Susan McCorkindale - 500 acres and no place to hide: more confessions of a counterfeit farm girl

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Praise for

Confessions of a Counterfeit Farm Girl

Packed with droll humor... McCorkindales memoir is a witty take on what happens when you try to take the girl out of New Jersey.

Booklist

A rollicking, Green Acresesque memoir.

Working Mother

[McCorkindale] calls herself counterfeit but she is truly the real thing; witty, startling social commentary in a flawless voice.

Laura Collins, author of Eating with Your Anorexic

Witty, devilish, honest, and laugh-out-loud funny. Susan tells it like it is.

Petroville

The author is at her funniest when recounting her faux pas: assuming that riding meant the subway, or not knowing what address to give the 911 operator (numberless estate name or P.O. box?). Her prose is chatty and upbeat.

Kirkus Reviews

Deserves five John Deere tractors, an appropriate equivalent of five stars. The author is edgy and funny, and pulls no verbal punches.

Middleburg Life (VA)

Nothing could be more amusing than reading about a shoe-loving, makeup-wearing, once-a-week-hair-salon-visiting, manicure-sporting New York City marketing director finding herself on 500 acres of prime cattle farm. Especially when the story is written by Susan McCorkindale, a woman with... wonderful self-deprecating humor and wit.

The Trumpet Vine

Confessions is 350 pages of fall-down-funny anecdotes of Susans adventures on the cattle farm she and her family now run.... Susans sense of humor is as divine on paper as it is in person. Her style is unique and elevating and can be best described as Nora Ephron, only closer to home.

Warrenton Lifestyle Magazine

For Nancy and Doug

Authors Note

This work is a memoir. For the sake of storytelling purposes and pace, aspects of the time line have been compressed. In addition, certain names and identifying characteristics have been altered out of respect for peoples privacy. Of course, certain other names and identifying characteristics have not been altered. This doesnt mean I dont respect those peoples privacy, just that I couldnt resist telling the world how wonderful they are. By the end of this book, I believe youll love them as I do. But that doesnt mean you should friend them on Facebook. Following them on Twitter is fine.

Parenthood: that state of being better chaperoned
than you were before marriage.

MARCELENE COX,
TWENTIETH-CENTURY HUMORIST

Nowhere to run to, baby, nowhere to hide.

MARTHA REEVES AND THE VANDELLAS

Prologue

TO: Friends and family

FR: Suzy@stuckinthesticks.com

Date: Wednesday, 10:35 a.m.

Subject: Nemo Knows Best

About the salmon farm. Hemingway And so, much to the dismay of the livestock on our five-hundred-acre beef cattle farm, were not swapping the tractor for salmon tanks just yet. Were staying right here in the middle of nowhere with the cows and the bulls and the goats and the hens.

God, how I hate the hens.Youd think that over the past few years wed have figured out how to live together. But no.They despise me and, frankly, I find them pretty distasteful, too. Unless theyre breaded and deep-fried, fricasseed, broiled, barbecue grilled, or roasted with a dash of rosemary. Then I likeem just fine.

But Im getting ahead of myself. Before I launch into my foul relationship with our fowl, let me take a second to bring you up to speed.

Back in the summer of 2004, on a day so sweltering hot Id have given anything (my favorite pair of Guccis, a kidney, maybe even one of my kids) to get back into our air-conditioned car, I let my handsome, former marine husband convince me to walk away from a six-figure job as marketing director of Family Circle magazine and move to the country. I admit I was burned out at the time and a stinta short stintin the sticks sounded like it might be refreshing, rejuvenating, and really good fodder for cocktail-party conversations when we came to our senses and returned to suburbia.

The thing is, we havent returned to our senses The idea, according to my younger son, is to get an agricultural degree from Virginia Tech, make a living raising Black Angus cattle, and then supplement his income by hosting Civil War reenactments on the weekends.

Youve got to love a little boy with a business plan.

Its a good thing someones thinking about the future, because in all honesty? When Im not staring out at the cows and pining for the days of expense-account lunches at Smith & Wollensky steakhouse, afternoon Starbucks breaks, and a designer footwear collection that rivaled a DSW, Im thinking about the present. And trying not to have a panic attack.

Despite my mixed emotions about the farm, life in the boonies has netted me some neat new skills (come on, Ill show you how to band a bull!), a great new group of girlfriends, and a whole new career as a writer.

Of course, Hem says I dont write as much as rant about country stuff that drives me crazy, and about that he might be right.

He also says someday Im going to regret my ranting and wish I could take it all back. And about that he might really be on the money.

I already feel bad about not painting a rosier picture of life here in the hinterland. I cant believe I didnt celebrate the snakes in the cellar, the mice in the utensil drawer, and the stinkbugs scurrying across my forehead while I was trying to sleep. I cant believe I didnt pledge to learn to make my own jam, can my own tomatoes, or wield a power jerky blaster. I cant believe I didnt replace my Spode dinnerware with the John Deere collection that Tractor Supply carries, or learn to drive a tractor, ride a horse, or bag a buck. I cant believe I didnt embrace NASCAR and Toby Keith, denounce the New York Giants, and stock up on Redskins jerseys.

And I certainly cant believe I bitched on paper about the bizarre attire that passes for womens fashion in these parts.

Oh, Lord, do you think its too late to trade my stilettos for work boots and develop a taste for pulled pork? Is it too late to change my tune and say I absolutely, positively love life on the farm, or at least make one last push for us to move to the salmon farm?

As my dear friend Trish would say, Sorry, Suz, that train has left the station. If its got a bar car, Id damn well better hop on.

Love,

Susan

Part One

SLEEPLESS IN STICKSVILLE

There are good days and there are bad days, and this is one of them.

LAWRENCE WELK

Chapter One

CLUCKSTERS LAST STAND

I have a confession to make: Ive adopted an if you cant beat em, join emat least a little attitude about farm life. I dont know if Ill ever love it, but I wont know if I dont try, right? Besides, it gives Hem a kick to see me pitching in to herd cattle, haul feed, or put in a fence post. And the fact that Im doing it in heels only makes him laugh harder.

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