Hi World,
I have nothing of great importance to share with you. Surprise.
Here's a couple of random thoughts if you are bored and feel like reading. And you must be bored or why come would you be on a blog about Chickens, hmmm? If you have anything to do though, you should go do it. This post is totally not worth your precious time.
In this day and age, does it seem weird that there is no Miss America equivalent for men? I think there are enough single guys out there looking for college scholarships and fame that finding contestants would not be a problem. You could run it exactly like Miss America with all the same categories.
The reality show about them getting ready to compete is what I really want to see, though. Are you listening Lucky Punk? I'm gifting you. If you use the idea can I get a front row seat for the back waxing?
Know what else? There is no masculine equivalent for Miss. "Miss" is the appropriate honorific... (I had to look up that word. I didn't just know that. NOBODY freaking knows that. Okay, some geek probably does. Where was I?) Sorry. As I was saying, Miss is the appropriate honorific for an unmarried lady. So you are Miss from the time you are a young girl until you get married, although you could also correctly use Ms. if you so choose. For a male, however, the honorific has nothing to do with your marital status. When you are young you are called "Master" (bator hee hee). But then in your teen years you go right into Mr.
That bugs me. It also leaves us without an appropriate name for the pageant. Unless we call it MASTERbator America. But that doesn't really flow and if the Donald is going to bankroll it he's going to want it to flow.
Speaking of Donald....never mind. But you know he thinks that song is about him, right?
Joann, when I was leaving my Blackberry AA meeting tonight at Radio Shack, I passed these two guys with pocket protectors who were acting kind of suspicious and all, and I thought I heard your name mentioned, so I followed them. (cue Pink Panther theme song). You are right. They are fucking with you. But guess why? They think you are hot. Yup. The internet geeks have a crush on the Mannix, and because they have the combined social skills of an 11-year-old they are getting your attention the only way they know how.
Really, it's Bono I feel bad for. You should see what they are doing to his fan page. Not good. Not good at all.
I heard about this new hot club called The Cove but I can't get in. Even though I totally know the owner.
Have you ever noticed that people who have English accents seem much smarter than Americans. You could meet up with the dumbest English guy in the world and he would be all, "Cheerio old chap, two plus two equals ten, right then, fancy a pint?" and you would agree with him because he sounds smart. Dinners, you should totally move to America. Think of all the fun you could have and everyone would be hanging on your every word.
So here we are at the end. I hope you don't feel sorry you read the whole thing. I tried to warn you.
Old Chap. Fancy a pint?
Chicken out
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Birth Announcement
The Chicken Family of Somewhere in New England welcomes into their lives 2010 Gray Camry SE. Camry weighed in at 28 MPG highway. It is little and cute and sporty. Camry was born with a sunroof and several desirable safety features. Welcome Gray Camry. Long may you run.
Yes, World, BigB finally chose a car to replace slurple Lexus. It was difficult and I could write a whole post about this angst but BigB would not appreciate so I'll keep my snide chicken comments to myself. I'm happy to have Gray Camry in our lives and I know Slurple Lexus would be touched that we continued the Toyota tradition
In other news, World, my interview with Dee from Say Anything is posted today. To read it go to Dee's page, Say Anything.
Boy, when she says May 5, she does not fool around and it is already up. I'm not ready for my Close up, Dee, Geesh. The lights, the lights. NO, the OTHER side, you idiot. This profile makes my NOSE look big. Where's my Evian. Where are my blue m&ms? Bruce? Bruce I need you, Pet. That's a good little rockstar. Aaaaah. Ok, I'm ready now.
About a week ago I wrote a post about buying a new cell phone and finding myself. Unfortunately, I only got as far as the cell phone story before I got the glaring "get off the computer" eyeballs, so I never told you how I found myself. I've got about five minutes to tell you now. Ready? Andddddd Your on. I mean I'm on. You know what I mean...
Do you remember when I was talking about that book, Healing the Daughters of Narcissistic Mothers that I had bought on sale at Borders as a joke for my daughter, and how I was conflicted because I made the mistake of reading it and was semi-convinced that either I was the narcissist or my mother was and I couldn't decide? Well, instead of doing the sensible thing and shoving the book way, way under the bed, I kept reading it. And that is how I found myself.
