Pssst. You looking for Chicken?

I've moved!

Go to Wordpress.

Knock twice on the back door.  Ask for Ralphie.

When Ralphie comes, tell him the hens have gone rogue.

He'll tell you where to go next.

Or you could just link here:  The New Hen House

See you on the other side!

Chicken out

Big Spirit

Sometimes  I experience the sensation  of expansiveness.  It happens most often just as I am waking up or drifting off.  The best thing about this sensation is its optimism.  This sensation  tells me everything is as it should be.  It's all good.

I can describe it is as a pot boiling over.  I'm the pot and my spirit is the liquid inside the pot that expands until it can't be contained and starts to run over the edge.  When your kitchen pots are boiling over it's a sign that you're doing something wrong.  When your spirit wants to expand beyond the container of your body, it's a sign you are doing everything right.  Just let it go.

I'm  not sure if the sense of expansiveness is just my  spirit letting loose with its bad self,  or whether it is my portion of spirit joining with the mother spirit.  Whenever it happens I get a glimpse of the person I can be, that I truly am, without the shackles of my ego, fears, values and social  mores.  The real me is playful, fearless, loving and curious. The real me really loves you.  Even if you are being a bit of an asshole, I love you.  The real me can see the real you inside of there.  The real me knows the real you is being contained in this moment by all of your ego, fears, values and social mores.  The real me wants to hug you or wink  at you or tease you or give you whatever you need right now to let you know that everything is as it should be.  You are all good.  The real me trusts that when the situation is reversed, you will also love me.  Imagine if the real me and the real you busted out at the same time?  How great would that be?

The real me would like to invite the real you out to play.

Chicken  out

And Then Chicken's Mother Wrote a Letter

Dear Blogger:

I am writing to discuss a matter of great concern.

My Chicken is being bullied by someone in your organization and something needs to be done about it.  Bullying is not to be tolerated.  Ask Michelle Obama.  Or any of the 87 Real Housewives.

I am disappointed in you, Blogger.  Has this behavior been happening under your nose and you've chosen to ignore it?  Or am I giving you too much credit?  Perhaps you are simply so negligent in  your duties that you failed to notice?  Either scenario is deplorable.  If it were up to me, I would have removed Chicken from this hostile environment after the very first episode, but she's a fighter, my Chicken is, and she refused to give up her turf.

"It's just photos, Mom", she said. "I can always replace them."  Well, it wasn't "just" photos, Blogger, it was every photo she's ever posted in the last six years.  Gone overnight.  If only she'd started on Word Press, like we encouraged her to do.  But no, she found your site more user friendly.  Ha. That's a laugh, isn't it?  I watched her struggle to locate and replace each photo.

And then you took them again.  Then post delays started happening.  Links suddenly broke and people were blocked.  Good people.

And still, my Chicken put a smile on her face and kept going.  "Maybe I messed something up, Ma, it's no big deal.", she said.

But now it's gone too far, Blogger.  I can no longer maintain my silence.  At 7:52 PM this evening,  my poor Chicken logged onto her page and discovered the theft of her entire blog roll.  Even the gadget that supported her blog roll has disappeared. You've taken away her friends.  Who does such a thing?

You, Blogger, will address this issue immediately.  Future acts of bullying will be met with legal action.  And I'm writing a letter to Andy Cohen.  You heard me.   Prepare for the anti-bullying fury of 87 botoxed housewives.  I've heard those Australian ones are particularly agressive.  But that's what you get.  Nobody messes with my Chicken.


Sincerely,

Chicken's mother

I am your sales representative...

Dear Colleague,

I am your sales representative and as such I represent our company's brand, services and employees in the public realm.  Every day, I meet with potential customers.  I  tell them about our company.  I convince them that if they have a need for a service we provide, that we (you and I), are better equipped than our competitors to deliver that service.

