Hi World, it has been awhile.
So...remember when I said that my resolution for 2010 was to, among other things, spend more time with family and attend a church supper? As the old adage goes, be careful what you wish for.
Last weekend I got the news that my Uncle Sonny had died. This was not overwhelming or traumatic news for me as I had not seen him for quite a few years, but he was my Mother's brother and for her it was heartbreaking. It reminded me of something my parents used to say: One day you will have only your sisters and brothers so don't fight. And that reminded me of something I read once: One day, there will be just you and your sisters and brothers, and then there will be one less, and you will all go to the funeral, and then one less...etc. ...so don't fight. I guess the trick is being among the first to go because holy smokes how depressing is that?
I wanted to be there for my Mother through a difficult time, so I took time off. The service was held in a small Baptist church in Hudson, NH. I estimated, in the ruthless corporate manner to which I've become accustomed, that the Baptist service, burial, and reception would take about 1/2 the time of a Catholic funeral and 1/3 the time of an Irish Catholic funeral (actually, I don't even estimate the time of an Irish Catholic funeral, I just sign off for the day). With these calculations in mind, I figured I'd be on the road home again and able to take calls at approximatley 1 PM.
I'm being callous, I know, but I think this is the world many of us live in. Your time is divided up into 15 minute increments. Anyway, I made it to the simple little church, freezing, with it's curved wooden pews, with all of my long lost cousins sitting in the curved wooden pews, grieving for someone lost to them, and a part of my childhood came back. There was Aunt Nonnie, but then I saw Aunt Nonnie in the other pew and realized that, d'uh. twenty years had passed in the blink of an eye, and I was actually looking at Aunt Nonnie's daughter, Beverly. Then I saw Brian who looked exactly like his Dad as I remembered him. I saw all of the cousins, and their children and THEIR cute little babies, and it hit home, God, I'm getting a little bit old here. Chicken is old, yes indeedy. The service continued with far too many words from the minister and although there were plenty of hymns, they weren't the ones I liked (meaning they weren't the ones I knew the words to and could sing loudly and off key). Various children, friends and grandchildren got up to honor Uncle Sonny with their words or music.
My Mother got up to read something she had written. And I saw her. Not as the strong Mother of my youth or the friend and confidant of my adulthood, but as a sister. I saw her grief, her love for her brother, and most disconcerting, I saw that she was smaller and more fragile. I saw her bravery and her stoic New England upbringing, forthright and honest, but with humor and a little lesson. (the lesson being that we all have something to offer-we are all a work of art. Have I ever mentioned my Mother was a teacher? Lucky the child that sat in her classroom).
I saw that the time was drawing near when the child becomes the parent of the parent, offering comfort and encouragement, and whoa, that is a scary moment. As the procession proceeded to the cemetery, I saw the words posted on the church sign out front. You know what I'm talking about right, those signs with the interchangeable letters so that the message can be updated as needed? It said, "Compassion for the parent is the true sign of maturity". It was a good message for the day. Uncle Sonny had six kids. Okay, so I got a little something out of it, too.
We went to the cemetery, with Uncle Sonny's antique pick up truck, lovingly restored, leading the way, driven by his grandson, Tim. We laid him to rest in the freezing cold and headed back to the church for "refreshments". For those who are close to the deceased in any funeral, God bless them. I always think how hard it must be to leave a loved one alone in the graveyard, soon to be buried, as you head head back to a celebration of their life here on earth. If you have God in your heart, I guess you assume they are coming right along with you to listen in and share a good laugh, but if you are a little bit agnostic, you might be thinking it just doesn't seem right to leave them out.
At the church, in the basement, where all the best Church suppers are held, the mood was much lighter and as the ladies of the congregation served up finger sandwiches and casseroles, we socialized and remembered Uncle Sonny. There was punch. My mother commented that it was very good punch and she wondered what was in it. I told her it was vodka. She (a teetotaler at the most raucous of events) said she thought, that in that case, she might have another cup. And Aunt Olive thought maybe she would join her.
