A Watched Chicken Never Lays

I know what you're thinking.

That.  Is.  Not the Expression.

Which clearly indicates that you have never been to the Congo, because that is a Congolese proverb from way way back.
(Trust me.  I know.)
(Except that I didn't.  I had to look it up.)
(It's a true proverb.  I didn't just invent that.)

You can always tell when a chicken is getting ready to lay an egg.  It finds itself a nice little nesting spot in the coop, and then starts to buawk and squawk in decibels that rival that of a Guns & Roses concert,
(it's like having a baby, that way)
(except chickens do it EVERY DANG DAY)
which makes you run around the house closing all the doors and windows to shut out the racket, burying your head in the sand to the noise that is surely sending your neighbors into a tizzy, because this isn't a farm, you know.  There's an Applebee's right around the corner which would totally not be there if this was a farm.

Afterward, though, you're certain that you've got yourself a nice fresh dozen sitting out there.  So you send the kids out to collect them and they come right back in and say,

"No eggs yet, Mom."

You know why?  Because a watched chicken never lays.

A few mornings ago, Prince Farming walked into the kitchen carrying two white eggs, and said,

"I just watched the chickens lay these eggs."

I was immediately skeptical because he was lying.

"Yeah, I was just standing there watching and they started to lay, and then these eggs just popped out.  Right in front of me.  Right there."

He motioned with his flat hand outstretched in front of him to emphasize the 'right there' part.
Because, you know, he was lying.
Like a rug.

The idea of actually watching a chicken lay an egg is kind of...I don't know....revolting?  Not to be gross, but do you know where those eggs come out?  It's the same place that horses use to drop a steaming load on the sand, endlessly entertaining my children as to the bodily functions of the equine.

I feel like egg laying should be private.  No one really needs to see that.  Let the poor chickens lay their lot in peace. 

But.....There's always that moment when no one is around and curiosity gets the better of you.  One of the birds starts to squawk, and you think to yourself,

"I wonder....."

So, you slowly open the door, and tip toe ever so softly to the side of the coop, and stand as quiet as a little church mouse for a sweet forever, your feet freezing in the wet, morning grass, hoping to see something that will probably make you never want to eat eggs again.

And nothing happens.
That chicken just keeps buawking and squawking with its tail full of egg until its eyes pop out of its head and all its feathers explode like dynamite of its body.
That bird is not going to lay that egg.  Not while you're standing there, it's not.

You know why?

Because a watched chicken never lays.
That's all I'm sayin'.

There's A Chicken At My Door

 I'm working very hard to clean and organize our playroom.

It's a resolution of mine.

I'm not sure what is more unnerving.

That the windows of our playroom are so dirty.

Or that I'm being watched by a chicken.

My Chicken List...a.k.a. Let's Do 52 ~ Wk. 23 {Solo}

I'm really angry at the chickens.

The chickens are on my list.  At the top, in fact.

My list is called  

Chickens I'm Really Angry At Because They Ate My Pumpkin Plants

I'm not that creative when I'm angry.

I've replanted six of the pumpkins, and the chickens better stay away from this time, or I'll have them for dinner.

And not in that "Come on in.  Draw up a chair.  I'll feed you a hot, home cooked meal" kind of way, either.

I think you get what I'm saying.

I'm determined to have pumpkins and sunflowers in my garden this year that do not get eaten by creatures.

You hear that, chickens?  Keep your free-ranging selves over there!

That should about take care of it.

I Got The Wrong Shot....

Sometimes I take a picture for a purpose.

And sometimes I take a picture and figure out the purpose later.

And sometimes I take a picture while my beloved is squawking around like a rooster trying to get the chickens to look up and I realize that I should really have taken a picture of my beloved squawking around like a rooster.

A Rooster Named Daisy {or How Prince Farming Made Me A Vegetarian}

I blame the chicks.  It all started when they moved in.

No.  It all started when one of them became a rooster.  And "became" really isn't the right word because it was a rooster all along.  We just didn't know it until 5:58 a.m. on Tuesday, July 26th when it started crowing.  Or cock-a-doodle-dooing.  Or roostering.  Or whatever it is you call it when those birds pierce the quiet, peacefulness of dreamland sleep with squawking at decibels matched only by those at a Bon Jovi concert.