When I'm successful at my job, we all win. If I am not successful, we both lose our jobs.  Wait, you might be thinking, why should I lose my job because you suck?  Well, if we don't have any customers, we don't really have an immediate need for your services, do we?  Have you worked through that equation?  "X (me) + Y (customers) = Z (our jobs).

Let's recap, shall we?  I am regularly in public making first impressions on your behalf.   We both need those impressions to be positive.  Our continued employment depends upon it.  Therefore, it would seem to behoove you to alert me to anything off putting regarding my appearance.  Green things hanging out of my nose, for instance, or a skirt stuck in the waistband of my underwear, would be examples of things I need brought to my attention.

Do not tell me, dear co-worker, that you did not see the hunk of spinach in my teeth today.   I know you saw it.  How could you not have?  We stood face-to-face discussing your awesome social media skills for at least five minutes.  "I rule at twitter and by the way you  have something in your teeth", was all you needed to say. Were you waiting for me to leave so you could tweet about it?  #gross #shouldisaysomething? Yes, you fucking should. Must we now crowd source the merest courtesy?

Your lack of common sense is not going to keep us paid and laid.  I don't care how many twits follow you.

Thank you for your future cooperation.

Your sales representative

Let Twilight Come...

Let twilight come.
Let it settle, now,
gently over our shoulders
and between the pines.
Let it slide down
softly, now
flowing around fingers
entwined between our chairs.
Let it brush the backs of dragonflies
that swoop and hunt
so fierce
so fragile
above our heads.
Let it set the stage, now
for fireflies
and let me pin it
here
to the corner of your slow, sweet smile
with a kiss.

K.M. B. (aka Green Girl)

Awhile back, I said I would post my best friend's (award winning) poem once I had permission. I got permission but lost the poem.  I just found it again.  So here it is.  My friend is shy, so I haven't used her real name.  Around these parts, she is known as GG or Green Girl.  I'm not sure why she's so shy.  If I wrote poetry this good I'd be plastering my name all over it.  Then again, that's always been the difference between us and, maybe, why we work. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

Chicken out

This blog might be armed and dangerous...

My blog has gone rogue and might be lurking around a corner near you.

It escaped through a broken link. Is there something odd about the fellow on the bar stool next to you?  Could be my blog. Do yourself a favor.  Get up, nonchalantly, mind you, don't make a show of it, and stroll away, quick-like.  Whatever you do, don't look it in the eye.  If it tries to bum a cigarette, you don't smoke.  If it wants a ride home, you're going the opposite way.  If it wants to buy you a drink, you ain't thirsty.  Got it?

Because my blog is just waiting on a reason to kick your blog's ass.

I don't know what I did, who knows....maybe I didn't feed it enough in its formative years.  It's true-there were times when I'd go months between postings.  I didn't know, for Pete's sake. I didn't know blogs could be such pricks.

Now I'm hearing the stories:  Readers turned away at the gate, false membership mandates, domain names denied, unresponsive blog rolls, and thousands of followers lost.  Okay hundreds.  Hundreds of followers gone.  Fine, like a hundred, okay?  A hundred followers vanished without a trace.  And not only that, but we have a severe case of failure to update.

I think my blog may have skipped the country.  Yesterday I received a message comprised of magazine cut-outs that read

"You're a mean old wanker, and I ain't comin' back ever".

And it's spell checking in the King's English.  Right now, It's probably sitting in some seedy London pub eating fish and chips, drinking warm beer, and bragging to Keith Richards about all the chat rooms it trashed back in the states.

Any minute now I expect I'll start seeing random Instagram postings of my blog behaving badly all across the UK.  Maybe it's sporting a beard, several new tattoos, and is thinking of joining the IRA.  It's probably developed a fake accent.

You know, I'm sure there's no cause for alarm but just to be on the safe side, if you see my blog, text blog control and seek shelter. It might be rabid.  Seriously.

Have you seen this blog?  Oh, wait, that's just George Michael.  Nice eyebrows, George Michael.

