Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs

During a beautiful fall weekend in 2001 the Chicken family hosted an open house.

Twenty minutes before the start of the open house, someone saw Algernon streak across the kitchen floor. Algernon was one of S's three pet mice.  The mice were okay, as pets go, except for Algernon, who should have been named Houdini because he was always escaping from his tank.

Chaos ensued as we all chased Algernon, who promptly hid, jeering at us in mouse speak from behind various pieces of furniture.  He was enjoying the action, having been confined for several  days since his last break out.  It was now quarter 'til mouse infestation accusation time.  I gathered the three kids together for an impromptu brainstorming session.  We decided that we needed a trap.  S found a shoe box and some string, J offered up Ccoa Puffs, and R found a stick.  I grabbed a section of newspaper.

We put the newspaper on the floor in the general area of the last Algernon sighting.  Then we put a few Cocoa Puffs on the paper.  The shoe box was positioned at an angle over the cocoa puffs and propped up with the stick, to which we had tied the string.  Then we cleared out and waited for Algernon to go Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.

It took about five minutes, but eventually Algernon stealthily approached the Cocoa Bait.  He sat on his haunches under the shady cabana and picked up a puff with his paws.  He took a tentative nibble, cocked his head to the side, and announced, "Not bad. Not bad at all!".  That's when I yanked the string and the box fell down, trapping the cocky little bastard underneath.

A raucous cheer went up inside the hen house and high fives were exchanged all around.  I wrapped the sides of the newspaper around the box and flipped it over.  S slammed the shoe box top over the newspaper.

The door bell rang.  It was Go Time.  I answered the door, with a welcoming smile on my face and a shoe box tucked snugly under one arm.

Chicken out

This mouse looks like Algernon but, apparently, favors cheese doodles.

Fashion is a Two-Faced Bitch: Clotheszillas

Late at night, after the stores all close shop for the evening, the merchandise stretches out, gets comfortable, and enjoys some downtime.

Inevitably, the conversation turns to that life-changing moment in every fashion piece's existence when they will be plucked from the shelves, purchased at the counter, and taken to a new home, their own home, to live happily ever after.

The mood softens, the voices fill with longing, and somewhere from the back corner of the store a whisper thin silk shirt in an impossible size waits on the final clearance rack and croons a torch song in a high clear voice, while the silk cocktail dress, recently arrived, sways dreamily on its hanger.  The pencil skirts describe their dream closets, while the pumps talk about the ones that walked away.

Like newly engaged couples, the clothes dream of a future that only exists, for 99% of them, in their fevered, lovesick imaginations; padded hangers, fashionable friends, svelte bodies, fancy restaurants, society pages, and Broadway shows.

The entitled 1% will indeed enjoy an existence of luxury and ease in their well maintained and spacious closets and will only be worn several times before being lovingly consigned to, filmed and fawned over by, the southern belles of Resale Royalty.  They will move on, after a retail refresh, to a second, and possibly more fulfilling, relationship with a young starlet obsessed with vintage.

Oh, of course, most of them are born into this privileged existence; the Birkens, the Coaches and the Lily Pulitzers, for starters.  And let's not get started on the World of Ralph Lauren.  Every once in awhile, however, an upstart from humble beginnings, an Alex and Ani bracelet, for instance, or a Tom's shoe, shows up on  the red carpet or a coveted foot, starts a new trend, and all of a sudden finds itself living large and taking names.  These success stories are the stuff of dreams for the "off the rack" fashion lines.

"But what about the remaining 99%?", you ask.  "What about them?"

Well, my Darlings, after an auspicious and hopeful beginning, they will, of course, be brought to terms with reality.

The most unlucky will pick an owner (typically based on body type), consummate their relationship in the dressing room, legitimize it at check-out, and travel to their new home with high expectations.  Upon arrival, they will be disappointed by a messy abode, a minuscule closet, and the negligence that accompanies over consumption. They'll notice signs of neglect; a missing button here, a dropped hem there, stains of every sort, and the smelly evidence of infrequent dry cleaning.  At night, they'll cry softly for the sale rack they left behind.  It was crowded, sure, but at least they were hung up and not thrown over a stationary bicycle with 25 other sweaty, misused garments.  The energy will be stilted and the air suffocating, as all the Clotheszillas come to terms with a future not filled with parties and lilting laughter, as expected, but debt collection calls, jello shot vomit stains, and yard sales.

The average experience is sure to be something more heartening, one must hope.  A cute dress is found by an average woman who chooses it among all the others on the rack and purchases it with hard earned cash. She will take it home, to a regular sized closet, and a small but carefully selected wardrobe.  It's a hard life, sure, being worn once, sometimes twice a week.  A dress slows down more quickly, shows some wear and tear, but at least it can count on being cleaned regularly, hung up nightly, and repaired as needed. It will develop affection, over time, for the woman, who will likewise come to rely on it when she doesn't know what else to wear.  It will have space in the closet to spread  its wings and it will become close friends with the accessories it is paired with on a rotating basis.   This dress will learn to accommodate and forgive the occasional stretch required of early or post pregnancy weight, date night at Texas Road House, and middle-age spread.  When it grows old and beyond repair, it will be recycled in a respectful manner, and find new life.

These clotheszillas are the lucky ones.  They get to fully live.

Chicken  out

And then, of course, there's eccentric fashion

Colin Hay Waiting for my real life to begin Live HQ 2010

I first heard this Colin Hay song in Yoga.  I listened while breathing into my back during Downward Dog.  I totally got the lyrics. Breathing into my back, not so much.

I'm going to see Colin Hay tomorrow night in Boston, at the Wilbur Theater, with my good friend, Deb.

Colin.  Hey.  Colin. Yeah,  up here, right side, balcony.  Hi!  I'm  Chicken.  I think you are very real.