Farming sat bolt right up in bed.  "OH MY GOD!"

We'd had our suspicions.  This particular bird was bigger than the others.  But, you know.  Chicks grow at different rates.  Like kids, right?  Yeah.  Sure.

It had a pretty big comb and chin waddle.  Bigger than the others had.  But, you know......Actually, I have no idea.  I don't know how big a chin waddle is supposed to be.  Unless, it's a double chin.  That I know.  Anyway....

It had, and this should really have been the defining clue, teal tail feathers.  Yes, I said teal.  Much greener than turquoise, but not blue enough to be cobalt.  Teal.  Tail feathers.  Pretty.

Prince Farming loved this bird.  It was his favorite.  We called it Daisy.  It was Daisy, the Body Walking Chicken.

So when Daisy began roostering at 5:58 in the morning, Farming was visibly distressed.

"COME HERE!  GET OVER HERE!  YOU'RE GONNA' BE DINNER!"

And he chased it around the yard with a box, finally trapping it behind the coop with my red muck bucket, where it continued to screech and scream for the rest of the day until Farming came back with a giant cage and forced me to help him get the bird from the bucket to the cage to the back of the truck.

"Just pick up the cage."

"I'm trying.  I'm afraid it's going to get my fingers."

"Just pick up the cage!"

And the bird slides down the bottom of the cage until it's pressed up against the bars and we're eye to eye and it's looking at me like it wants my face for dinner and I freak out and trip over the edge of the coop and almost drop the cage and it screeches and screams some more.  Farming, not the rooster.

"Come on!  Just pick it up!"

Now, I have never been the chicks' biggest fan.  I've never been the chicks' smallest fan.  I've never been the chicks' fan at all, but I don't think that they should die just because they turn out to be boys.  I like boys.  Boys are cool.  Boys are not food.

"It's a bird," he said.

"Yeah, but you love that bird."

"It's a rooster.  I loved it when it was a hen."

"So, just because it's a boy, you don't love it anymore.  That's a little sexist, don't you think?"

"No."

"You can't kill it just because it's a boy.  We have a boy.  I wouldn't want someone to eat him just because he's got a Y chromosome and doesn't like sparkle shoes."

"It's not our son.  It's a bird.  I'm getting it out of here."

"I won't eat it."

"Whatever."

That's how it started.  With that ridiculous rooster. 

In our household, the wife makes the list and the husband goes to the store.  Wandering through the aisles of the Grocery Outlet calms him down when he's stressed about work.    I mainline chocolate, but...to each his own.  I digress.

After this unfortunate rooster incident, I was terrified to eat any chicken that he brought home for fear that it was Daisy.  I just didn't want to do it.  Didn't want to take the chance.  Even if it said Foster Farms on it.  Even if it was stamped by the USDA.  That can all be faked, you know.  Little plastic wrap.  Little sticker making machine.  Bam.  You're in business to fool your wife into eating the rooster that used to walk on your head.

Well, I was not born yesterday.  Nor, do I come from a place that discusses where dinner comes from.

"A gourmet chef at a 5 star restaurant made this?  Good enough for me." is where I come from.  Okay?  So, I don't want to think about eating food that I know has a face...or a mother.

"What about steak?" he asked me.  Kind of snarky, too.

"I don't know that cow."

"Fish?"

"I've never looked a salmon in the eye."

"Turkey?"

"Okay...you know what, Mr. Sexist Farmer Guy?  I'm done.  I'm done eating meat.  So there."

"Yeah, right."

I'm not kidding.  I'm done.  I've gone Veg.  I tried to go Vegan but it was a little extreme for me.  I need cream for my coffee, and maybe some cheese every now and then.  Eggs I can give up, but I need cream and cheese.

And you know what? It's been two weeks and I feel fantastic!  Everything's fresh fruits and vegetables and whole grains and nuts.  I'm down five pounds doing nothing but sitting on my ass editing pictures.  Woot woot!

And then he says, "I'm thinking about getting a lasagna to take to the beach this weekend."

Forget the fact that I'm Italian and make killer lasagna and that any lasagna you get frozen from a store is just crap.  I just looked at him.

"...............Ummmm....okay....."

