And then it happens.
We’re sitting side by side, facing a massive mirror, our towel-dried, tousled manes beginning their pre-curl approach, when the stylist (yes, there’s just one) spies our rising ringlets and lunges for the diffuser.
Stunned, we protest and demand the attachment’s immediate removal, as well as the application of a heaping helping of Straight Stuff straightening balm. This doesn’t go over too well, and out of the blue he’s berating us for not wanting the lovely curls of the women in “his country.” In all my years of weekly blow-outs I’ve never seen a stylist get so worked up, and for a few moments I actually fear we’ll go mano-a-mano over use of the round brush-o.
Ultimately Nancy and I won out, and left (more than two and a half hours later) with our ramrod-straight-haired heads held high. The good news is Mr. Belligerent’s oh-so-slow blow-out should last me a week.59 The bad news is next Saturday I’m trying Shirley’s Hair Shack. Why is this bad? When the receptionist has to put you on hold to find out if the salon’s one flat iron will be back from the repair shop in time for your appointment, and you actually have the good sense to request a stylist who knows how to use that important piece of equipment, it’s either time for a crew cut or to see if the Curl Nazi’s any more compliant the second time around.
I’m also spending a lot of time in meetings with Nance and the contractor/decorator handling the renovations on Nate’s Place. These plodding powwows usually involve Nancy and me walking from room to room, making such pointed observations as “Gee, the closets look great painted! But where’s the light fixture and switch? Oh, the electrician is coming today, I see. And then the painter will come back and do touch-ups. Logical, very logical. And the landscaper with the money trees, I suppose he’s due soon, too?”
OK, I didn’t make the crack about the money trees. But I wanted to. Especially since, if they actually came across with a couple of those babies, I wouldn’t have to use Speed of Flowing Taffy Bank & Trust in town.
Now that I think of it, I’d like to clarify my earlier confession. I’m falling in love with horse and cow country for its looks, its beauty, and its indescribable pastoral perfection. But its pace is going to put me in the ground. I can hear the coroner now. “Cause of Susan McCorkindale’s death: country time.”
When it finally does happen I’ve asked Hemingway to please do me a favor and toss my body onto one of the burn piles that are so popular around here. Anything but a local funeral parlor. If they move as fast as the bank, it’s a sure bet I’ll start to stink long before they locate the coffin catalog or the instruction manual for the new embalming solution they just switched to.
Chapter Ten
TAKE THE “REHAB OR HOUSE” CHALLENGE!
It’s six o’clock Sunday morning, and already I’m tempted to add a shot of Baileys to my breakfast coffee. Which leads me to wonder if it isn’t time to kick off what I call the “Rehab or House” Challenge. The object is to see where I wind up first: rehab or our remodeled farm house.60 If things continue to progress at the country time pace of this past week, which is to say not at all, it’s a pretty safe bet I’ll be happily checked into Hazelden or Betty Ford long before I ever spend a night at Nate’s Place.
Herewith, the gory details:
Last Monday, the cleaning lady our combination contractor /decorator61 supposedly hired cancelled at the last minute. This was a bad thing as, at the time, the movers were coming on Tuesday, and as much as I had dusted and vacuumed and scrubbed and hauled stuff out to the Dumpster on Saturday and Sunday, I’d only finished the upstairs bedrooms and bathroom, and not touched the downstairs.
So I raced over to the house in not-so-joyful anticipation of repeating the process on the first floor, only to discover that my illustrious contractor and crew had not yet cleaned out their crap. Certainly I expect to have to deal with some dust and a few drops of paint, and maybe a couple scraps of sandpaper along with some electrical tape. But can someone please tell me if there’s an oath tradesmen take to ensure they make as big a mess as possible in people’s homes?
A row of empty green Perrier bottles lined one wall of the living room, cigarettes burned down to their filters sat on the freshly painted but now tar-stained for that lived-in look windowsill in the laundry room, and someone’s half-consumed Soup-for-One lay congealing in the corner of the den. In fact the entire first floor, from the front door to the mud porch, was covered in a carpet of crushed Marlboro boxes, half-used books of matches, empty Coke and Mountain Dew cans, dried Dannon yogurt containers, and crumpled Cheetos and Ruffles potato chips packages.62 And I’m not even going to go into the full complement of contractor-type materials tossed everywhere. Things like dripping caulk guns, tape measures, and still-wet paint pans, strips of lumber, boxes of nails, and swatches of plaster-encrusted sandpaper. Hey, if they didn’t care about packing them up, I didn’t care about pitching them directly into the aforementioned Dumpster.
