Friday, June 4, 2010

Chicken Fight!!!!

Hey there, World:

(Mean Chicken enters stage right and says:)

Know what I hate?  I hate when bloggers apologize for their absence.  We're all busy.  No one cares. 

(Mean Chicken exits stage left)

So I cannot win a fight with my husband and I hate that. 

I wish I had hyperboleandahalf's MSPaint ability for this post because I really think the illustrations would help, but I am just going to have to go forward with a verbal demonstration with the hope that I can create a nightmarish visual in your head from which you will most likely recover given five minutes and a handful of Lays potato chips to distract your brain sensors.


My husband's brain:  Picture one of those accordian files with everything neatly labeled.  Typed labels, not handwritten. That part is important.  And in each "file" portion of the accordian is a Chicken Transgression labeled by date (primary) and transgression type (secondary).  Transgression types might be noted as such:
  • Was not empathetic
  • Did not support
  • Was volatile due to perimenopause symptoms
  • Took husband for granted
  • Assumed (because when you assume....)
  • Subcode to Assumed:  Assumed mind reading capability
  • Was a bitch (also code as:  In general)
  • It is your fault (also a subcode to in general)
Etc.  You get the picture.

So let's say BigB has a problem with the Chicken:

There is BigB's brain, all nicely compartmentalized, and when we have an argument he puts on his reading glasses (figuratively) and starts thumbing through all his files and pulls out the perfect argument to whatever the current argument encompasses. BigB's files are many and his files are equal to his task.  BigB is a warrior. (cue Irish fightin' music)

Now let us take a look at Chicken's brain:

Chicken's brain looks like a big cloud, which is really a rather trendy techno-geek word right now, except it ain't so pretty in an argument with BigB.  Up front of the brain cloud is a primary cumulous cloud entitled, "Arrgghhh I hate conflict.  Please.  Please.  Joke Joke. Save me.  For the love of God, get me oughta here."

Behind the primary cumulous cloud is a general cloud that encompasses all Chicken's thoughts, feelings, and philosophical leanings.  The visual for Chicken's brain resembles Bob Marley's head.  Times 10.  No organization, no process. Just a lot of dreadlocks shooting out all over the place with a downward gravity. And when Chicken has a bone to pick with BigB, picture Bob Marley checking his head for lice. 

Compare that to the visual of BigB thumbing through his accordian files.

So when BigB has an issue to discuss, the conversation might sound like this:

BigB:  Why are you being such a bitch?
Chicken:  (tries joke escapism) And by "Bitch" do you mean really hot dog that you would like to have sex with?
BigB: (shuffles through files) No, I mean you are being a bitch, as in you are being a bitch right now, just like you were last Tuesday at 5:00 PM .  And the prior Saturday at 11:00 AM.
Chicken:  (in conflict escape mode) I'm not a bitch, I'm a creative and sometimes we are moody.  Don't take it personally. It is not about you. 
BigB:  No, you are definitely being a bitch.  Stop it.
Chicken: (defense mode) Leave me alone, I don't want to talk about it.
BigB: (calm and reasonable) I do want to talk about it. 
Chicken: (ridiculous mode) But I don't and I said it first, so I win. ....So there.
BigB:  You are being ridiculous!
Chicken: (agree and get the hell out) I know!
BigB:  (confused by agreement strategy) Well, stop it!
Chicken:  OK!!!

Now, let's say Chicken has a bone to pick with BigB:

Chicken:  (in defense mode after having worked self into perimenopausal frenzy over "unfairness of it all" and can no longer remain silent despite Conflict Avoidance Cloud screaming, "DON'T GO THERE YOU CRAZY BITCH") You are not being fair.
BigB:  Yes I am.  Last Tuesday I cleaned out the dishwasher, and I always give littleb his bath, and who always mows the lawn? huh? Who sorted out the Slurple Lexus Fiasco, huh? And hey, do you want to do the taxes this year? Do you even know what a W-2 form is? Plus two years ago on February 5, when you had the flu who was there for you?  huh? 
Chicken: (furiously trying to remember Feb 5, 2008 and choosing to overlook Slurple Lexus drowning)  I know what a W-2 form is.  D'uh.
BigB:  Oh you do?  And where is yours? 
Chicken: (perplexed) uh.  I gave it to you.  Remember?  You said, "have you gotten your W-2", and I said, "yes, I'll get it for you."
BigB: Yes, you said that on Feb 1 at 4PM, and then you went out for milk (allegedly) and you never gave it to me.
Chicken:  Yes, I did (knows she totally did not)
BigB: No, you didn't.
Chicken:  (Wildfire dreadlock number 34 kicks in, also known as the "Fabrication defense") Not only did I give you my W-2, but I also advised you on the new tax law regarding college tuition deductions for children over the age of 22 that is only effective this year.
BigB: (sad, disappointed face) Chicken.  No you didn't.  That isn't even a law.
Chicken: (self-rightous mode) Well! It should be!
BigB:  Chicken.  Life isn't fair. 
Chicken: (just wanted BigB to do more housework.  Does not understand how conversation turned to taxes.  Does not compute.  Does not compute. Emergency. Emergency. Escape. Escape at all costs.  Joke.  Code Funny)  Did you just fart?  Gross!!!
BigB:  Chicken, Why are you being such a bitch?