"What?  No good?"

"Well, I probably won't eat it."

"Why?"

"It's got meat in it."

"Oh, right.  The meat thing.  Well, why don't you just make a turkey one then."

"...............................  Meat."

"Fine.  Let's just not go then.  I mean, what am I supposed to eat if you're not eating meat?  You're the one who cooks everything."

And that's why I'm the queen.  But, I'm a nice queen who doesn't impose her own eating lifestyle on others.

"Just because I'm not eating meat, doesn't mean you can't.  Eat what you want."

"I want pot roast."

"I'm not making that."

And while he did survive zuchinni lasagna at the beach, he also made Buffalo wings.  Then came home and made Carne Asada and burritos.  He's down 7 pounds.

I had a salad and some vegi pizza and gained one and a half pounds.

Shut up.  You and your stupid fast metabolism and your stupid rooster.

Where's the chocolate?

That doesn't have meat in it, right?

Good.  'Cause I'd have to punch someone in the junk if it did.

Stupid rooster.

Love,

Lisa

Project 52 ~ Week 26 {Hidden Objects}

I've been sitting with this image for about five days now trying to come up with something magical to say about it. I always like to talk about the pictures when I post them. Tell the story of how it came to be. Muse about the different ideas that its theme has brought to mind. Craft a tale full of wit and poetry.

And as I look at this image now, the red hen hiding behind the opening of her little red house, I am struck with

 .....absolutely nothing.

Zip.

Zero.

Zilch.

Nada.

A big friggin' doughnut hole.

In fact, I can think of more ways to say "nothing" than I can things to say about this picture. It just doesn't inspire me. I have a theory on why.

Why, of course I'll tell you. Thank you for asking.

The reason for the lull in my creative flow, I believe, is due to this utterly ridiculous theme. And possibly the fact that the project sponsor's nine-year-old daughter picked it.

Really?

Seriously?

Are you kidding me?

You're joking right?

Is this for real?

See. I can come up with more ways to roll my eyes than I can things to say about this picture.

I can tell you three things about this picture:

1. It was taken during my Date Night with the Prince.
2. I had to wait a really looooonnnnnnnggggggg time for her to turn around poke her head out.
3. Sorry. Thought I could come up with three. I've only got two.

I briefly thought about taking this Hidden Objects theme to another level and really pouring out all of the feelings that I have about hiding my true self. That I feel so often lately that I'm wearing a mask and not allowing the real me to show through. Why do we feel the need to wear masks? What are we hiding from? Is it fear or low self-esteem or are we just obsessed with Halloween?

But....I don't know. That just seemed a little....what? Cliche and deep and self-indulgent? Yeah, pretty much.  I'm just not in the mood to go there.  I've got laundry to fold and errands to run and kids to clean up after and a bunch of other crap I've got to do.  I don't have time to think about the business of hiding any more.  You, however, are more than welcome to roll it around if you'd like.  Think about your own mask and why you wear it and what you're hiding from and what you're thinking about dressing up as for Halloween.

And if you can come up with something full of magic, wit and poetry to say about this chick, please don't hesitate to share.  My screen is always open.

So...I guess that's it.

That's all I've got.

I'm tapped out.

This is me....signing off.

Over and out.

That's all she wrote.

The End.

Date Night With The Prince

It started off like an other non-beachy Sunday.  I was up early before anyone else.  Coffee.  Paper.  Laundry.  Ahhhh.....the quiet of morning work makes me just want to sing....and dance...really quietly though.  I don't want to wake anyone and ruin the quietness. 

Pretty soon, they all start crawling out of the woodwork.

"Mom, can you make pancakes?"

"What?  Are you kidding?  It's my Sunday, too, you know."  Okay.  I didn't really say that.  I just ignored it and made them some eggs and toast and a fruit smoothie.

Then, the phone rang.  We were invited to spend the sunny Sunday afternoon around Grandma's pool.  Hours of lazing around the big backyard, soaking up the sun, while the kids worked out every ounce of energy in the pool until they couldn't stand up anymore and we would be forced to drag their exhausted, sleeping bodies home to bed.  Sweet!  We're in.

Futz around the house.  Walk on the treadmill.  Shower.  Suits.  Sunscreen..and we're off!

