? They decide to stay hidden in the hog pen. Guess they can’t risk ruining their precious tresses.Their loss. As it turns out, Willie and Duke, our two rather bovine billy goats, were only too happy to breakfast on some of Betty Crocker’s best.

  I say some because, well, I just couldn’t part with all of them. Forget bathing suit season. My main concern at the moment is whether or not I’ve got enough milk.

  Love,

  Susan

  Chapter Twenty-three

  IT’S OKAY, PHIL. YOU’LL GET MY BILL.

  I have a confession to make. I’m pretty peeved at Punx-sutawney Phil. If that damn groundhog had looked left instead of right, I wouldn’t have six more weeks of winter to suffer through. And trust me, I’m suffering.

  My skin? Flaking like a shot-with-sugar, bursting-with-butter, overbaked piecrust, people. My hair? Suffice it to say I’ve seen hay bales sporting healthier, more lustrous-looking locks. My nails and toes? Poster appendages for the Mitten and Sock Society. And my body? As flushed as a sheet of matte picture paper, and achy like somebody beat me with a bat.

  Hmm. A bat. Could make the perfect accessory for my visit to Gobbler’s Knob next February. Kidding. Just kidding. I’d never in a million years harm the world’s smallest, furriest weather forecaster. But if I could just get a little face time with Master Phil, I’m certain he’d see, by the pimples and red patches, lusterlessness, fine lines, and flaking (oh, the flaking!) of my complexion why February second is none too soon to declare spring.

  Ah, spring. The season of renewal and rejuvenation, rebirth and restoration, invigoration, revitalization, and the terrifying realization that if I don’t have my legs waxed from ankles to ass without any further ado, I’ll be able to rent myself out as a fur coat by fall. And once I do have my legs waxed, which this year could involve bringing in a Bush Hog, because, honestly, that’s how overgrown they’ve gotten, I can’t run from the pasty, pale truth: Winter leaves me as ashen as a cotton ball. A cloud. A Q-tip. A snowdrift unchristened by the goats, cows, chickens, dogs, and deer that traipse across our pastures like they own the place.

  If you’re getting the sense that I look sickly, sickly doesn’t begin to describe it. Walking corpse, on the other hand, comes close. So is it any surprise that I book myself a hydrating facial and a full-body bronzing session with the first sign of spring? I do. It makes me feel healthy, sexy, and pumped to put my sweaters, as well as my homemade dartboard of press clips and pictures of that wretched rodent prognosticator from Pennsylvania, in storage, and break out my T-shirts and shorts, skorts, sundresses, and sandals.

  Of course, before I can actually wear sandals I need to do something to salvage my feet. They’re not pretty any time of year, but winter brings out their worst. For starters, my toenails typically fall off and head to Florida, I think. And then the entire area surrounding my toes gets dry and rough and calloused, and while it’s nice that I can save money on steel wool and sandpaper, emery boards and Brillo pads (you’d be stunned how many household scrubbing tasks I can handle with my heels), it’s even nicer that my egregious extremities can be made glitter-wedge, peep-toe-platform, and flirty-mule fabulous by the miracle of the modern sea-salt pedicure.

  So I get one of those, too.

  Of course, I haven’t as yet, and thus have no business being in open-toed shoes. Right this second, two of my toenails on my left foot have gone to the great shoe store in the sky (or maybe Miami), and a third is threatening hoofer hara-kiri as well. Both the nails on my big toes are long enough to pick my teeth with, and the remaining five are stained with what’s left of the Red-y for Anything red I selected at my last pedicure. (And if that’s not what’s on them, then what I really need is a podiatrist.)

  Sure, I could’ve stuck with boots. But with the temperature beginning to climb a bit, my poor piggies would have sweated, not to mention stunk. And I couldn’t bear to add odor to an already offensive situation.

  So here I sit, Glamour “don’t” digits on display in my gynecologist’s waiting room,125 trying to avoid the stares of the perfectly pedicured. How did they know? What primal female instinct in the midst of thirty-eight-degree days propelled them to say, “True, I’m still wearing two long-sleeved T-shirts, a sweater, long underwear, jeans, and a down vest, and yes, I had to defrost my car again this morning, but something tells me it’s time for Conga-Line Coral!”

  And how did I not get this essential girl gene?