There were photos from years ago. There were family secrets partially revealed (what really did happen on that family vacation to Nova Scotia, anyway?). There were a lot of stories and the babies were paraded and fawned over. Relationships with long lost cousins were renewed. A family reunion was planned. We all got it: Our time here is precious and limited. Family is everything. Everything else is just...every thing else.
I didn't start on the road home until 3 PM. It was a good, long, nostalgic day. As I pulled over on the side of the road to return a couple emails and make a phone call, I hoped that I would not lose the lesson.
I'm raising a glass of Church Punch to you, World. Hope your week did not come with a loss and that your families are well. My mom thinks you are each a Work of Art. So do I.
Take care,
Chicken
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Saturday, January 2, 2010
The Obligatory New Year Post
Happy New Year, World
Have you been thinking, hey, it is a New Year and still no post from that blogging Chicken; no resolutions, no look back at 2009, not even one small nod to World Peace?
More likely, you have not been thinking about Chicken at all but have been taking stock of your own life and working on your own list of resolutions.
If you are like certain of Chicken's friends you don't need a list but have one anyway, which you wrote on Dec 1, having finished all the Christmas preparations over the Thanksgiving break. Chicken is in awe of your organizational skills and work ethic.
Or maybe you are scratching your head and wondering how your underwear got all the way up there. Chicken doesn't judge, head scratchers, but you may want to re-think that whole jello shot NYE tradition because what happens in Vegas might stay in Vegas, but what happens elsewhere mostly ends up on Facebook.
Looking back at 2009, I'd like to note that Captain Sully did an excellent job of landing that plane on the Hudson. It is nice to know there are still heroes out there. It is not so nice to know that random flocks of birds can get sucked into a plane's engines and make it crash. I could have gone all my life and not missed knowing that. I'd also like to note that Patrick Swayze seemed like a truly nice guy and his death untimely. RIP, PS. Finally, it seems that going Green became mainstream in 2009 and that was good to see.
As for the rest of 2009, let's not say that I am sticking my head in the sand because I am not that kind of bird, but I am ready to move on. The recession, the unemployment, the fear and uncertainty, poor Michael Jackson and his children, Twitter, Ashton Kutcher, the Cougar movement, toy dogs as fashion accessories, Tiger's drama, Brangelina's brood, Kate & Jon's divorce, Kate's new haircut, Michelle Obama's shoulders....Enough already. This is the Chicken taking a giant step forward. Mother May I PLEASE move on to 2010?
In 2010 I am clipping my wings. Like many of you, perhaps, I want to stay a little closer to home and focus on family and community. I want to make do with what's already mine and consume less. I want to play scrabble, cheer on the home team at a basketball game, throw a pot luck, celebrate a friend's good fortune, write more letters, bake cookies and take long walks. I want to learn to knit those thick, warm mittens my Grandmother used to give every Christmas but hasn't for years because she's been busy being dead. I want to go to a church supper, decorate my Christmas tree with strings of cranberry and popcorn, put out bird seed, drink more cocoa, iron shirts on Sunday nights, and make soup.
I should also learn how to use the I-pod that I begged Santa for this year even going so far as to suggest I needed it earlier than Christmas in order to provide good music on Christmas Eve. Nope, that didn't happen. I am in love with the things gadgets can do but setting them up to do said things is not my forte. But it's on my list.
I hope 2010 is good to you, World, and that you accomplish all those things on your list. A nod to the President. He has his work cut out for him so let's wish him well.
Take care,
Chicken
Have you been thinking, hey, it is a New Year and still no post from that blogging Chicken; no resolutions, no look back at 2009, not even one small nod to World Peace?
More likely, you have not been thinking about Chicken at all but have been taking stock of your own life and working on your own list of resolutions.