(Amiable Chicken enters stage left) Sorry I haven't been around.  
I have a lot of catching up to do, yeah? (Amiable Chicken exits stage right).

Chicken out

Sunday, May 30, 2010


Hi there.

How have you been?  Me?  Doing well, thanks for asking. 

I have some housekeeping to do.  Coffee Lovin' Mom, one of my new favorite reads, awarded me with the Beautiful Blogger Award.  Thanks CLM.  There is no pick-me-up like an award to boost you spirits and ego!

Also, the lovely S. from "You Wish Your Life Was More Like Mine" awarded me with this:

I feel the need to clarify that the Lovely S. is my firstborn, and therefore this might be one of those, "If I don't give this award to Chicken, she might not let me use her washer/dryer anymore.  God, it is SUCH a pain that she reads my blog".  But I don't think so.  S. likes me because she is not 16 now.  She also listed my cooking as one of her favorite things.  S. has a very long memory.  She is obviously reaching back to those days when I actually did cook.  These days it's more of a free for all and take out. 

Anyway, rules are rules and I would like to pass on the Beautiful Blogger award to Flabby Ninja.  I am also passing on the Super Commenter award to Joann at Laundry Hurts My Feelings, Mrs. P at Quilting in My Pajamas, Katie at Katies Dailies, Bossy Betty, Dee at a number of very secret places but she knows who she is:-), and Dalia the Stalker at Neurotic Girl's blog, as well as CB, who also knows who she is.  Some of the greatest commenters do not have blogs, they just share their love:-)

Housekeeping.  Check.

I feel the need to write more letters:

Dear DavidThorne:
I received your recent twitter posting with great delight.  A sitcom.  How great is that?  I've tried a number of avenues to determine whether this news is a hoax.  I'm happy to report that a number of internet sites do report that Renee Zelwegger does indeed favor a seaweed diet, and Gary Coleman did pass away (rest in peace), but that reporter was nowhere to be found.  While Keanu Reeves is hot and I can see why you would want him to portray you in the sitcom, I would rather see DavidThorne play David Thorne; or, as I mentioned in my response, Johnny Depp.  The squirrels I'm iffy about.  Pirates are quite dashing, though, and eye patches are trending now, as are fang marks.  Just a thought. I'd love to discuss the soundtrack when you have a free minute.  Also, could you take a minute to post on your blog.  Please?  The "Adelaide Community Server Sucks" excuse was eaten by a shark and is no longer available for your use.  I'm not an obsessed fan, I just like you very, very much.  Almost as much as you like squirrels.  I'm building a bridge for you DavidThorne.

Still waiting on your response but with every tick of the clock am thinking I may have to contact SafeGuard.  Or those folk at Lever.  They seem fun.
In cleanliness,

Dear Jerk in the Car Behind Me This Afternoon:
I Know!  It is SO irritating when someone performs an act of everyday courtesy such as letting a fellow driver make a left turn , which requires all of us slowing down for 10 seconds while said driver enters the lane, and I realize that this may have screwed up your very important text message by requiring you to both, a.) look up AND b.) apply your brakes.  I'm very sorry. You were right to lay on the horn. 

Mea Culpa this.   
You suck,

Dear Therapist:
Two weeks ago I drove by a nursery, felt compelled to stop, and bought $100 worth of plants, herbs, and potting soil, which are now sitting in my driveway.  Dying.  Didn't we discuss this last spring?  Shouldn't I be over this?  I'd like to request a refund for that session.  Or I could pay you for our next session in slightly alive plants.  Your call.
Not sane yet,

Dear Ronald McDonald:
Does the Filet O' Fish contain crack?  Why come it is so addictive?

Dear Sapphire Gin People:

Dear IKEA:
You are such a progressive company that I am sure you can come up with a supply managment method that only allows for one mini-wrench to be delivered for every four table legs because, really, one mini-wrench for EACH table leg is overkill.  What are the chances of someone ordering a table top and just one leg to hold it up?  See what I'm saying?  We recently ordered 15 tables with the customary 4 legs per table and I now find myself with 59 extra mini-wrenches.  I feel obligated to start a social enterprise to make use of excess IKEA toolage.  I don't have time for this shit.  Get with the program IKEA. 
Wishing you common sense,

Dear Blogger Community:
Would you like to purchase a necklace made out of left-over IKEA mini-wrenches?  Handy, right?
Going Green,

There are more letters.  I can't remember them right now.  One was really, really funny, too.  See what happens when you don't write things down?  sigh. 

Chicken out