Now, I’m no detective and I’m definitely blond, but standing there surveying the debris, I couldn’t help but wonder, If the house wasn’t prepped for the cleaning lady, was there a cleaning lady coming in the first place?
Hmm. I think not.
And rehab lurches to an early lead!
Cut to early Tuesday morning. The downstairs is as clean as I can get it, what with no help from the construction crew and my failure to finish maid school, and the moving people are due sometime between seven o’clock and noon.
Hemingway gets to the house ahead of me, only to discover a stepladder smack-dab in front of the front door, a tarp covering the floor, two electricians eyeing the light fixture above the island in the kitchen, and the painter doing touch-ups on the baseboard. Not exactly the perfect scenario for our paid-by-the-hour moving crew to come upon when they arrive.
Now, we don’t occasionally call Hemingway Stu “Marine Drill Instructor” McCorkindale for nothing.63 He sees these guys in the kitchen and starts firing off questions Northerner-fast. What are you doing and why? Who told you to do it? When did you talk to them? Can you get them on the phone so I can scream some obscenity-laced common sense at them?
Turns out the electricians have been told to shift the light fixture two inches to the right. Why? Because somebody screwed up the original measurement and it’s off center. Moving it will involve ruining the freshly painted ceiling, which will then need to be repainted (cha-ching!); almost certainly mashing still-damp paint from the ceiling into the surface of the brand new butcher block tabletop below, which will result in its needing to be re-sanded or worse, replaced (major cha-ching!); and the distinct possibility that Hemingway will kill someone (for free—finally, a bargain!). So he tells them, “No f-ing way,” and the electricians exit, stage left.
Sergeant Mac then turns his attention to Mr. Painter, and determines that no one ever told him about the movers’ impending arrival. In fact Mr. Painter was told specifically to come today to touch up the area around the front door, as well as the railing and wall leading upstairs. The very same spots that will most likely be “dinged” as furniture, boxes, and beds are hauled into the house. After a rhetorical “Does this make sense to you?” Hemingway dismisses him, too.
Shortly after the departure of Mr. Painter and the two electricians, the phone rings.
Seems the movers, who are coming to deliver two sofas, a chair, and an ottoman that we purchased from our contractor/decorator and move the rest of our furniture from storage into Nate’s Place, have a problem. Their truck has broken down, so they have to cancel. Hemingway suggests they simply transfer our four measly items onto another truck, but they can’t. They only have one truck. One truck. Would somebody please tell me what kind of moving company has only one truck?
So the house wasn’t prepped and cleaned properly. The painter was positioned in the entryway, and the movers, with their one truck, called ten minutes prior to their scheduled arrival time to cancel. And so I ask you: Were there movers coming in the first place?
Hmm. I think not.
I also think Betty Ford looks better than Hazelden. Let’s hope they take Blue Cross.
Later that same day, while I went to get the kids at school, Hemingway decided to check out our fabulous new refrigerator. Now, what you need to know about the refrigerator is that it is the only appliance, the only amenity, the only thing in this entire remodeling endeavor that my honey requested.
Ages ago, when we discussed with my brother-in-law and sister-in-law the benefits of ceiling fans versus central air-conditioning, Hemingway, ever the Scotsman, pushed for the less expensive fans, while I made no attempt to disguise my longing for a Trane AC system powerful enough to cool a hot flash in hell. What can I say? I sweat. And there’s no way I can properly primp and perfect my farm chic fabulousness if I’m schvitzing like a field hand. So guess which cooling option you’ll find in my cute farmhouse? Right. Not fans.
When talk of freshening up the kitchen with a few new appliances and a little paint escalated into a full-on rip-it-all-out redo, Hemingway was still hollering, “But custom cabinetry is so overrated!” when the wrecking crew arrived.