If you are like certain of Chicken's friends you don't need a list but have one anyway, which you wrote on Dec 1, having finished all the Christmas preparations over the Thanksgiving break. Chicken is in awe of your organizational skills and work ethic.
Or maybe you are scratching your head and wondering how your underwear got all the way up there. Chicken doesn't judge, head scratchers, but you may want to re-think that whole jello shot NYE tradition because what happens in Vegas might stay in Vegas, but what happens elsewhere mostly ends up on Facebook.
Looking back at 2009, I'd like to note that Captain Sully did an excellent job of landing that plane on the Hudson. It is nice to know there are still heroes out there. It is not so nice to know that random flocks of birds can get sucked into a plane's engines and make it crash. I could have gone all my life and not missed knowing that. I'd also like to note that Patrick Swayze seemed like a truly nice guy and his death untimely. RIP, PS. Finally, it seems that going Green became mainstream in 2009 and that was good to see.
As for the rest of 2009, let's not say that I am sticking my head in the sand because I am not that kind of bird, but I am ready to move on. The recession, the unemployment, the fear and uncertainty, poor Michael Jackson and his children, Twitter, Ashton Kutcher, the Cougar movement, toy dogs as fashion accessories, Tiger's drama, Brangelina's brood, Kate & Jon's divorce, Kate's new haircut, Michelle Obama's shoulders....Enough already. This is the Chicken taking a giant step forward. Mother May I PLEASE move on to 2010?
In 2010 I am clipping my wings. Like many of you, perhaps, I want to stay a little closer to home and focus on family and community. I want to make do with what's already mine and consume less. I want to play scrabble, cheer on the home team at a basketball game, throw a pot luck, celebrate a friend's good fortune, write more letters, bake cookies and take long walks. I want to learn to knit those thick, warm mittens my Grandmother used to give every Christmas but hasn't for years because she's been busy being dead. I want to go to a church supper, decorate my Christmas tree with strings of cranberry and popcorn, put out bird seed, drink more cocoa, iron shirts on Sunday nights, and make soup.
I should also learn how to use the I-pod that I begged Santa for this year even going so far as to suggest I needed it earlier than Christmas in order to provide good music on Christmas Eve. Nope, that didn't happen. I am in love with the things gadgets can do but setting them up to do said things is not my forte. But it's on my list.
I hope 2010 is good to you, World, and that you accomplish all those things on your list. A nod to the President. He has his work cut out for him so let's wish him well.
Take care,
Chicken
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Guardians
World, Hi
The holiday season has me thinking of holy, otherworldly things and it reminded me...
I used to have two guardian angels. They were very little.
One sat on my left shoulder and I thought of her as "Eurotrash Girl". You can call her the "Id Girl". She led quite a hedonistic lifestyle and her job was to encourage me to follow her example. She smoked French cigarettes, had a raspy voice, and spoke in a Romanian-ish accent that was probably as real as Pamela Lee Anderson's....everything. Eurotrash girl never missed an opportunity to have a good time. She wore an old black leather biker jacket over her short black dress, and accessorized with black tights and biker boots, big hoop earrings and bright red lipstick. Her "Midnight in Paris" dyed hair was shoulder length and razored to give it a spiky just got out of bed look, not that she slept much. She believed that a.) eyeliner is a staple and one never leaves home without it and b.) a man who doesn't have tattoos will eventually bore you to death. Eurotrash Girl sported her own tattoo, a tiny pair of white wings, just at the base of her neck. She was always calling me her little popover, her sweet cherry cordial, her petite croissant. This constant reference to food items led me to believe that Eurotrash Girl wanted to pop me in her mouth and swallow me whole but given that I never saw her eat, I suppose they were terms of endearment.
