500 Acres and No Place to Hide
Page 25
117 And I really do mean lamb. If I buy one of the big suckers I saw at the Fauquier Livestock Exchange, I can make a nice, comfy escape. And maybe Jenn will make us a couple of scarves!
118 With Super Plus Absorbency, should I overdo it in the fiber department, I guess.
119 Because we can’t have me forgetting to take that fiber, now, can we?
120 You’d think I’d have chucked this thing by now. Not only does it have patches of Tug’s dried poop and vomit stains from Grundy’s consumption of a dead something that so didn’t agree with him that he had to have surgery—two thousand dollars’ worth of surgery—it’s also where Duke left a housewarming gift the first time he got in. Oh, and it feels awful on bare feet.
121 Yeah, I added a subtitle. It’s the copywriter’s equivalent of a double tap. Ready, aim, Roget’s!
122 Or maybe a NASCAR race. But definitely not baseball or golf. Any sport that involves hitting balls would hit too close to home.
123 On Lee Street, in Warrenton. I like to think of it as a little slice of heaven in the hinterland.
124 Oh, the stuff I’ll do in the name of semistarvation.
125 I do all my annual checkups right around my birthday. I know; it’s a weird way to celebrate. But it’s a good way to get a read on whether I’m having another.
126 The twice-yearly beautification business is part of my halfhearted attempt not to plow through my 401(k), our checking account, and the kids’ college fund in order to delay looking like a leather handbag for as long as possible, and I have to say, it sucks. No, I don’t miss being a hotshot marketing pro. But I pine for, crave, dream about, long for, and miss more than words can say the money that let me invest in these indulgences. Sure, I was burned out. But, God, I looked good. Now, on the other hand, if the leather handbag I resembled was a Louboutin . . .
127 But not work boots. Yet.
128 The kids are cute and they’re actually happy when I finally, ultimately, get so confused (“You can have two runners on a base, right?”) I stop whatever we’re doing, put on “The Cha Cha Slide,” “Cupid Shuffle,” and Soulja Boy, and call it a class. An aerobics class, but a class nonetheless.
129 In fairness to the manufacturers of fabric softener, many of which do actually live up to their hype, what I really wanted was something that would give my kid’s clothes the consistency of mashed potatoes.
130 I have a confession to make. My sons have an Xbox, a PlayStation, a PlayStation 2, a PlayStation 3, and, at this writing, are campaigning hard for a Wii. Hey, it’s a poor family that can’t raise two princes.
131 Tom Cruise comes to mind.
132 The real ones, of course. Which are second only to the one I have in my head.
133 Way to go with the Wellbutrin!
134 I know I’m full of shit. The games cost, like, sixty bucks a pop. But still.
135 Speaking of ducks, have I mentioned my campaign for waterfowl? It’s part of my ongoing quest to give this place a little Central Park style. Of course, I got Hem’s okay to add ducks and swans to our ponds. But I’ve decided to surprise him with the ice-cream parlor. And the pot dealer.
136 But you wouldn’t, because there isn’t a margarita recipe in the world that calls for tequila, margarita mix, crushed ice, and half a cup of cat.
137 And the rest was consumed before daybreak. But you already knew that.
138 Isn’t it astonishing how fast kids can move when there are no chores involved?
139 Specifically Martell’s Tiki Bar in Point Pleasant.
140 Or, as we occasionally call them, overgrown mud puddles.
141 And it’s a damn good thing we have overgrown mud puddles—I mean ponds. I don’t think I’d have lasted five minutes being landlocked among livestock.
142 Isn’t it nice they have someplace to hang out when they’re not in the house? Yeah, I thought so, too.
143 Is it just me, or do Canada geese shit more than any animal known to man?
144 And the spot under the fridge where food collects when the kids kick it around playing “keep away” with the dogs.
145 Stunning, isn’t it? I can now make six different dinners, most of them with chicken. Geez. I hope I’m not becoming Wade Boggs.
146 I can’t exactly open a Häagen-Dazs, but a Mister Softee should suffice.
147 And not just curse in it.
148 Wade Boggs wouldn’t give me his recipe, but Dame Joan’s will do the trick. And once it does, my fowl friends, it’s on to chicken Francaise.
149 Anybody wanna buy a book?
150 Which happens to be my all-time favorite Web site, right after DailyCandy and the Fauquier County Public Schools site, which I really should visit more often so I don’t send my kids when it’s not in session.
151 Clearly another shining, mature moment for needy Suzy.
152 I have a pretty little orange-and-yellow butterfly tattoo on my right shoulder. Hem’s not too happy about it. He thinks it shows a “distinct lack of breeding.” I think it shows I’m more of a redneck than I realize. Oh, dear. I think we’re thinking the same thing.
153 But that’s only because they can’t figure out how to price them. Here’s a hint: If the kid’s first word was Budweiser or the name of the quarterback on your favorite pro football team, start high. Casey used to stand in front of the TV, an empty can of the King of Beers in one hand, and the full diaper he just pulled off in the other, screaming “Simms! Simms!” Trust me when I tell you I could get twenty-five, fifty bucks for that boy.
