I-P(R)OD to Action...

Wow.  That's pretty lame, right?    What do you suggest?
How are you?  Well, I hope.

The other day I visited Binkies and Band-aids, Life With Irish Triplets and her subject was songs that defined certain points in her life.  I thought this was a great subject and since it was a Mama Kat workshop subject, I thought I might even participate but it didn't happen.  What songs define your life(ves)?

What did happen as a result of visiting B&B is that I spent today playing with my I-pod.  Don't laugh, but I've never had one before.  I got it for Christmas and am just now getting around to loading anything onto it.  This was such a rewarding and fun experience that, in a totally unrelated but typical thought process, I decided that I am probably now equipped to answer any comment/question with a song quote.  So go ahead.

Hit Me With Your Best Shot

Oh my.  Did you link to that?  I thought  all those 80's skits were exaggerated.  I stand corrected.  Was I that stoned? 

Moving on.

The first twenty songs I loaded onto the I-Pod were Sixties-ish dance favorites.  You know:  The Limbo song, Louie Louie, Do You Love Me, etc.  By far, the family favorite is "Lime in the Coconut".  I've posted the Midnight Margaritas scene from Practical Magic on The Chicken Crossing the Road (to the right and scroll down) in case you'd like a fix.  It's a great kitchen dancing song, which is the only kind of dancing I do these days.  Unless you count driving and dancing.  Don't pretend you don't know what I mean.

Now I'm onto the task of loading all of our CDs, which is time consuming.  Holy cow, we have a lot of CDs.

The real reason I've called you all here tonight is that Pearl Annabelle Lafleur has been "active" lately.  You may recall that a few months ago I gave her her own page.  And then didn't do anything with it.  Now she is on my last nerve.  Sorry Pearl, just calling a spade a spade.  You are a pain in the ass.  Bless your heart.

Anyway, Pearl wants to write an advice column.  Her specialty, she says, is advice to the lovelorn, but since she's got an opinion on everything she'll respond to all questions.  If you need any advice, feel free to post it here or email Pearl, care of me, Chicken, at chickensconsigliere@gmail.com if you prefer to remain anonymous.  Tell your friends.  Please.  Pearl needs an outlet (besides me).

We'll see what happens. 

It's the Midnight Hour and You're So Far Away From Me .  I'm going to bed. Sleep tight, World. 

No bed bugs.

Chicken out.

Chicken and the Genetically Altered Filet O' Fish....

Hi World:

You know what is really sad?  When you are looking forward to the next day being Friday and you wake up from a dead sleep to realize that the next day is really only Thursday.  It's not 2012 Apocalypse sad, no, but there are many different kinds of sad.  This is one of the everyday ones for those of us with memory loss.  Littleb wakes up every morning and says, "It's a boodiful nice day out there!" usually followed by, "what day is it, Mommy?" and it makes no difference to him....Monday, Tuesday, Saturday.  It's all good.  Let's all be like littleb tomorrow (Thursday for the record), that's my suggestion.

Anyway.

Those of you who have been reading my blog for awhile (okay, two weeks) know that I have an addiction for which I am in recovery.  I'm sad to say that today I gave in to my addiction.  But I learned from it, and that is almost worth it.  Right?  Right????

This is what happened:

Today I did not bring a lunch to work, as I usually do, and I happened to be on the road around lunchtime.  I found myself hungry and at just the time I noticed my hunger, I found myself in front of a McDonalds.  I didn't think twice.  Or even once.  I drove right up to the speaker and in a world-weary voice (for we have been here many times), I ordered a filet o' fish.    My drug of choice. 

Of course, I rationalized the hell out of this purchase.  Here's my list of rationalizations:

• I need this filet o' fish because I have been eating all these soy beans, flax, almonds and salads and it is wreaking havoc on my intestines.  I know.  That is the saddest excuse ever, right?  Totally true.  I convinced myself that I needed a meal containing grease as the primary ingredient to flush all the roughage out.  Picture, if you will, the intenstines as a Slip and Slide.  Ahhh.  Not so crazy after all, right?
• I haven't had a filet o' fish for three weeks
• If I were Catholic and it were Friday, I would be doing a pious thing (see how I did that?  Pretty slick, right?)
• This would make a funny blog entry

You know you are an addict when you happen to find yourself in front of a dealer just when the yearning reaches critical mass. (Critical mass?  Where the hell did that come from?  Am I channeling NASA tonight?  I don't even know what critical mass IS.  But it sounds good.  I'm keeping it.  Welcome to Bob Marley's head.)

I've been reading a bit about addiction lately in one of my Borders sales-rack-finds.  In Susan Cheever's book "Desire" she examines sex addiction (No. Not even close.  Ask BigB.  It cost one dollar and her father was John Cheever.  I'm a sucker for a good family name.).  In the book, which I am really enjoying, by the way, she often talks about the addictive personality, rather than just the one distinct addiction.  She talks (loose translation here) about how addicts enter a "zone" when their addiction yearning reaches critical mass and they often act with no later recollection of their actions.  They just "awaken" from the zone feeling guilt and a sense of remorse. 

Hello remorse. My old friend.  I know I shouldn't have eaten you lovely filet o' fish.  What did you ever do to me?  Okay, you've clogged my arteries, made me sluggish, and I'm probably carrying around a few extra pounds, but that's down to me, right, my friend?  No one forced me through that drive through.  I was in the zone.  And not in a good way.

When I came to, I did something that I never ever do.  I read the nutrition facts that were handily printed on the (recyclable-good for you McDonalds) container.  I do not ever read labels when eating something unhealthy because when you know something is bad for you, you really don't want to read HOW bad, am I right? 

I figured a filet' o fish must contain about 1,000 calories and 40 grams of fat.  I mean, look at it:

See all that yummy sauce, that triangle of cheese, that lovely bun? 

Here is what the container said:  380 calories, 18 grams of fat, and 38 grams carb.

Huh?  I think a handful of peanuts comes to about that.  Am I the only one that finds this information hard to believe?  I did a little research.

A filet o' fish is constructed as such:  A roll (white), a breaded, fried, fish patty, tarter sauce (special sauce?), and american cheese.

Two tablespoons of tarter sauce contain 148 calories and 15 grams of fat.  One slice of american cheese contains 106 calories and 8.8 grams of fat.  A basic hamburger roll contains 79 calories and 1.2 grams fat.   

Thus far, the count for all of the above together is  333 calories, 25 grams of fat?

It doesn't add up, does it World?  And we haven't even added in the lovely breaded fried fish patty.

Has McDonalds discovered the secret of the negative-fat-fried-fish patty?  I know their sauce is special, but is it that special? 

It must be true.  The poster boys for American obesity could not get away with undereporting their nutritional facts what with all the lynch mob mindset of the ADA and the "SuperSize Me" propaganda floating around out there.

Oh happy, boodiful day!

I will be indulging much more often now that I know how healthy o' choice my addiction is.  Damn these nutritionists and their lying, manipulative ways.  All these years, all the seas' fried bounty I could have enjoyed, all that specialicious sauce.  NO MORE.  I am in, McDonalds.  I will no longer be manipulated by the machine known as the ADA.  You can count on me.

Yes, I think I will have fries with that. 
Sign me recovered,
Chicken out

DISCLAIMER:  This Chicken is not receiving lobbyist monies from the Ronald.  However, let it be known that should the Ronald reach into his deep pocket, Chicken is in.  This product is obviously healthy and superior to other fried fish sandwich products on the market (this means you , BK BIG FISH).

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.

Anyway.

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?

Repeat. 

(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