THE COOP

Friday, January 31, 2014

An Insecure Writer

Hello, I'm Chicken.  I'm an insecure writer.
(Hello Chicken)
Oh, I do fine in a casual setting.  I write in a conversational tone that some people  seem to enjoy.  I'm good at keeping things light and breezy.  I'm a literary tropical oasis.  
Welcome to my blog, would you like a frozen beverage?
When a more somber tone is required, however, I falter.  Without humor to fall back on, I start to overthink every  comma and hyphen.   I agonize over word choice.  I am almost never happy with the final result.  Maybe you can't tell, but I'm  doing it now.  I've looked up four words in the last five minutes. I'm freaking  out because there's a red line under overthink.  We all know what red lines mean.  They mean you can't spell worth a tinker's damn.  I'm almost sure it is overthink.  Isn't it?  Excuse me while I hyperventilate.
I resolve to become a more competent writer this year.  I've purchased a copy of AP Stylebook and I might even open it.  On a side note, I think AP Stylebook might be trending as they now sell sexy AP Style t-shirts.  I might order one of those, too.
I found this quiz site online.  If you are insecure like me you might benefit from testing your knowledge. There are 18 quizzes based on the AP Stylebook.  How will you do?  Are you unbeatable?
Chicken out
http://happyplace.someecards.com/10430/the-most-enjoyably-cantankerous-notes-ever-posted-in-the-workplace

















http://platformmagazine.org/2011/12/ap-styles-quiz/

Tuesday, January 28, 2014

If You Give a Chicken a Glass of Wine

If you give a Chicken a glass of wine she will want a cigarette to go with it.

You will point out that smoking is not healthy for man nor fowl. She will agree with you and thank you for the reminder. She'll have another glass of wine instead.

Ten minutes later she will ask you to drive to the store for munchies.  She will load up your arms with three kinds of dip, potato chips, corn chips, Doritos and cheese curls.  Just in case, she'll throw in another bottle of Chardonnay.  Then she will ask the clerk for some cigarettes.  Chickens are impulsive, devious creatures. You know that.  What were you thinking?

On the way home the song "Don't Stop Believin'" circa 1981 will come on your radio and she will yell, "This is my FAVORITE song!!".  She will roll down your windows, turn up the volume and sing along even though she only knows the first line and the chorus.  That second glass of wine is starting to kick in.  She will stick her head out of your sky roof and yell, with no particular connection but much passion, "I love you Bruce!!!".

When she comes back inside the car her hair will look like it did in 1981.

Her hair will remind her of blue eye shadow and cute boys.

And she will want some.

At the next stop light she will notice a convertible full of cute boys.  She will have her head out of the sun roof, just about to invite them back to your place, when you will pull her back down and remind her firmly that she is no longer 18.  Thank God for you.

This will, however, remind her that once she was 18, and she will want to go to look at your old high school yearbook.  There, among the corn chips, the dip and the second bottle of Chardonnay, she will be hit by a tsunami of nostalgia.  She might weep a little.  She will want to get dressed up in old prom dresses.

Once you are both dressed in old prom dresses and blue eye shadow, she will want to take a picture.  While you load her selfie onto her Facebook page, she will decide that she NEEDS to hear "Stairway to Heaven", her prom song, and will search frantically through all of your old cassettes. She'll forget about "Stairway to Heaven" when she comes across "Jesse's Girl".  She'll once again proclaim, "This is my FAVORITE song" while singing loudly and out of tune, with traces of orange cheese curl powder around her mouth.

Not pretty.  And you've been patient.  You will suggest watching your DVD of  "Flashdance".  Chicken will be all for it, but first, she will need to rip up one of your old sweatshirts.

And chances are, if you give her a sweatshirt and watch Flashdance, she is going to ask for another glass of wine.

Chicken out

This is not Chicken.  It might be Chicken's hair in 1981, though.

(revised from 2011 post:  If you give a Chicken a glass of chardonnay)







Friday, January 17, 2014

When Clothes Go to War

Contrary to what you might think, clothes do have feelings, and I'm not just talking about the colorful ones. The thing to remember about clothes is this:  They are narcissistic, vengeful bitches, and they will turn on you for no reason at all.

Their typical strategy is to confuse and humiliate.  I think this tactic is devised in many closets on a cold January night when clothes are feeling neglected because you've been wearing the same pair of stretched out yoga pants and an oversize sweatshirt for five days straight.  The holiday clothes, those glittery, festive, velvety creations, are especially bitter because they know it's going to be a long 11 months before they see the bright light of day, not to mention a vodka tonic.  It is my belief that post-holiday depressed clothes are responsible for 90% of closet mutinies.

It might start with a beaded tunic casting a sympathetic smile towards a highly neurotic silk blouse.  "Oh, look", it will say, "You've lost a button.  It's a shame she doesn't take better care of you."  And then the silk blouse will obsess about this button until it is seething on its hanger.  It will turn to the fuchsia sweater hanging next to it and sneer, "I don't know how you can be so complacent with that oil stain so prominent.", whereupon the fuchsia sweater, normally quite cheerful, will burst into tears because she had convinced herself that no one would even notice that tiny little stain.  When she dries her tears, she'll helpfully point out the dropped hem on the work pants hanging next to her, and so on, all down the line, until everyone turns and looks wordlessly upon the beleaguered white dress shirt with the massive red wine stain down the left side.

"Don't look at me!  I said don't look at me!" the shirt will cry out, ashamed and trying in vain to turn away from the pitying looks of its peers.  All the twisting and commotion will eventually shake the poor thing right off the hanger, where you had left it a month ago with every intention of looking up red wine stain removal tips on the internet.  The sight of this formerly pristine shirt lying in a dejected, neglected heap on your closet floor will unite your clothes in a common cause, at which point they will condemn you in the name of their fallen comrade.

All of this will take place while you sleep, blissfully unaware that your clothes have just declared war on your lazy, neglectful, carbohydrate-overloaded ass.

Clothes are patient.  They'll wait until just the right moment; the big date, the annual convention, that important interview...that's when they'll strike.  On your big day, you'll pull out the clingy, wrap dress you scored a few months ago in a post-fall, pre-holiday plus extra 30% off the sale price sale. The memory of that shopping experience still lingers.  The dress was a perfect fit and even self-critical you couldn't help but preen and pose in the dressing room mirror thinking, "Damn, I look good".

So how the hell did that dress become THIS hideous dress with the bulging boobage, the tight arm holes, and the back fat spillage?  How did that happen?  You'll try on another outfit, and then another, with the same horrifying results each t ime.  You'll lower your expectations and pull out those larger sizes you swore you would never need again but kept anyways. It won't matter. Blouses will pop cleavage buttons, committing hari-kari for the cause, pants will refuse to meet in the middle, zippers won't zip, and you will cry.  Don't think you won't.  Because if their timing is perfect, and it usually is, you'll go to your special whatever wearing the most shapeless, waist-less dress you can produce  from the way back of your closet, with an ill fitting cardigan pulled over the mess as camouflage, and boots pulled on to hide your suddenly swollen calves.

You won't get a second date, or that dream job, but guaranteed, you will get singled out and called on stage in front of all your colleagues, and your photo will be taken for the corporate newsletter.

The irony is that while your devious clothes are hanging in the closet celebrating their victory, you are planning a post holiday, pre-spring 40% off the sale price sale shopping spree.  You'll find a new, bigger, better party dress. When you get home you'll pack up all that old crap and consign it. Clothes might have feelings but they are not very bright.

Even the colorful ones.

up to no good


Chicken out