Now, here's where things started to kind of get funny.  The cousins were there (we knew they would be), and after about 5 minutes together, my niece asks if my daughter can spend the night with her.  Aside from the fact that the idea of being down by one for the night makes me want to twirl around doing cartwheels, I wasn't sure how she'd do.  She's never been the greatest sleepover-er.  Add to that the fact that we had only one change of clothes, no pajamas, no blanket and no pillow pet, and I was pretty darn skeptical.  But, she begged and pleaded, and once it was made clear that the sleepover would be at Grandma's house, it was pretty much a done deal.

Once that had been decided, my daughter told us, quite matter-of-factly, that it was now time for us to leave.  She was going to have a sleepover and it was going to start immediately.  Didn't make a whiff of difference that it was only 2:30 in the afternoon.  No fun could possibly begin while I was in residence, and she wasn't about to wait until my sun-worshipping was done.  She's always been impatient like that.

We lolled around a while longer.  Unbeknownst to me, whispers were being placed in my nephew's ear.  He's younger and maybe didn't really take the hint my son was slamming him over the head with, so as the cousin's are getting ready to leave, my son says, out loud and in front of everyone,  

"Hey, when I can spend the night at your house?"

Cut to me diving into the pool, burrowing through the concrete at the bottom, and building a home for the rest of my life.  How many times have we talked about inviting ourselves places?  Talked about what inviting ourselves means?  Warned that if I ever hear him inviting himself somewhere, my answer will always be no, no matter how fun it sounds?  That it's rude and improper and inappropriate and embarrassing.

Did I mention the burrowing into the concrete?

No worries.  My brother took it in stride.  He's cool like that.  They'd been wanting to do a sleepover anyway.  Quick call home to check with the mom, and just like that, we were kid-free for the whole night.  Now, I was ready to go.  Let the kid-free twirling and cartwheeling bliss begin.

Sooooooo.....now what?  Are we supposed to, like, do something?

We walked in the house, no.  Wait.  We got out of the car....completely unencumbered.  It took, like, I don't know.  Two seconds?  Wow.  Then we walked in the house....completely unencumbered.  That took about half a second.  No one pushed through.  No one yelled that you're in my way!  No one immediately started scouring the kitchen for snacks and drinks.  No one dumped all of their stuff right in the entryway for everyone else to have to trip over.  We just walked in the house.  Just....walked in.

Once we got there, we weren't really sure what to do.

"Do you want to go out for dinner?"

"I guess.  Where do you want to go?"

"Well...ummm.....How about McDon....No.  Wait.....Chuck E.....Hold on.  I know this.  I know this...."

"Why don't we just grill up the chicken that's marinating?"

"Sub sandwiches!  I knew I'd get it!"

"Start the grill, Big Man."

While he worked on the chicken, I stir-fried up some veggies, and we enjoyed some very lovely complete sentence conversation.  We sat down to a quiet dinner in front of Lester Holt, just like we used to do.  On the couch.  Afterward, as we were sinking into our kid-free bliss, he turned to me and said,

"Chicks?"

I apologize in advance for the use of this extremely over done phrasing.

Pardon my french, but are you fucking kidding me?  We're alone in the house for the first time in about 153 years, and you want to go visit the chicks?  Just gimme a minute to grab the slug bait and I can get some work done while we're out there, you romantic devil.  Visit the chicks.  Sheesh!  So I looked him right in the eye and said,

"Okay."  I decided not to grab the slug bait.  I didn't want to use up all the fun at once, you know.

So, we're out in the back yard.  Chicks, chicks, chicks.

Water the plants.  Pull some weeds.

Take some pics.

And we're back inside to the couch.

This wasn't taken on the couch, but it's a really good picture of him and I love looking at it, so I just want to put it here.  That's all.

If you didn't know, or weren't aware, Sunday night TV about sucks.  And without a Netflix envelope to open, we were stuck with a ball game....until I convinced him to watch the pilot episode of "The West Wing."  I've totally gotten back into the first season and was sure he'd love it.  Now, pilot episodes can be kind of tough.  New characters and personalities to figure out.  The plot lines are strange and confusing.  You really have no idea what's going on, so I'm not too sure how much he was liking it.  That's not true.  I know he hated it, but he didn't give up on it, and just as I was about the start the second episode the phone rang.