Chicken out

I feel bad about my eyebrows...

Nora Ephron wrote a best-selling book about her neck. My insecurities lie elsewhere.  Let me tell you about my eyebrows.  The modern face is all about the eyebrows, isn't it?  Everywhere I turn, people are talking about a strong brow and how the brows frame the face.  Waxing and threading salons have popped up everywhere.  Even men get their eyebrows groomed these days.  Can I just interject one tiny observation?

It's hair, People.  It's hair on your face, over your eyes, like two wriggly caterpillars.  Must we give them so much distinction?

You think I'm jealous?  That I covet a strong, face-framing brow?  Yes, I admit it, I feel bad about my eyebrows.  For one thing, I barely have any.  There's definitely no face-framing going on.  The sardonic arching of the brow is a non-verbal expression I'll never display.   A display, I might add, that captures the inner workings of my psyche perfectly.  If I could raise my eyebrow sardonically,  I would be 62% more successful by my own estimations that I just made up.  Or less.  I'm not really sure how that might turn out.  I can see where raising a sardonic eyebrow might sometimes land one in hot water with one's boss, colleagues and/or husband.  Still, I am confident I would enjoy expressing myself with just the arch of a glossy, groomed eyebrow.

I stare at my brows in the mirror and I wonder....what the hell am I supposed to do with these things?  I've tried brow powder and pencils, I've bought kits and practiced, I've watched you tube videos, and still I seem to wind up with nothing more than thin wayward hairs waving against a background of muddy brown shadow.  Mocking me.

I used to have normal eyebrows  but I shaved them off.

It was the seventies.   Thin brows were de rigueur.  Cheryl Tiegs smiled down from my brother's wall with her naturally thin brows and tiny bikini, daring me to do something about the twin beards obscuring my vision.  First, I tried plucking them.   Turns out that ripping hair from your head hurts rather a lot, so I found an easier way.  I shaved them into shape.  Truth be told, I thought I might be a genius when I thought of that idea.  I've always heard that if you shave hair, it grows back  thicker and darker, which would have set me up beautifully for the thick untamed brow of the eighties.  Not so in my case.  My eyebrow hair hopped on the cosmic  highway and must have hitchhiked to somewhere it felt more welcome.  Possibly Brooke Shield's house.  The end of my sad story is that eventually most of my brows disappeared and I have no earthly idea of what to do with the remains.

Someone needs to bring the seventies back.  Who's in?

Chicken out

Nice brows, Cheryl, very nice

What's your favorite children's book?

I recently came across a short piece (InStyle September 2014) that queried celebrities about their favorite childhood books.  I remember four, in particular, that I loved.

Bedknobs and Broomsticks
The Little Princess
Robinson Crusoe
My  Side of the Mountain

In "Bedknobs and Broomsticks", kids used their magic bedknob to fly their bed through the night to distant lands.  I also wanted to fly, magically and safely, of course, to distant lands.  I was bitterly conscious of my lack of bed knobs.  Why oh why was I stuck with a dumb bunk bed with no removable bedknobs instead of an antique brass bed?  For awhile I concentrated nightly on an old glass door knob I found.  I thought if I believed enough, it might take me places.  A knob is a knob, after all.

The "Little Princess" was the perfect prepubescent comeback novel.   She's on top, then she's living.in an attic room, slaving away, and then, because of her noble character, she's back on top again. Later on in life, I liked Flowers in the Attic, so maybe I just have a thing about being shut away in an attic.

"Robinson Crusoe" played into all of my adolescent fantasies; being shipwrecked on an island, eventually making friends with an Indian, and living off the land and off the grid.  I still fantasize about living on an island but less in the style of Robinson Crusoe and more in the style of Richard Branson.

In  "My Side of the Mountain", a young man lives in a tree trunk all by himself in the wilderness.  I can't remember why he was living there.  He had to be brave and learn how to keep himself fed through the long, lonely winter. I admired him and was a little envious of his solitude.  I must have been sharing a room with my little sister when I read that book.