154 With a subspecialty in guilt carrying, of course.
155 I’m talking so cold the cows’ drool freezes on their face, and so hot the smell of steaming manure makes your eyes tear.
156 We keep white and colored lights up, then argue over which to plug in.
157 This alone tells me my man is going to get better. He still wants to live on a lake and raise salmon. All that fresh fish sounds good to me, but Nemo’s definitely not going to like it.
158 I have a confession to make: I now know enough about this stuff to argue both sides. And don’t even get me started on who makes the better bat-wing Bush Hog.
159 Bovine speak for—sorry—loose bowels.
160 Because I’d happily write about George Clooney and Patrick Dempsey all day.
161 Let me be clear about this. I’m an indoor girl. I love nothing more than a day spent sitting at my desk, staring out my window, working on ad copy, a column, or a post for my blog. And if I do decide to go out and enjoy the sunshine, I’m a million times more likely to drop the top on the Mustang and hit Lou Lou than I am to take a walk in the woods. It’s just not my thing. And besides, I hate bugs.
162 I’d get him a paper plate or a bowl or even a napkin, but he wouldn’t use it. My husband adheres to the “human as serving dish” school of thought. And I adhere to the belief that whoever came up with the DustBuster should be canonized.
163 Darth Vader. Can you even imagine how bad his breath had to be under that black helmet head thing?
164 The rumor that Secretariat’s feed holder was Waterford is false. He got Rubbermaid, just like the rest of ’em.
165 Look at that: lingo. And you doubted my master equestrian status. (Not to mention my talent for perusing the Tractor Supply Web site.)
166 I’m old, but I’m not that old.
167 Because I’m not a complete idiot.
168 And I quote directly from www.darwinawards.com: “The Darwin Awards salute the improvement of the human genome by honoring those who accidentally remove themselves from it. . . .” Oh, yes, I’m bound to be a recipient.
169 It felt like something out of Traffic, minus the piercing yellow lighting and Benicio del Toro’s smoldering stare, of course.
170 Two weeks earlier, Hem went in for Whipple surgery or, in medical speak, a pancreaticoduodenectomy. It’s the most commonly performed operation to treat pancreatic cancer, but it’s done only if the cancer hasn’t spread. All of Hem’s presurgery test results po
inted to his being a good candidate but, when they opened him up, they found it was too late. The cancer had metastasized to his liver and lymph nodes.
171 And being sleep-deprived doesn’t help.
172 And, as you can imagine, there are thousands of them, so check with your doctor before acting on anything you read.
173 Sorry to repeat myself, but please don’t do, take, or try anything you discover on your own before running it past your doctor.
174 I’m pretty ticked at her for the whole global-warming thing, too.
175 Step on ’em, squeeze ’em, touch ’em in any way and the aroma they release will make your eyes water. Better to vacuum ’em up and burn the bag. And maybe your Bissell.
176 Shortalls: short for short bib overalls and clearly a clue to my future. Why, since he was the one wearing them, I don’t know. But damn you anyway, Dan.
177 Dave taught him to ride a bike. Nick taught him how to make a milk shake. I had to make some kind of contribution to Dan’s “education.”
178 Because I’m really tired of trying to clean the living room rug.
179 In New Jersey, buying a carton of cigarettes practically requires refinancing. In Virginia, they’re so cheap they come with a free tin of chewing tobacco. And a list of local hospices.
180 Oh, I see. Better to just lug the stuff around, like a traveling tourist trap, instead of throwing it out, giving it away, or (and I really like this idea) opening a thrift shop with the shit!
181 The Latin name for the brown marmorated stinkbug.
182 A cute little number I usually follow the next day with my “Mommy Needs a Latte” tee and two aspirin. Check out the whole line of fun tanks and T-shirts at www.babybrewing.com.
183 Who, at that time, was known simply as Mom. The dame title was bestowed years later after, having read one too many British murder mysteries, she threatened to buy a cottage in the Cotswolds but didn’t because she deemed it “too dear.” (And we deemed her in need of a doctor.)
184 Her preferred poison pre–Misty Ultra Lights.
185 Can’t parallel park, balance your checkbook, or attract a boyfriend who’s never made the police blotter? Look no further than the woman who gave birth to you!
186 The Pittsburgh Steelers safety with the superlong, curly hair. Perhaps you’ve seen his Head & Shoulders commercials?
187 Further investigation is medical speak for tests, tests, lots of worry, and more tests.
188 In the world of cancer, everything’s a spot. It’s like we’re all rugs someone’s spilled wine on. “We’ve found a spot. It looks like cabernet, or maybe merlot, but we can’t be sure. The radiologist will look at it, and probably lick it, and we’ll get back to you.”
189 The number two reason being that, odd as the name Bluetooth is, it moves a lot more product than Looks Like a Water Bug Sucking on Your Ear ever would.