The other angel sat on my right shoulder and I called her "Armani Girl" due to her meticulous appearance. I never saw her in the same outfit twice and I never saw her without pearls, even on dress down Fridays. Armani Girl could be critical. Her job, it appeared, was to encourage me to see myself as others saw me and to act accordingly. She called me Darling, but not in a very endearing way. "But Darling", she might say, "do you really imagine those potato chips won't migrate directly to your ass and stay there like spackle for all eternity?" Armani Girl found eating to be a crass habit that one could overcome if only one would try. Her honey blonde hair fell in a smooth, graceful wave to her shoulders and her always perfectly applied makeup was subtle enough that it looked natural but took two hours to apply. Armani girl also held to a couple firm beliefs: a.)There is no virtue in aging gracefully and b.)any man with a tattoo will someday let you down and is to be avoided at all cost. Armani Girl did not have any permanent markings on her body. Even her earrings were clip ons. Every Thursday morning she would disappear for two hours and come back with a fresh mani-pedi.
As you might imagine, Eurotrash Girl and Armani Girl did not get along. In fact, were it not for my head sitting on my neck directly between them, they would have done each other harm. Instead, they occupied themselves issuing directives in each of my poor harrassed ears and making snide comments about one another just loud enough for all of us to hear. They often fought amongst themselves as though I were not there.
A typical conversation might go like this:
Eurotrash Girl to me: "Take me to ze club, Lollipop, I vish to zee all ze exciting young men in zhere tight, tight, jeans. I vant to dance, dance ze night away and drink ze vodka collins and maybe ve vill meet zat cute guitar player who look like ze Sting for a little rendevous, ay Porkchop? Vat do you zay?"
Me to Eurotrash Girl: "Vat, I mean, What club? I don't go to clubs. I don't know any guitar players who look like Sting. I don't even like Vodka."
Eurotrash Girl to Me: "Ridiculous little Lollipop....everyone love ze vodka...is ridiculous not to love ze vodka...Ve vill go to ze no name club...is very special..ze guitar player, he give me ze secret code. You know vat? Ze guitar player has a secret tattoo, you vill love him. Ve vill dance and drink ze vodka and stay out all ze night. Vill be Fun. Let us go."
Armani Girl to Me: "Darling, do not let that unkempt little trollop lead you astray. We discussed this just this morning when we made our list, and Darling, tonight we are ironing and then we are watching 'Mad About You',although tomorrow you must tell everyone you watched the presidential debate, so we had better also schedule in time to read the morning headlines, which means early to bed and no time for accompanying faded tarts God knows where in search of lecherous, sweaty musicians."
Eurotrash Girl to Me: "Vat a bore. Vy do you put up wiz zat old slut, little Baklava? Don't you vant to have fun? Don't you vant to dance ze macarena vith ze Sting man? Vat is "Mad About You"? Is stupid, stupid show for stupid vomen who not know vere to find ze hot men. Zat Paul, he has no tattoos...zere is no future for Helen vith him...leave ze bat at home to pluck her eyebrows just a vittle bit thinner and come vith me,my spicy Chicken Ving. Vill be fun."
Here's where I get left out of the conversation:
Armani Girl to Eurotrash Girl: "Darling, you wouldn't know fun if it kidnapped you and dumped you in front of Elizabeth Arden's Red Door. You have the moral rectitude of a rabbit, the drinking habit of Hemingway, the mental stability of Van Gogh, and an annoyingly perverse habit of projecting your trashy character onto me. Why don't you run along now and if you do not stop smoking in here I am calling the building superintendant to have you thrown out...."
Me trying to interrupt: "uh, I don't think we have a building....."
Eurotrash Girl to Armani Girl: "oh shuuuut uppppp, you are boring me vith all your talk. You are old, you have frozen face of ice statue, yes? You need vodka and ze sex and maybe you become not so frozen. You come vith us, vill be fun, but you must change zat awful clothing."
Me again: "superintendant, and besides I don't think he can see......"