Putting on my amateur psychologist hat, I would say that, at least as a kid, I  had a thirst for adventure and solitude.  These days, I prefer being caught up on my laundry and a nice nature walk to anything adventurous, but I do still crave solitude every now and then.  When that happens,  I go sit in the attic.

I'm just kidding.  I don't do that.  There are spiders up there.

What books did you love?

Chicken out

Bucket List

On  his last day as a first grader, littleb wrote a bucket list of things he wanted to do over the summer.  This is his list:

1.  Go into a pool
2.  Go to Block Island
3.  A Celebration
4.  Have a vacation
5   Buy flowers
6.  Go out with my family
7.  Go to Mystic  Aquarium
8.  Go Fishing
9.  Go to Camp Ok-wa-nesset
10.  Go Kayaking

Today he meets his second grade teacher and tomorrow is the first day of school.  Summer never lingers (unfortunately) but this summer has flown by so fast, I find myself a little bereft.  Looking back at littleb's list and recalling the moments when each mission on his list was accomplished makes me smile and helps bring the summer more into focus.   It may have gone by quickly, but we sure did enjoy it.  What did you do on your summer vacation?

Chicken out

Hiking the Megunticook Trail in Camden

The Butter Files: Back to School Shopping

My youngest starts school next week.  We have not bought one single practical thing.  We have bought a very exclusive set of Pokemon cards and a Pokeman Ball.  You can't start school without some winning Pokemon cards, according to littleb.

When I was a kid we went back-to-school shopping every August. One year, my step mom gave my grandmother some money and asked her to take me shopping.  I loved my grandmother to pieces and we were both quite happy with this arrangement.  We hopped in the car and headed for the K-mart.  We bought the obligatory under garments and socks, gotta have those, and then we started perusing the aisles for clothing in my size.  Everything was boring.  There wasn't anything special enough for the third grade.  Not until, that is, my eyes lit on something that stood out.  Something in the purple family.  I separated it from its dull pedestrian neighbors and held it up against my body.

It was purple pant suit perfection.  The entire garment was constructed of the finest machine knit fabric that Taiwan could produce.  Even then I could spot a quality garment.  The tunic-styled top was purple with a gold belt knitted into the waistline.  How practical!  The pants were, you guessed it, purple.  I couldn't believe my luck.  How could this fashion-forward treasure still be hanging on the rack at the end of August?  It was fate, obviously.

We bought it immediately.  It took all of the rest of our money and my grandmother paused, but I wheedled and pushed.  I needed that pant suit like a chimney sweep needs a chimney. That pant suit was my ticket into the elite world of Mrs. Yates' third grade classroom.  This much comfort and style would propel me to dizzying intellectual heights, and the stretchy knit fabric would allow me to run faster than a fifth grader on the playground.   I was finally ready for third grade.  "Bring it", my 8-year-old inner twerp proclaimed.

I was perplexed when my step-mom didn't seem to consider our shopping expedition a resounding success.  I proudly emptied my one small shopping bag on the couch and held up my first-day-of-school ensemble.  She seemed confused.  She looked at the bag. Then she looked at my grandmother. Then she looked at the bag.  Then her face kind of fell as I stood there, beaming, with the purple pantsuit clutched against my skinny frame.

I was intuitive enough to know something was wrong.  I was smart enough to keep it to myself. No need to stir up a nest of hornets which might, possibly, result in the return of my outfit, so I just stood there, resolutely, beaming and petting my tunic. I pointed out how the belt was built into the garment, how the color was so grand, and how warm the knit fabric would be in the crisp fall weather.  I willed her to see how this outfit would make me a better third-grader.

On picture day that year-in fact, on most days that year-I was a pig-tailed, fleet-footed, speed-reading, rock-stealing, purple-wearing beauty.