Being that it was 9:30 at night, I figured that it was Grandma calling to say that my daughter was freaking out and wanted to come home, but the caller ID said it was my brother's house.  Hmmmmmm......my son was probably just calling to say good night or something.

"Hi, Mom."

I never talk to him on the phone and it's always weird to hear how small and young he sounds.  His voice was so little and high-pitched.  He could have been four, not in fourth grade.

"I want to come home."

WHAT!?!  Pardon my french, but are you fucking kidding me!?!  You're the one who wanted to go there!  You're the one who invited yourself over!  You're the one who said, "When can I?  When can I?  When can I?"  And now you want to come home?  FORGET IT!  You made your sleepover....so....you know....sleep in it!  So, I looked him straight in the phone and said,

"If we come and get you, you won't be spending the night anywhere ever again for the rest of your life."

"Okay.  How long will it take you to get here?"

He said that he just really missed us.  He'd had a lot of fun, but that going to sleep at someone else's house was just too different and he missed hearing our sounds.  I get that, I guess.  So fine.  We went and got him.  He was grinning from ear to ear as he climbed into his own bed.  His light was on just so.  The radio was playing the station that he likes.  As I walked out of the room, I heard him say,

"I know you're mad, but I'm really glad to see you."

I turned to him.  "I'm not mad.  I'm disappointed, but I'm not mad."

"You're mad."

"I'm not mad!"

"Yeah.  You're mad."

I rolled my eyes and walked out of the room.  Truth be told, it was nice to have him in his bed.  It would have felt sad and lonely for neither of them to be home during the night.  And it would have felt really sad and lonely to wake up in the morning and have coffee and read the paper and get Prince Charming out the door and work pictures and do some writing all without the bouncing off the walls noise and questions that usually surround me in the morning.  Yeah....that would have been really sad and lonely.  Totally.....I know. 

And what do you suppose he said when he came out of his room in the morning?  Was it

A.)  I'm so glad to see you and be home.  You're the best parents in the whole world!

B.)  I'm so glad that I made that choice.  It feels so right to be here with you guys.  You're the best parents in the whole world!

C.)  I wish I was back over there!  They're having blueberry pancakes for breakfast!

If you chose A or B, I love you.  Would you like to come and live with us?

If you chose C, pardon my french, but....oh, forget it.  I just got out the stuff and made the friggin' pancakes.

Post Script:  The girls had a lovely time during their sleepover at Grandma's and are currently planning their next Princess Polish Party Extravaganza. 

Post-Post Script:  The Prince and I are now making up a list of possible  dinner locations and outings for when we find ourselves alone again in another 153 years.

Friday Night Chicks

I remember when Friday was my favorite night of the week.  I'd be working all day, so I'd be too busy to wonder whether or not he was going to call me.  Then, I would finish work and rush to check my voice mail to see if he did call me.  He usually did.

I'd call him back.  The conversation almost always went something like this:

"What are you doing?"

"Just finishing up work.  What are you doing?"

"I'm just at home.  We can talk about it when you get here."

And I would go.  Sometimes we'd stay in and drink Mai Tais all night long.

Sometimes we'd go out to a bar or a club or to meet friends.

If we stayed in, we'd usually just lounge on the couch watching TV.  Some Ultimate Fighting thing or a baseball game. We'd watch and drink and laugh and flirt, with me all the while hoping that he'd want to the evening to last as long as I did.  He usually did.

If we went out, the evening wouldn't really get started until around 9:00.  We'd dance and drink and laugh and flirt, with me all the while hoping that he'd want to the evening to last as long as I did.  He usually did.

Those Friday nights have long since passed.  I no longer wonder if he's going to call.  I'm not worried that he doesn't want the evening to last as long as I do.  We don't go out much anymore.  Unless it's to the backyard to visit the chicks and the baseball playing monkeys running around out there. 

Somethings haven't changed, however.  We still lounge on the couch watching TV.  Some DVD thing or a ball game.  We still watch and drink and laugh and flirt.  It's just more comfortable now.

And much more fun.