I came to a chapter on healing and it advised getting a bunch of magazines and cutting out pictures of the person you think you would be if you were not a narcissist's daughter. I love a good arts & crafts project, so I jumped on board totally choosing to forget that a few months ago I actually snickered out loud when a 23-year-old at work started talking about her "vision board". I know. That wasn't very nice of me. I'm more humble now. And anyway, this isn't the same thing. I'm HEALING.
I grabbed my scissors, my glue stick, and a pile of magazines and started cutting away. Snip, snip, glue, glue, slap, slap. I was in the zone. I was so focused on my healing that until I finished, I wasn't even really aware of what I was cutting and gluing. I just went with my gut, you know? It was, like, so freeing.
When I finished, I took a deep breath, said a little serenity prayer, and stepped back. I looked at what I had made. I looked at who I would have been if I hadn't had a narcissistic mother. If indeed I did have a narcissistic mother.
And I saw....
France. No butt guts. Photo after photo of Paris, the Eiffel Tower, the French countryside. Phew.
I'm NOT a narcissist's daughter or a narcissistic mother, World.
I'm a narcissistic COUNTRY. Mona Lisa and I are tight like that. I call her ML. We comment on each others' blogs. She lives at the Louvre. Roll the rrrrrr's. You can do eeet, ma petite chickadees. Rollllllll the rrrrrs. Let the rrrrrs make love on your toungue....
C'est bonne, n'est pas?
Chicken out
Yes, World, BigB finally chose a car to replace slurple Lexus. It was difficult and I could write a whole post about this angst but BigB would not appreciate so I'll keep my snide chicken comments to myself. I'm happy to have Gray Camry in our lives and I know Slurple Lexus would be touched that we continued the Toyota tradition
In other news, World, my interview with Dee from Say Anything is posted today. To read it go to Dee's page, Say Anything.
Boy, when she says May 5, she does not fool around and it is already up. I'm not ready for my Close up, Dee, Geesh. The lights, the lights. NO, the OTHER side, you idiot. This profile makes my NOSE look big. Where's my Evian. Where are my blue m&ms? Bruce? Bruce I need you, Pet. That's a good little rockstar. Aaaaah. Ok, I'm ready now.
About a week ago I wrote a post about buying a new cell phone and finding myself. Unfortunately, I only got as far as the cell phone story before I got the glaring "get off the computer" eyeballs, so I never told you how I found myself. I've got about five minutes to tell you now. Ready? Andddddd Your on. I mean I'm on. You know what I mean...
Do you remember when I was talking about that book, Healing the Daughters of Narcissistic Mothers that I had bought on sale at Borders as a joke for my daughter, and how I was conflicted because I made the mistake of reading it and was semi-convinced that either I was the narcissist or my mother was and I couldn't decide? Well, instead of doing the sensible thing and shoving the book way, way under the bed, I kept reading it. And that is how I found myself.
I came to a chapter on healing and it advised getting a bunch of magazines and cutting out pictures of the person you think you would be if you were not a narcissist's daughter. I love a good arts & crafts project, so I jumped on board totally choosing to forget that a few months ago I actually snickered out loud when a 23-year-old at work started talking about her "vision board". I know. That wasn't very nice of me. I'm more humble now. And anyway, this isn't the same thing. I'm HEALING.
I grabbed my scissors, my glue stick, and a pile of magazines and started cutting away. Snip, snip, glue, glue, slap, slap. I was in the zone. I was so focused on my healing that until I finished, I wasn't even really aware of what I was cutting and gluing. I just went with my gut, you know? It was, like, so freeing.
When I finished, I took a deep breath, said a little serenity prayer, and stepped back. I looked at what I had made. I looked at who I would have been if I hadn't had a narcissistic mother. If indeed I did have a narcissistic mother.
And I saw....
France. No butt guts. Photo after photo of Paris, the Eiffel Tower, the French countryside. Phew.
I'm NOT a narcissist's daughter or a narcissistic mother, World.
I'm a narcissistic COUNTRY. Mona Lisa and I are tight like that. I call her ML. We comment on each others' blogs. She lives at the Louvre. Roll the rrrrrr's. You can do eeet, ma petite chickadees. Rollllllll the rrrrrs. Let the rrrrrs make love on your toungue....
C'est bonne, n'est pas?
Chicken out
Monday, May 3, 2010
Mark, Hey...Hey.....Mark...Over Here....It's me, Chicken!
Mark....look up...yeah, man, 52nd row balcony, 34th to the right. See the big tall guy? Yeah, behind him....