I think this must be the way littleb feels about his Pokemon cards.

Chicken out

P.S.  Sorry.  Those records are sealed.

I talk to dead people....

No, I still haven't heard from George, but I do talk to dead people all of the time.  My parents passed away a few years back.   When they were still alive we lived several states apart and I did not see them often-a few times a year.  In addition, we are part of an older generation who didn't communicate regularly.  It's partially due to a lack of technology during my young adult years, combined with long-distance phone charges, but even so,  it wasn't our way to be in constant contact.  Things are different now-I talk to my older kids who have flown the nest most days, at least by text.  If I had called my parents daily, however, they would have been a little perplexed and possibly annoyed.  I can see them thinking, "Yes, it's a nice day but what the hell do you want?  I'm busy here, for Pete's sake!"

Now that they are dead, however, I talk to them all the time.  I talk to them about my kids, the family, decisions I'm considering, the song on the radio, memories, lessons learned, and the direction I'm traveling in.  Literally.  I am always asking them to help me get un lost.  My father is especially good at party tricks, so for awhile I'd ask him for stuff, needing the constant reassurance that he was still paying attention.

"Dad, if you are there, can you give me a Jim Croce song?"

"Hey, Dad, gimme a sign, gimme a sign!"

"Okay Dad, this is totally random, but how about a good deal on cream-colored, 3-inch heeled pumps?"

In death, as in life, he has never let me down.   I've stopped asking for things, though, because one day it occurred to me that there may be a cost for these things that I'm not aware of.  No, I don't imagine there's a monetary exchange system where they are, but I can imagine some kind of energy exchange, and I don't want to tax his resources

Grieving is personal and different for everyone.  Talking to my dead people is what comforts me.  It's also quite handy when I'm talking myself into something.  A purchase, perhaps,  or an extra slice of pizza.  I could call my husband, step mom, or my best friend, but they might have an opinion.  An opinion that may not serve my purposes.  My dead people, on the other hand, want me to have these things. If they didn't, I assume they would send a sign.  In fact, they are a lot less judgemental now than they were as mere humans.  I've heard heaven does that to a person.

Chicken out

All aboard the yellow submarine....

Three odd things have happened.

The first odd thing is that I seem to be dressing like the Beatles, circa their Nehru jackets and love beads stage.  I'm not sure why this is and I didn't recognise it until the second thing happened.

The second odd thing is that Ringo Starr came to visit me in a dream.  Maybe you're saying, "What's so odd about that?  I dream about Ringo all the time." Maybe you were a swooning fan back in the day.  Or maybe you are a retro Beatles fan now.  I am apathetic towards  the Beatles.  I never understood the attraction.  Ringo dropping by for a visit?  Out of the blue?  Well, that's weird for me. That's like having a rabid dingo show up in my dream.  I just don't think about Ringo Starr or dingos.

The third odd thing that has happened is that my i-pad seems to have adjusted its spell check to the English version.   It wants me to type an "s" where there should be a "z" and to put "e" where normally I'd type "a".

What is the meaning of all this?  I don't know.

Well. Actually. I do have a theory...

I think George Harrison may be trying to channel a message through me.  As I mentioned, I've never been a Beatles fan, but I did have a favourite Beatle, just the same, and it was George.  George was rather beautiful and wrote most of the Beatles songs I did actually like.  In my humble opinion, George was the real talent in that foursome.  Also, he is the Beatle credited with their Nehru jacket phase.  It makes sense that if George were trying to channel through me, I might suddenly develop a fondness for Nehru jacket dressing.  Why he would send Ringo for a visit and not come himself is a bit of a mystery.  Is the message I'm meant to deliver intended for Ringo?

I'm not sure what it all means but as soon as the message comes through, I'll be back to let you know.

What is it George?  What are you trying to say?

Peace,

Chicken out

I've had my fill of shrimp dip...