Armani Girl to Eurotrash Girl: "Listen to me, Darling, and try to stay focused. If the apocalypse was upon us, if the world was doomed, and the only way I could save myself was to go to some seedy little bar without the forethought or consideration to even post a sign outside the door and participate in your debauched little game of charades, I would take all of my Xanax at once, drink a bottle of Chardonnay, and sing hallelujah"
Eurotrash Girl: "Stay zen, I do not care, old bat"
Me to No one: "I'm going to bed"
Aramni Girl to Eurotrash Girl: "I win, Darling"
Eurotrash Girl: "Ve vill see, old bat"
I'm tired of writing now, so let me end this, and maybe I'll come back and finish it later. The truth is, Armani Girl usually did win but I liked Eurotrash Girl better and she, also, had her moments of victory. Eventually, I was exhausted from their battles and one fine day I had an epiphany: These two were not guides, not angelic entities sent from on high to nurture and protect me. These two were the demons of extremism; the demi-monde and the demi-mom. Once I had processed what I was living with, what I had done to myself, I took a walk, had a nice long shower, a cigarette and a glass of Kendall Jackson. Then I kicked those two demis right to the curb and I've been a slightly unkempt, fairly laid back, moderately morally conscious human ever since.
Happy Holidays, World. Hope your angels are many and your demons few.
Take care,
Chicken
The holiday season has me thinking of holy, otherworldly things and it reminded me...
I used to have two guardian angels. They were very little.
One sat on my left shoulder and I thought of her as "Eurotrash Girl". You can call her the "Id Girl". She led quite a hedonistic lifestyle and her job was to encourage me to follow her example. She smoked French cigarettes, had a raspy voice, and spoke in a Romanian-ish accent that was probably as real as Pamela Lee Anderson's....everything. Eurotrash girl never missed an opportunity to have a good time. She wore an old black leather biker jacket over her short black dress, and accessorized with black tights and biker boots, big hoop earrings and bright red lipstick. Her "Midnight in Paris" dyed hair was shoulder length and razored to give it a spiky just got out of bed look, not that she slept much. She believed that a.) eyeliner is a staple and one never leaves home without it and b.) a man who doesn't have tattoos will eventually bore you to death. Eurotrash Girl sported her own tattoo, a tiny pair of white wings, just at the base of her neck. She was always calling me her little popover, her sweet cherry cordial, her petite croissant. This constant reference to food items led me to believe that Eurotrash Girl wanted to pop me in her mouth and swallow me whole but given that I never saw her eat, I suppose they were terms of endearment.
The other angel sat on my right shoulder and I called her "Armani Girl" due to her meticulous appearance. I never saw her in the same outfit twice and I never saw her without pearls, even on dress down Fridays. Armani Girl could be critical. Her job, it appeared, was to encourage me to see myself as others saw me and to act accordingly. She called me Darling, but not in a very endearing way. "But Darling", she might say, "do you really imagine those potato chips won't migrate directly to your ass and stay there like spackle for all eternity?" Armani Girl found eating to be a crass habit that one could overcome if only one would try. Her honey blonde hair fell in a smooth, graceful wave to her shoulders and her always perfectly applied makeup was subtle enough that it looked natural but took two hours to apply. Armani girl also held to a couple firm beliefs: a.)There is no virtue in aging gracefully and b.)any man with a tattoo will someday let you down and is to be avoided at all cost. Armani Girl did not have any permanent markings on her body. Even her earrings were clip ons. Every Thursday morning she would disappear for two hours and come back with a fresh mani-pedi.
As you might imagine, Eurotrash Girl and Armani Girl did not get along. In fact, were it not for my head sitting on my neck directly between them, they would have done each other harm. Instead, they occupied themselves issuing directives in each of my poor harrassed ears and making snide comments about one another just loud enough for all of us to hear. They often fought amongst themselves as though I were not there.