See my arm waving wildly??? Mark, hey Mark...
Hi World,
You may recall that Saturday was a big music day for the Chicken family. We started with an all day folk festival and ended with a Mark Knopfler concert at the MGM Grand Theater at Foxwoods.
I'd be hard pressed to tell you which event I enjoyed most. Mark was injured and remained seated through the entire concert. This is going to sound shallow (because it is), but I really wanted him to be standing up. I don't even know why. I just kept thinking, ok, when is he going to stand up. Uh. Never. See? Shallow. I never promised you deep chicken thoughts on this blog. Did I? I hope not.
He was great, even sitting down. Evidently he didn't get my fan letter, though. He also apparently did not recognize me in the balcony, standing behind the tall husky guy and gesticulating wildly. Waving my Takamine...
Here's a question for you: What does it mean that they had a contest for a free seat upgrade and I kept checking my test messages for the first hour and a half of the concert before it occurred to me that, out of the 2,000 people there, maybe I didn't win....
I like to think that makes me an optimist.
The music festival, on the other hand, was FREE which is one of my very favorite words. It took place outside on a beautiful warm day and featured a dozen or more performers. The only thing that could have made it better, possibly, would have been the smell of grease. For some reason there were no food stands and this was disappointing to the Chicken clan. When I go to a festival, I want to start with fried dough loaded with butter, cinammon and confectioner's sugar, follow that with french fries drowning in ketchup and vinegar and served in those little red and white checked paper containers, and wrap up with a pint block of ice cream dipped in chocolate and covered in nuts. Carnival Food. That's what I'm talking about.
Here are some photos of littleb. In the first shot, post Del's Cherry Lemonade, he is giving his crocs a bath in the fountain we found. In the remaining photos he is dancing to a drumming performance. He took his inspiration from several frat/sorority members, in togas, dancing wildly and under the influence of something; possibly several somethings. I did like that they had the foresight to dress for the occasion. I'm sorry, World. I didn't even think to take pictures of the drummers or the drunken dance troupe and now I'm kicking myself. I have to start remembering these things.
See my arm waving wildly??? Mark, hey Mark...
Hi World,
You may recall that Saturday was a big music day for the Chicken family. We started with an all day folk festival and ended with a Mark Knopfler concert at the MGM Grand Theater at Foxwoods.
I'd be hard pressed to tell you which event I enjoyed most. Mark was injured and remained seated through the entire concert. This is going to sound shallow (because it is), but I really wanted him to be standing up. I don't even know why. I just kept thinking, ok, when is he going to stand up. Uh. Never. See? Shallow. I never promised you deep chicken thoughts on this blog. Did I? I hope not.
He was great, even sitting down. Evidently he didn't get my fan letter, though. He also apparently did not recognize me in the balcony, standing behind the tall husky guy and gesticulating wildly. Waving my Takamine...
Here's a question for you: What does it mean that they had a contest for a free seat upgrade and I kept checking my test messages for the first hour and a half of the concert before it occurred to me that, out of the 2,000 people there, maybe I didn't win....
I like to think that makes me an optimist.
The music festival, on the other hand, was FREE which is one of my very favorite words. It took place outside on a beautiful warm day and featured a dozen or more performers. The only thing that could have made it better, possibly, would have been the smell of grease. For some reason there were no food stands and this was disappointing to the Chicken clan. When I go to a festival, I want to start with fried dough loaded with butter, cinammon and confectioner's sugar, follow that with french fries drowning in ketchup and vinegar and served in those little red and white checked paper containers, and wrap up with a pint block of ice cream dipped in chocolate and covered in nuts. Carnival Food. That's what I'm talking about.
Here are some photos of littleb. In the first shot, post Del's Cherry Lemonade, he is giving his crocs a bath in the fountain we found. In the remaining photos he is dancing to a drumming performance. He took his inspiration from several frat/sorority members, in togas, dancing wildly and under the influence of something; possibly several somethings. I did like that they had the foresight to dress for the occasion. I'm sorry, World. I didn't even think to take pictures of the drummers or the drunken dance troupe and now I'm kicking myself. I have to start remembering these things.
So that was Chicken's exciting weekend. They sure don't come often.
Speaking of great weekends, I know a lot of you readers are moms. What would be your ideal mother's day?
I'm hoping for a Max and Ruby festival.
Take care,
Chicken out
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