  In a few minutes, my evil extremities are going to be in stirrups, and then I’m really going to be embarrassed. Maybe my doctor won’t notice. I mean, feet aren’t her focal point anyway. Today it’s all about the plumbing. And I am so ready. I’ve tracked my cycle! I’ve showered! I’ve shaved!

  Shit. I think I shaved. Or did I just use my Slim Twin to smooth my calluses? Oh, that would be just like me. Attack the hoofers. Forget the hay bale.

  I’ve lost my mind, and obviously dumped a whole lot of girl DNA, too. Staring at my sad toes now, I can’t decide which would be best: the aforementioned sea-salt pedicure, or simple amputation. Maybe I’ll discuss it with my doctor. Or maybe I’ll just shut the hell up. The hay bale business is bad enough to make her triple my copay. If I mention my freak-show feet, we just might have to refinance.

  Beyond my feet, my list of spring spruce-ups is more than a dozen lines long. Which I guess makes sense, as I’m doing my utmost to limit such maintenance to once every six months.126 That’s why, in addition to all the other indulgences I’ve detailed here, I get massaged and manicured, cut, highlighted, and deep-conditioned. I get my lashes tinted, my brows waxed, and my eye zone zapped. I get power-peeled, cocooned in seaweed, and green-coffee contoured. I do it all in keeping with my mantra—which just happens to be the famous L’Oréal tagline, “Because I’m Worth It”—because I am worth it.

  And because I survived the long, snowy weeks of winter. Thanks, Phil.

  I survived the short, dark days, the cabin fever, and the bitter cold. I rose above the urgent “storm stock-up” trips to the supermarket, the sudden squalls, and the school closings. I bested the black ice, the heavy boots,127 and looking for the dogs in nine-degree weather. I carried on despite frozen pipes, forty-mile-per-hour winds, furnace failure, power outages, and an impressive attempt by all six of Cuyler’s barnyard beasts, which include Willie and Duke, the aforementioned grossly overweight Boer wether billy goats, and four growing bulls, Eli, Fido, Ky, and Charlie, to push their way onto the mud porch (like I said, it was nine degrees). I made it to the end of the doom, gloom, and “don’t drive without snow tires, a blanket, a case of bottled water, and a couple of leftover cupcakes in the glove compartment!” season with no help from that heartless groundhog. And so did you.

  So don’t delay a moment more. Pick a treatment and treat yourself. Book a bikini wax, a manicure, or a deep-tissue massage. Schedule some raindrop therapy, a relaxing foot rub, or a European exfoliating facial. Lock in a honey wrap, a salt scrub, a pore-purifying steam in the sauna, and a soak in a mineral spring. Hell, flip open the menu at your favorite salon and spa and reserve the entire right side. And don’t give a moment’s thought to the bill. It’s on Phil. After all, he made us wait for spring. Now it’s his turn to do the springing.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  JUST ANOTHER BLUE-GENED BOY

  “Why won’t she write him a love song?” Cuyler and I were on o
ur way to school: him to learn, me to try to learn how to teach PE, which is what I’d suddenly, surprisingly, found myself employed to do. I don’t know if other PTO presidents get “promoted” to teacher, but when I got the chance to hang out all day with the kids I love fund-raising for, I took it.128 Sometimes Cuy and I talk during the ten-minute ride; sometimes we listen to music. On this warm, blue-skied spring morning we were doing a little bit of both, which was kind of tough, as we had the Mustang top down and the iPod blaring.

  “What?” I hollered into the wind.

  “The girl in the song!” he shouted. “She keeps saying she’s not going to write a love song for somebody!”

  I nodded.

  “But why? Why won’t she write it?”

  I had to think. Despite the fact that “Love Song” by Sara Bareilles was blaring in our ears, I hadn’t really heard it. I’d been lost in thought, trying to recall the rules to dodgeball. I’m sure there are loftier pursuits, but this was mine at the moment, and I intended to figure it out. That, or ask a fourth grader.

  “I think it’s ’cause he doesn’t love her.” No response; total silence, in fact, except for Sara’s beautiful mezzo-soprano voice wafting through the honeysuckle-scented breeze. I leaned over and lowered the volume. “Listen to the words,” I urged. “She’s talking about someone, a boy, probably, who says they need a love song, but she needs a better reason than that. Like, she needs to know he loves her. And then she’ll write the song.”