The last blog I wrote was about science fair and that whole debacle. But the blog before that was about how I was completely preoccupied in being woefully, miserably single. However I did mention the chickens, so let's start there, shall we?
February-ish: After three damned long years of campaigning, the spawn finally talked me into getting chickens. "They'll be so great!'" said the spawn. "Gross!" said the mom. I had always considered chickens as the meanies of the meat world.
|The rodents of hell: Brian Froud's skeksi alongside Turd the chicken.|
Purchase chickens. Eight of them. I was told that they wouldn't look like skeksis for long. SO I was told. No eggs yet.
March-ish: I am the top cool kid, hot shot at a super-duper big-kid job. I am a kick ass person. I tell people what to do. My children tell me what to do. The scantily feathered sisters at the prehistoric sorority in my guest room tell each other what to do. They finally laid an egg. It looks like poop. Nevermind. No eggs yet.
March-ish II: I have now taken it upon myself to dive whole-heartedly into my chickenizing. I will never again find a mate. I will have chickens, and in them, I shall find peace.
We have named the chickens. They are not dead yet. Go me. We are the proud owners of Cleopatra, Maureen, Hoodoo (who I call Laverne), Hocus, Lilith, Glinda, Beaker (my little love), and Turd. We do not like Turd. Turd, as we are told, will give us bright blue eggs.
No eggs yet.
April-ish: My singularity has made me a bitter, old cat-and-chicken woman. Download Tinder app to recaption terrible dating site profile pics. Buy terrible gin. Still no eggs.
April 19th: Meet guy from Tinder. Coincidentally, he lives in my old home town. Coincidentally, he is from same old home town (though I'd never met him). Coincidentally, he's a zine editor/English major/general smart ass. Coincidentally, he is hot.
At first sight, I knew that I was doomed to live the rest of my life in utter joy with this man.
Still no eggs.
|Our sexually misguided hen, Laverne.|
I am given another chicken. Her name is Mo. She is the feathered version of Mick Jagger on psychedelics. I have nine chickens. NINE CHICKENS AND NO EGGS.
June-ish: My job--my awesome big-kid job--will be gone at the end of the month, I'm told. The fella asks me to marry him. I say, "duh."
He shows me the video of his high school death-metal air-band. I tell him that I'll still marry him and that we all have shady pasts.
June 21st: Laverne is acting funny. She is gigantic and pretty and has a waddle that goes for miles. Today Laverne crowed. Not just like a small, timid little crow, but a loud pubescent holy-hell-I-have-found-my-voice-and-all-others-will-suffer-my-wrath kind of crow. Laverne is a dude chicken.
A columnist from the newspaper calls me. They want to run a story about my hermaphrodite hen. I'd like to think that the story was sympathetic to my wretched rooster state; however, most people just laugh and laugh at this poultry genitalia switcheroo.
Still no eggs.
July-ish: I marry the fella in spite of his penchant for death metal. I am now the co-owner of a restaurant and bar. My parents take the chickens. I slowly move to my old home town. I am still slowly moving into my old home town.
I went back to see my chickens.
I found an egg.