My  sister makes a great shrimp  dip.  She brought a bucket of her crowd-pleasing shrimp dip to my party and now she wants to leave.  She wants me to keep the left over shrimp dip but she wants her tupperware.   She wants me to drop everything and search the cupboards for a bowl for her shrimp dip.

I do not want the shrimp dip because the vacation house does not have a garbage disposal.  I know this shrimp dip is going to end up in the garbage.  I do not care how good this shrimp dip is, we've all had enough bloody dip.  Just because we are vacationing  on the ocean does not mean we want to smell rotting shrimp dip all week.

"No, that's okay", I say, "You take it. We've got a lot of food already."

My sister insists I keep the shrimp dip.   "I can't bring it home.  I'll eat it."

My sister seems to be implying that if she eats the shrimp dip, she'll get fat, but if she leaves it here and we eat it, no one will get fat. Apparently, this excellent shrimp dip becomes magically void of calories when left behind.

"You  know what, I can't seem to find a bowl.", I say.

"Found one!", she yells, waving a cereal bowl over her head.

"But I don't have any Saran Wrap.", I say, "Just take it with you, honestly, it's so nice of you but we have plenty of food."

"Oh.  I think you could just leave it uncovered in the fridge until you get some.", she says.

"No, it might spill.  Better you should take it with you."

"Oh, look!", she says, "See this plate?  I'm going to put the plate over the bowl, and then I'm going to put the bowl in the crisper, that way  no one will knock it over by mistake.  Problem  solved!"

"Okay."  I sigh, resigned to shrimp dip smelliness, as the voice inside my head screams, "For the love of Pete, I don't want your fucking shrimp dip!  Why come you cannot hear me?"

"I just know how much everyone loves this dip.", my sister says, oblivious or triumphant, I can't tell.  "In fact, let me write down the recipe for you.  Do you have any paper?  And a pen?"

I'd share the recipe but I seem to have misplaced it.

Chicken  out

Hello Monday

It's not so good to see you, Monday.  I liked last Monday better.  Last Monday, I didn't get rudely awakened at 5 a.m.  Last Monday, I didn't make a work lunch or go to work.  Instead, I hiked to a lighthouse and combed the beach for sea glass. Last Monday, I didn't catch up with a single client but did catch up with friends and family.  Last Monday I didn't log into my fitness pal.  Instead, I ate cheese, chips with dip, and drank all the wine I could handle.  Possibly a little more than that.  And Monday?  Last Monday I didn't once think, "Can't wait for Friday".  I was only thinking about Monday, glorious Monday, with a whole week of vacation still left to enjoy.

So you see, Monday, I hope, that it's not personal.  First day back to work Monday can't possibly compete with first day of vacation Monday.  But still, you're not so bad.  Really.  You look cute today.

Love,
Chicken

Fun Fashion Friday

I don't have time for a real post today but I do have time to entertain you with some delightful, cutting-edge fashion images that I borrowed from the internet:

Do you think she sees us?  (fashionevents1010.blogspot)

Did she just give birth to a dragon?  (fashionevents1010.blogspot)

Because 33 heads are better than one...(www.urlesque.com)

Is this menswear of foxwear? 

I think he goes with the head lady.  Unless there's someone walking around with a bra made of hats.

In other news, I'll be blogging from a remote location for a few days.  If I miss a day or two, rest assured it's not because I'm not thinking of you.  It's because I've got a frozen beverage in my hand and five under my belt. #margaritaville

Namaste, Bitches (this is still making me laugh)

Chicken out

Chicken Scratch

Well, since my good idea didn't mosey on back from where ever it's gotten off to, I'm going to play off Jenny O's idea.

Jenny said that even if she did write her ideas down, it's unlikely that she'd be able to interpret them later.

Friends....this has also happened to me.

I'll share below some excerpts from two notebooks I keep-one in my house and one in my bag-and maybe you can tell me where the hell I was going with them.  And if an idea strikes a creative  chord in  you? By all means, go forth and produce.

