How are you doing on those resolutions? Does your list fill a legal pad or did you simply type it into the "notes" application on your iPhone? I was tempted by the latter but I still can’t bring myself to completely give up paper. Perhaps I’ll add that to my resolution list, "consider giving up all paper except toilet and wrapping." Actually, I prefer gift bags so maybe I can even give up wrapping paper. Did you post your resolutions on Facebook for all to see or are you keeping them private? I think you’ve got to put your resolutions out there in the public domain or you won’t stick to them. Of course I won’t be putting mine out there, but everyone else should. Does your list include at least one item related to weight, nutrition, or how much alcohol you will or will not allow yourself to drink each day? Mine has at least 17 such entries. Okay, I’m exaggerating, it only has 15. One thing I’m thinking about for the New Year is whether or not I want to continue to be chicken godmother to the brood next door when their owner is gone. Up until the other night (for my Yankee readers, it’s okay to double up on your prepositions – "up under" is actually my favorite), I hadn’t given it a thought. Why wouldn’t I? What’s so hard about it? The hens put themselves to bed each night, I collect the eggs and close them up in the coop for the night, then I let them out in the morning…right after I eat the scrambled product of their immaculate inconceptions (yes, I created that last word – seems like it should be in the dictionary doesn’t it?). Well, Wednesday night was different. It was a cold, rainy, blue-moonless evening. I put on the crappiest pair of tennis shoes I could find and trudged myself next door to close up the chickens for the night. With the flashlight, I waded through the mud and chicken poop to do my usual peek into the coop to count off the four hens. The hay on the floor of the coop was all in disarray. My heart stopped as I listened to myself say "oh shit" over and over again as I realized that two of them were missing. Then I noticed that one of the coop windows had been broken out from the inside…a struggle of some sort had obviously ensued. In the pouring rain, I searched the entire mucky backyard without success. There was nothing more I could do that evening. With my blood pressure at its highest since Kanye dissed Taylor at the VMA’s, I went back to the house and poured myself a shot of leftover Christmas whiskey (doesn’t everyone have that tradition?). The next morning, in the light of day, I pretended I was Brenda on "The Closer" and went back over to survey the crime scene. Sure enough, one chicken was ready for chalk outlining. But where was the other one? I couldn’t find it. Perhaps Buffalo Bill had killed one and decided to keep the other for himself? I could only hope that Agent Clarice Starling was already on his trail. It was New Year’s Eve morning, and I really had to get to work soon or I’d end up having to stay there late to get my hours in. I went back home still conflicted about what to do with the deceased chicken. After several thoughts of asking Doc. B. to take care of it, I sucked it up, grabbed some plastic bags, and decided that since it was trash day, I better just deal with it. Thank goodness I did because synchronicity prevailed. As I walked next door, there in the front yard was the missing chicken. It had gotten out of the fenced back yard (flown the coop?) in order to save itself from whatever got its sister. Now all I had to do was catch her. For what seemed like hours (but I’m sure it was only about a minute), I ran around (insert bad pun) like a chicken with my head cut off until I caught the hen and got her into the back yard. I won’t go into details, but I then “took care of” the departed chicken, washed my hands about a thousand times and got myself to work by 8:15. All I know after this incident is that I don’t want to be a farmer. Even though farming is in my blood, it must get regularly filtered out by the desk job that’s in my heart. In the meantime, I’m still deciding if Chicken Godmother will be a role I continue this year. I probably will. That is if another chicken (or the hamster I’m also in charge of) doesn’t croak on the remaining two days of my watch. I wish you all peace, love and low blood pressure in 2010.
Friday, January 01, 2010
Silence of the Chicken
How are you doing on those resolutions? Does your list fill a legal pad or did you simply type it into the "notes" application on your iPhone? I was tempted by the latter but I still can’t bring myself to completely give up paper. Perhaps I’ll add that to my resolution list, "consider giving up all paper except toilet and wrapping." Actually, I prefer gift bags so maybe I can even give up wrapping paper. Did you post your resolutions on Facebook for all to see or are you keeping them private? I think you’ve got to put your resolutions out there in the public domain or you won’t stick to them. Of course I won’t be putting mine out there, but everyone else should. Does your list include at least one item related to weight, nutrition, or how much alcohol you will or will not allow yourself to drink each day? Mine has at least 17 such entries. Okay, I’m exaggerating, it only has 15. One thing I’m thinking about for the New Year is whether or not I want to continue to be chicken godmother to the brood next door when their owner is gone. Up until the other night (for my Yankee readers, it’s okay to double up on your prepositions – "up under" is actually my favorite), I hadn’t given it a thought. Why wouldn’t I? What’s so hard about it? The hens put themselves to bed each night, I collect the eggs and close them up in the coop for the night, then I let them out in the morning…right after I eat the scrambled product of their immaculate inconceptions (yes, I created that last word – seems like it should be in the dictionary doesn’t it?). Well, Wednesday night was different. It was a cold, rainy, blue-moonless evening. I put on the crappiest pair of tennis shoes I could find and trudged myself next door to close up the chickens for the night. With the flashlight, I waded through the mud and chicken poop to do my usual peek into the coop to count off the four hens. The hay on the floor of the coop was all in disarray. My heart stopped as I listened to myself say "oh shit" over and over again as I realized that two of them were missing. Then I noticed that one of the coop windows had been broken out from the inside…a struggle of some sort had obviously ensued. In the pouring rain, I searched the entire mucky backyard without success. There was nothing more I could do that evening. With my blood pressure at its highest since Kanye dissed Taylor at the VMA’s, I went back to the house and poured myself a shot of leftover Christmas whiskey (doesn’t everyone have that tradition?). The next morning, in the light of day, I pretended I was Brenda on "The Closer" and went back over to survey the crime scene. Sure enough, one chicken was ready for chalk outlining. But where was the other one? I couldn’t find it. Perhaps Buffalo Bill had killed one and decided to keep the other for himself? I could only hope that Agent Clarice Starling was already on his trail. It was New Year’s Eve morning, and I really had to get to work soon or I’d end up having to stay there late to get my hours in. I went back home still conflicted about what to do with the deceased chicken. After several thoughts of asking Doc. B. to take care of it, I sucked it up, grabbed some plastic bags, and decided that since it was trash day, I better just deal with it. Thank goodness I did because synchronicity prevailed. As I walked next door, there in the front yard was the missing chicken. It had gotten out of the fenced back yard (flown the coop?) in order to save itself from whatever got its sister. Now all I had to do was catch her. For what seemed like hours (but I’m sure it was only about a minute), I ran around (insert bad pun) like a chicken with my head cut off until I caught the hen and got her into the back yard. I won’t go into details, but I then “took care of” the departed chicken, washed my hands about a thousand times and got myself to work by 8:15. All I know after this incident is that I don’t want to be a farmer. Even though farming is in my blood, it must get regularly filtered out by the desk job that’s in my heart. In the meantime, I’m still deciding if Chicken Godmother will be a role I continue this year. I probably will. That is if another chicken (or the hamster I’m also in charge of) doesn’t croak on the remaining two days of my watch. I wish you all peace, love and low blood pressure in 2010.
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