And finally, when my sweet sister-in-law and I were exchanging about a million e-mails and faxes over whether a butter-soft, deep chocolate brown leather sofa or a butter-soft, deep chocolate brown leather sofa with blue and green plaid Ralph Lauren-style fabric insets would look best in the den, Hemingway insisted our old denim couch would do fine. Do I even need to tell you that that cat pee- and-merlot-splattered lounge didn’t make the sojourn south? You had to be soused to sit on the smelly thing, so perhaps that explains his infatuation with it. I, for one, cannot wait to curl up on our plush, Ralph Lauren-inspired perch, if and when it ever arrives.
My point is that my honey had a hankering for just one thing:64 a refrigerator with an ice cube and cold water dispenser on the door.
So there he was, enjoying a cold one (a glass of water, not a beer, but it should’ve been) when he decides to open the fridge to see how much room he’ll actually have for his Budweiser. He swings the door open and discovers that it doesn’t swing. It opens, but only to about a 45-degree angle. He reaches in and tugs on the crisper drawers, but they open only three inches. Why? Because they hit the door. Why? Because the door is hitting the wall. Why? Because the fridge is too damn big for the space.
One thing that is a perfect fit for its space is the phone, which he snatches off the wall and uses to call me.
“Susan, have you seen the new fridge?”
“Please don’t tell me it disappeared. It was there when I left!”
“I mean, did you test it?”
“Test it? Oh, my God. The water dispenser doesn’t work?”
“No, it works,” he replies. “I’m talking about the fact that the doors don’t open all the way.”
“What do you mean they don’t . . .”
“Susan,” he cuts me off, which is highly unusual for Hemingway and simply means he’s had it, “the idiots bought a fridge that’s too big. The door on the right side”—BANG—“hits the”—BANG—“wall”—BANG—“when you” —BANG—“open it!”—BANG, BANG, BANG.
“That sound is the door hitting the wall?”
“Uh huh.”
Unbelievable. And yet, not unbelievable.
“It’s gonna have to be replaced,” he sighed. “And the wall’s going to need to be repainted.”
“Roger that,” I replied. “I’ll be back with the boys in fifteen minutes. Try not to tear the place apart, OK?”
And so I ask you, if you’ve got thirty-six inches to work with, should you fill it with a thirty-six-inch fridge?
Hmm. I think not.
Wait! Wait! There’s a celeb place called Passages that looks promising. Maybe I can do my rehab in Malibu and room with Kate Moss!
OK, so that was Tuesday. On Wednesday we expected delivery of our living room rug and rug pad. This was perfect, because we figured we could get the rug down and in place prior to the arrival of the sofa, which was now coming on Thursday. Both the rug and the pad were at the decorator’s, and we were told her partner would be bringing them over.
So I wait. And wait. And wait. I feel like Martha Stewart under house arrest. Finally the phone rings. Sorry, no rug today. The truck broke down. Of course it did. There are thousands of delivery trucks and pickup trucks barrelassing all over Fauquier County and I get the two that have barrel-assed their last. Coincidence?
Hmm. I think not.
You know what? Forget Passages and Betty Ford. And forget the Baileys. My rich French roast deserves a double shot of Frangelico. And so do I.
Thursday finally arrives. The movers are due, once again, between seven o’clock and noon.65 I drop the kids at school and head over to Nate’s Place. Hemingway joins me there, as does my sister-in-law. Soon it’s ten, eleven, twelve o’clock. No movers. At twelve thirty we call and are told they’re just leaving and will arrive shortly. At one fifteen we call again. No one knows where they are. We call at one forty-five, two o’clock, two thirty, and three. We get nowhere. We’ve been at the house all day. We want our new furniture. We want our old furniture moved. I keep saying silly things like, “Maybe they stopped to get gas,” “Maybe they stopped because they have gas,” and “Let’s give them fifteen more minutes.”
By three thirty Hemingway is Jake LaMotta mad. Finally, after his fifty-seven-thousandth pace back and forth across the porch he turns to me, snaps his fingers in my face, and says, “Susan, wake up. There’s no truck. There may not even be any furniture. They’re not coming. We’ve been waiting all day. Do you really think they’re coming?”