1,  Tornado on the surface of the sun

2,  I don't think Stephen King would like me

3.  How the AARP is like the mafia

4.  Alien commercials

5.  Comma specialist

6.  Help me to help you

7.  I live with three males.  As long as I keep ketchup  in the house it's a drama-free zone

8.  Bat Cat Rat Hairless Cat

9.  Hey you, get offa my Chi

10.  Namaste, Bitches

11.  I'm not a robot.  I just have bad eyesight.

12.  My bounce rate in Texas is not good

13.  Basically, I'm my target audience

14.  Pillow marketing

15.  Bed of nails?  What's that like.

16.  Bruce Springsteen might be Jesus

Any of this inspiring you?  Nope?  No idea what I'm talking about?  Me either!

I  think I might be onto something with Bruce Springsteen, though.

Ok, Namaste Bitches

Chicken out

Will I ever learn...

I had a good subject for today's post.  It was right there, last night, shimmering and pulsing in the forefront of my mind.

"I should write this down", my  more practical left brain stated.

"You should pour another glass of wine and chill",  my right brain replied.  "It's just getting to the good part.  Ramona is going to tell Andy to zip it and Luann is going to spill the beans on Ramona's marriage.  You'll miss the fireworks!"

"But we'll forget if we don't write it down.  History has proven this."  Left brain is nothing if not persistent

"Soooo, you don't like wine and classy entertainment, is that it?"  Right brain is nothing if not sarcastic.

Guess who won.

Don't you worry your sweet little head about it, though.  I know that idea will come back from wherever good ideas wander off to when the aren't written down.  Hopefully, it will  come back at a more convenient time when I'm standing by with a pen and piece of paper.

Do you have to write down your good ideas before you forget them?  If you don't write them down,  will  you forget them?

Chicken out

It's the Little Things...

This morning I was flipping through an old Ladies Home Journal that I heisted from somewhere because yes, as a matter of fact, I do want to know how Miranda Lambert got that smoking hot new body.   I flipped to a page celebrating married couples and the sweet traditions they develop over the years to help each other and show their love.

One couple, married for 50 years, stated that she's bad at directions so he always drives her to a new place the day before her appointment so that she can find it, and she is good at grammar and spelling so she always checks his emails and FB posts.  Another couple reported that she makes little baggies of homemade muesli every Sunday for him to take to work and he...well...I forget what he does  But anyway, you get the point.

I started thinking about BigB and our sweet traditions, but then I was interrupted by BigB, who is on vacation this week and was upstairs lying in bed, calling out to littleb to come snuggle with him.  And this annoyed me and redirected my train of thought towards all the little ways we annoy each other.  He is on vacation, for God's sake...it's annoying enough that he has about 10 weeks of vacation a year....can't he just vacation quietly in the comfort of our bed without waking up the energizer bunny a half hour early?

No, he can't.  He can't because if BigB is awake, everyone needs to be awake, or he gets lonely.  He will try to engage a person in conversation and if that doesn't work, he'll resort to physical means such as hugging, tickling, anything for attention.

And Lord knows, I am not perfect.   BigB gets annoyed that I'm not friendlier in the morning.   I'm not a morning person.  I'm  not playful, I'm not chatty.....I get up earlier than everyone else for the sole purpose of being by myself.  If someone gets up early and joins me, well, it just bloody pisses me off.

BigB and I have a million little ways to annoy each other.  For instance, he eats his poached eggs whole.  That's one whole egg, yolk and all, just breaking in his mouth, coating his tongue, sliding down his throat.  I'm getting a little queasy thinking about it.  I, on the other hand, do not care about malware or internet security and this is not only irresponsible, but it drives BigB insane.  Have I set up the security feature on my phone?  I don't know.  Would I like to learn how?  Must I?  Deep sigh.