A typical conversation might go like this:
Eurotrash Girl to me: "Take me to ze club, Lollipop, I vish to zee all ze exciting young men in zhere tight, tight, jeans. I vant to dance, dance ze night away and drink ze vodka collins and maybe ve vill meet zat cute guitar player who look like ze Sting for a little rendevous, ay Porkchop? Vat do you zay?"
Me to Eurotrash Girl: "Vat, I mean, What club? I don't go to clubs. I don't know any guitar players who look like Sting. I don't even like Vodka."
Eurotrash Girl to Me: "Ridiculous little Lollipop....everyone love ze vodka...is ridiculous not to love ze vodka...Ve vill go to ze no name club...is very special..ze guitar player, he give me ze secret code. You know vat? Ze guitar player has a secret tattoo, you vill love him. Ve vill dance and drink ze vodka and stay out all ze night. Vill be Fun. Let us go."
Armani Girl to Me: "Darling, do not let that unkempt little trollop lead you astray. We discussed this just this morning when we made our list, and Darling, tonight we are ironing and then we are watching 'Mad About You',although tomorrow you must tell everyone you watched the presidential debate, so we had better also schedule in time to read the morning headlines, which means early to bed and no time for accompanying faded tarts God knows where in search of lecherous, sweaty musicians."
Eurotrash Girl to Me: "Vat a bore. Vy do you put up wiz zat old slut, little Baklava? Don't you vant to have fun? Don't you vant to dance ze macarena vith ze Sting man? Vat is "Mad About You"? Is stupid, stupid show for stupid vomen who not know vere to find ze hot men. Zat Paul, he has no tattoos...zere is no future for Helen vith him...leave ze bat at home to pluck her eyebrows just a vittle bit thinner and come vith me,my spicy Chicken Ving. Vill be fun."
Here's where I get left out of the conversation:
Armani Girl to Eurotrash Girl: "Darling, you wouldn't know fun if it kidnapped you and dumped you in front of Elizabeth Arden's Red Door. You have the moral rectitude of a rabbit, the drinking habit of Hemingway, the mental stability of Van Gogh, and an annoyingly perverse habit of projecting your trashy character onto me. Why don't you run along now and if you do not stop smoking in here I am calling the building superintendant to have you thrown out...."
Me trying to interrupt: "uh, I don't think we have a building....."
Eurotrash Girl to Armani Girl: "oh shuuuut uppppp, you are boring me vith all your talk. You are old, you have frozen face of ice statue, yes? You need vodka and ze sex and maybe you become not so frozen. You come vith us, vill be fun, but you must change zat awful clothing."
Me again: "superintendant, and besides I don't think he can see......"
Armani Girl to Eurotrash Girl: "Listen to me, Darling, and try to stay focused. If the apocalypse was upon us, if the world was doomed, and the only way I could save myself was to go to some seedy little bar without the forethought or consideration to even post a sign outside the door and participate in your debauched little game of charades, I would take all of my Xanax at once, drink a bottle of Chardonnay, and sing hallelujah"
Eurotrash Girl: "Stay zen, I do not care, old bat"
Me to No one: "I'm going to bed"
Aramni Girl to Eurotrash Girl: "I win, Darling"
Eurotrash Girl: "Ve vill see, old bat"
I'm tired of writing now, so let me end this, and maybe I'll come back and finish it later. The truth is, Armani Girl usually did win but I liked Eurotrash Girl better and she, also, had her moments of victory. Eventually, I was exhausted from their battles and one fine day I had an epiphany: These two were not guides, not angelic entities sent from on high to nurture and protect me. These two were the demons of extremism; the demi-monde and the demi-mom. Once I had processed what I was living with, what I had done to myself, I took a walk, had a nice long shower, a cigarette and a glass of Kendall Jackson. Then I kicked those two demis right to the curb and I've been a slightly unkempt, fairly laid back, moderately morally conscious human ever since.
Happy Holidays, World. Hope your angels are many and your demons few.
Take care,
Chicken
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