Say Good Night, Chickie

The chicks officially moved in almost four weeks ago.  I admit, I've been a tad......unwelcoming.  But, they started it with the whole flying out of the box in my face thing.

Never mind.

Anywaaayyyy.....They're here and I don't anticipate them going anywhere anytime soon, so I've really been trying my darnedest to get along with others.

I offered them an olive branch in the form of Italian Parsley from my garden.  They were sceptical, but they chipped at it (Of course they chipped at it, they're birds....ridiculous, creep....No.  Be friends.  Get along, get along, get along.....)

I've let them wander around my feet without shooing them away.  Although, if I make even the teeniest, tiniest move, they all go squawking to the other side of the coop.  Whatever....

And I've taken their pictures every which way to Sunday.

Prince Charming took me out last night for a quiet, backyard date.  We hadn't seen each other much during the day, so a few peaceful moments perusing the yard together were lovely.  He opened up the chick cage and his favorite jumped right into his hand.  I started to back away, but decided to just sit with it.  Try to be more of the hostess my mother raised me to be.  I didn't object.  I didn't back away (much).  I was just quiet with them.

It was getting dark, so we turned on the light inside their house.  As they made their way up the ramp to tuck in for the evening, I was struck with really how beautiful they are in form.  Their silhouettes illuminated in the doorway.

As I sat at the edge of the coop, clicking away (you could say I was a Clickin' Chick....but, that would just be obvious and silly.  Yeah, totally.  I know....) I took a moment to admit what I've been trying to hide, and that is this:

I like having the chicks live with us.

I like their little red hen house.

I like the way it looks in our backyard.

I like that my kids are so excited about them.

I like that Prince Farming is so excited about them.

I like that it makes me feel like I'm living on farm in a beautiful countryside.

So, fine.  Secret's out.

I like the chicks.

And I love you for taking the time to read about them.

Smooches!

Prince Farming and His Amazing Body-Walking Chicken

Great show in the backyard last night.

It started off with me innocently spraying my new herb garden for bugs.  Little did I know, Farming was behind me opening the chicken coop and pulling out a bird to nestle with. 

I put up a bit of a fuss when he started bringing it over to me.

"No.  I don't need to see it.  I can see it from here.  Just stop....no, stop....Seriously.  STOP!"

"What?" he asks.  "It's not going to get you."  This as it springs from his grasp, chirping wildly, and flies six feet from his hand smacking its head into the side of the hen house.

Oh, so hilariouuussss.

And then his started his Chicken Whisperer routine.

"Who's a chick-chick?.....Awww, poor chick-chick....."

"Come here.  It's okay.  You wanna' walk on my shoulder?"

"You can sit on my head.  Just don't lay an egg....."

Yeah....he's gonna' hate me for that one.  Well, that what he gets.  I told him to stop.

He told me that they just want to be loved and if we treat them like pets, they'll lay more eggs for us.  This as a second one sprung from his grasp, chirping wildly, and flew six feet from his hand smacking its head into the side of the hen house.

No, I'm not repeating myself.  It actually happened twice.  With two different chickens, after which I briefly considered the possibility that I may have overestimated the fright-factor on these birds.

Nope, I didn't.  Just creepy.

After about 10 minutes of lovin' and touchin' and squeezin' (and screaming and scaring and running), the show started to wind down.  The birds were getting tired.  Their little hearts were racing.  Prince Farming had been about pecked out.  It was time to say good night.

But, not without a little audience participation first.

Chicks to you!

Love ya', gang!

Farming In Suburbia

I should have known when he said he wanted to start keeping chickens for the eggs.

I should have seen it coming when he decided it would be better to keep them in the workout room in our basement rather than down at his office yard.

I should have read the writing on the wall when he put on a pair of overalls and a straw hat and asked me to start calling him Prince Farming.

But I didn't.  I turned a blind, blissfully ignorant eye. 

And now....

That's right.  They've moved in.

Taken over the back corner of our back yard with a little red hen house and some chicken wire.

It took them a minute to get used to the idea.

There were a few squabbles about who would be first up the ramp.

This guy won.

Now Prince Farming and the children are all a flutter about our new pets.  Who needs one dog when you can have six chickens?

And then he says, 

"I just want to throw this out there.....Goose eggs."

Pray for me.