190 When I’m old and senile and stuck in a wheelchair, I want Cuy taking care of me. Why? Because when the time finally comes to push me off a cliff, I know he’ll make sure there’s a nice field of lush grass or a body of water to cushion the blow.
191 And about whom Casey’s guitar teacher, Mike, once said, “Susan, I’ve roasted things smaller than that dog.”
192 So don’t relax just yet, Ms. Yamaguchi.
193 Must be some sort of union thing.
194 And now you know why Black Angus beef tastes best!
195 Not that I have firsthand experience with that sort of thing, of course.
196 A million years ago, Hem encouraged me to enter an essay contest. For some reason, he was positive I’d win. As I had all the self-confidence of table salt, I was positive he was crazy. But, just to shut him up, I entered. I wound up winning, and Hem wound up finding out how much he and Dr. Frankenstein have in common.
197 Why? For once again approving a particularly pricey procedure, then backtracking, playing the “it’s experimental” card, and finally refusing to cover it. The bill we got is bullshit. So that’s what I’m paying it with. You know, sometimes living here really comes in handy.
198 Jeff, his parents, and his five younger siblings moved into our largest tenant house when it became available. And I don’t think the ignition was off in their Suburban before he and Cuy were best friends.
199 For medicinal purposes, of course.
200 And those bearing wine are particularly welcome.
201 Endoscopic Retrograde Cholangiopancreatography. Go ahead, say that three times fast. The procedure uses X-rays and an endoscope to see inside the digestive system and diagnose all sorts of un-fun stuff like gallstones, inflammation, and tumors in the liver, gallbladder, bile ducts, and pancreas.
202 Woo-hoo, go, white! Hey, you snooze, you lose, farm boy.
203 Up until the tomato-sauce/turpentine debacle of 1973, I was a dyed-in-the-wool “Birth of the Lord Means Lasagna!” Jersey girl. After that it was all downhill and to the left, to Chan’s Chinese restaurant.
204 Middleburg is ten tiny minutes from my front door.
205 I keep telling them, “Lunch at the Ivy, not on it.”
206 In a lot less than thirty minutes, I assure you.
207 Why the rush? Because otherwise they’d think we actually used the ugly thing and could refuse to refund our funds.
208 Because even Mother Nature had to piss on my simplification plans.
209 I had a maternity leave that didn’t last that long. I’m telling you, self-employment has so many perks.
210 The smallest of the calves did it like such a pro I christened her Kristi Ya-MOOGUCHI, and for a split second even thought she and I should team up for the Ice Capades. But that was before my friend Trish told me it folded. I believe her exact words were, “Yo, country mouse, get your head out of the hay!” Oh, well. Maybe Ms. Ya-MOO-guchi and I have a shot at Disney On Ice. Or maybe I should just try to get out more.
211 WUSA Channel 9 is our local news station, and Topper Shutt is the chief meteorologist. He’s very charming and usually, unfortunately when it comes to snow, accurate. Oh, and his real name is Charles.
212 My frequently forgotten, and therefore still alive, jade plant notwithstanding.
213 So please send Swedish Fish; yeah, they were his.
214 Which, even for me, is too friggin’ early.
215 Like, “And now I’m keeping Hem, and Casey, and the cat compliant with their medications. I spend all day pushing pills and liquids and getting spit at. Really, Hem, it has to stop.”
216 No, that I did yesterday at o’dark thirty.
217 I’d stream it and watch it right this second, but high-speed Internet isn’t an option here at our house. Hell, I’m just lucky I’m not doing this whole thing via dial-up.
218 Of course, I’m unsure there are actual ropes involved, but I’ll let you know when Clive arrives.
219 My behavior with Cuy’s hundred-dollar bill notwithstanding.
220 Hello, Hoffmann-La Roche!
221 Hello, Hem and Suzy’s dwindling savings!
222 But not Bonnie Parker, ’cause we all know what happened to her.
223 Pronounced “Zeloda.”
224 Which already runs us nine hundred and ninety-one dollars a month.
225 I mean, I wasn’t going to look anywhere near as good as Michelle Pfeiffer or Halle Berry anyway.
226 I’m always at my desk, if I’m not at the hospital, doing laundry, or driving someone somewhere. I don’t actually do any work, but the kids don’t need to know that, do they?
227 Which can best be described as dry dog food meets wet, dead anything.
228 I’m not sure I have the strength to throw a redwood tree, but I’m willing to try.
229 And a jogging bra, of course. I haven’t worked topless since my stint at the Bada Bing.
230 Which, by the way, went nowhere. And that’s the last time I ask Clive Owen for anything.
231 It’s never fun to find cops at your door. Unless you’ve called them to come cut you out of a dress.
233 Again.
234 That actually match my outfit, Officer.
235 An orange jumpsuit. Against my complexion. Criminal.
236 And here I thought only big breasts were to die for.
237 Including build a mental hospital and move in. Which I intend to do. Right after I figure out what the hell is happening here.