And don't get me started on the air conditioning/heating.  I do not care for air conditioning.  If I wanted to live in air conditioning, I would move to Arizona.  I want my windows and doors open to the fresh air.  I want to walk in from  outside  without experiencing  a 20  degree temperature  drop that sends me running for my snorkel parka.  BigB, on the other hand, would prefer to not walk into a bread oven every day between September  and  April.

Yup, we've got a million little ways to annoy each other without even trying.  But we've learned to compromise, and that's how we show our love for each other.   He gives a  little, I give a little....plus  I  make him little  yogurt sundaes every morning for breakfast.  He always grills my burger a little more on the well done  side.  Sometimes  I pretend to be friendly in the morning.  Sometimes he eats his eggs like a normal person.

It really is the little things.

Chicken Out

This might be my worst post ever...

Have you heard of the real estate listing  website, Zillow?  I'm going to assume you  have because  usually by the time I find something, everybody else has been using it for a year or ten.

Every once in  awhile, I go through a Zillow phase.  Lately, BigB and I have been discussing a possible move to a less urban, beachier part of our state and so I've been poring over the listings for the area we're interested in.

I've noticed that Zillow can be erratic. I've seen listings with no photos,  listings with upside down photos, and listings with really bad photos.  Why would you post a photo of a water stained ceiling?  Or five photos of one  bush?  This lack of standardization  has led me  to think there are no Zillow police.  And for some reason,  this  intrigues me....

I'm tempted, for instance, to list a particular neighbor's house.  Maybe I could get some new neighbors.  Neighbors that would invite me to use their pool and not keep me up all night with their loud parties.  Neighbors who would mow their lawn and paint their house a reasonable shade that compliments the houses around it.  

Assuming that goes well,  perhaps I'll  load some photos of the Capitol.  Would anyone notice?  Maybe I'll list it under foreclosed properties.  I wonder if the photos have to be original.  

A doll house might be a fun listing.  

This adorable move-in ready home has three bedrooms and two baths,  but no back  wall and watch out for the giant hands....

And now I have to go to work.  Ah Monday, how I've missed you.  Not.  I'd like to post Monday on Zillow.  

Have a good day.  Be careful out there.  Remember, what seems like a good idea today  get's posted on Zillow tomorrow.  No?  It doesn't?  Okay.  Be careful  anyway.  

Chicken  out

Fashion is a Two-Faced Bitch: Sunglasses

Sunglasses say a lot about a person, don't they?  There's the big diva sunglasses that take up half your face.  There's the elegant retro Jackie O look, there's sporty wrap arounds, hipster tinted, and then there's the classic too-cool-for-my-school aviator style.

I like aviators.   They have style without appearing as though one is attempting to be stylish.  And I'm  super sneaky that way.  I don't like to look as though I've put much of an effort in.  Most times I haven't.  One need only take in the holy, maroon Columbia sweater, circa 2005, that I wear most days to intuit lack of style on my part.

Actually,  it's not even how one looks in their sunglasses, but how one feels.  Putting on sunglasses is a little like putting on a disguise.  You hide part of your face and keep it for yourself.  There's power in that.  And then you subconsciously project what you feel to the outside world, whether that's a big, sexy, curvaceous man eater, a triathlete, or a rock-star.  I've seen this, I'm not kidding.  I've seen a woman sashay  a little sassier, an athlete prowl more gracefully, and an icognito rock-star's insouciant saunter down the sidewalk.

Of course, you have to be careful with sunglasses, as with all things related to fashion.  You may be thinking and projecting Diva, but your sunglasses just may be shouting "Get out of my way, I'm mad and I'm drunk".  Your tinted wrap-arounds may be smirking and whispering, "Thinks he's Bono, What a tool!"  When I wear my aviators, I suspect they are broadcasting, "Highly delusional Chicken channeling Carrie Bradshaw, make way, coming through.."

Why all this talk about sunglasses?  Because I can't find mine, dammit.

What do you like about your sun glasses.  How do they make you feel?

Chicken  out