Hmm. I think not.
Though I do think Hemingway hid the Baileys and the Frangelico. So I’m resorting to Kahlúa. Right now. Mmm. Delish.
And so we left. And they didn’t come. And they haven’t contacted us yet. Despite being contacted by our attorney. Hemingway aka “Marine DI” McCorkindale may have been on to something when he suggested that the furniture doesn’t exist. It may not ever have been ordered. And we may have been BAMBOOZLED COUNTRY STYLE.
Tomorrow should be interesting. I think I heard something about “getting the sheriff and shutting her down.” If we’re going to do that, do you think they’ll let my kids ride in the police car?
Hmm. I think not.
But maybe, just maybe, they’ll give me an escort to the rehab facility I’m so obviously off to.
A note from the blonde in the boonies: You like chicken? Tastes just like chicken.
So now we come to the meat bird of the matter. A meat bird, for those of you stumped by that sentence, is a chicken raised solely for meat and not eggs. How do I, a city chick lost in the sticks, know that? Because having survived the trauma of wearing two turtlenecks and being called out for my Carmela Soprano sound, among other things, I’m about to enter the fabulous world of fowl. (Not to mention farm equipment, livestock-related fitness faux pas, cow punching—no, it doesn’t involve boxing gloves, but it should—and blackout survival, boonies style.)
I’m going to do it all in my spiky stilettos and low-rise Lucky jeans, no matter how many pairs of bib overalls Hemingway brings home. (I swear, if he greets me with “I brought you a little something, Sue!” one more time, I’m going to strangle him with the straps on those damn pants.) And while it may or may not involve a stint in rehab (hey, I’m trying to keep a little mystery in this memoir), it’s definitely a trip worth taking.
So what are you waiting for? Turn the page.
First stop, Nate’s Place.
Part Three
FIVE HUNDRED ACRES AND A SATELLITE DISH
Chapter Eleven
I MAY BE A CRAZY RABBIT, BUT I AIN’T GOIN’ TO BETTY FORD
We have finally, unbelievably, miraculously,66 moved into Nate’s Place, which means I’ve been able to back-burner the whole Hazelden/Betty Ford business. At least for now. Between being surrounded by three hundred boxes, the lack of having anywhere to sit—other than on the three
hundred boxes—and the fact that this place gets Night of the Living Dead dark as soon as the sun goes down, there’s still the distinct possibility I’ll be making a trip to rehab somewhere down the road.
In an effort to push that day as far into the future as possible, Hemingway and I have gotten busy turning our 110-year-old farmhouse into a home.
Thanks to my sister-in-law and her spectacular taste, the dated, dreary, 1950s-style wallpaper was ripped down in every room and deep, vivid, French country colors painted in their place. Never have I seen anything so warm, so rich, so ready to crack. As soon as Hemingway drove the one and only nail needed to hang my I LOVE TO COOK WITH WINE. SOMETIMES I EVEN PUT IT IN THE FOOD plaque over the door in the kitchen, dozens of tiny fissures raced out and up to the crown molding. This did not make my honey happy.
“Susan,” he hissed, nails held tightly between his teeth, “I told you there was a reason the whole place was papered. The walls are plaster.”
For a minute I was crushed. What about our family pictures? My dad’s paintings? The DOMESTICALLY DISABLED sign I selected specifically for over the stove? It saddened me to think they’d never see the light of day. But then it dawned on me that if my pictures couldn’t be hung, then neither could Hemingway’s. And since his collection includes an extensive assortment of framed Playboy Playmate of the Year magazine covers, I did a quick 180 and immediately embraced the idea of living with a lot less “art.”
“You know, hon,” I said slowly, so as not to tip him off to the fact that I’d just remembered the pictures of the big-breasted bunny women destined for the den, “I think we’ll like leaving the walls bare. It’ll feel more open.”
“But what about the girls?” he whined, going right to the afore-thought-of but unmentioned band of bleached blond, DD-cup, twenty-somethings who like “strong, sensitive guys who aren’t afraid to cry”67 and having their photo taken buck naked (except for a few strategically placed rose petals).
Confessions of a Counterfeit Farm Girl Page 7
