I relayed to Hubby a conversation with a friend about how I wasn’t particularly interested in living to a ripe old age. She responded snippily, “Then I hope you die young.”
Hubby lovingly responded: “Too late for that.”
I was listening with earbuds to one of my new favorite songs, “Trees” by Twenty One Pilots. (Linked to save you the trouble, M.) The last few seconds pretty much enrapture me. I was thus fully engaged when Hubby came over and said something I didn’t hear. I held up a “just a moment” finger, not wanting to interrupt those last few glorious seconds.
Then I felt like a jerk, so I pulled out an earbud to listen to him. “So we only got one egg today? Bummer,” and he walked away.
We knew it was coming. It was only a matter of time, but since there are now eight little chickens in the coop, isolating the rascals, I mean, roosters, is tough. I heard two different weak crowing attempts, as they’re just stretching their wings, so to speak. But also literally. I saw feathers unfurled on two birds right after the crowing. Next problem: we have three brown and three white, so unless I’m an ornithologist armed with tags, how will I know which birds these were when I’m ready to get rid of them?
But first, I need to back up.
We took the last of the big roosters back to the Chicken Lady. Since it was full-grown, I was hoping for two small birds in exchange, but she only gave us one.
This is what I get for not keeping up with Swinged Cat‘s posts. Turns out, I read several days later, my birthday coincided with the 30th anniversary of the release of Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” When the band came the first time and played that song, Neighbor and I spontaneously combusted in unison even though no one else was dancing. I told her this time we needed to up our game by dancing on a table. Even *I* thought that was crazy, but she was up for it!
This might be one of those situations were my neighbor is secretly a spy or a superhero, like I won’t know until I accidentally see her take off her mask when she thinks no one is watching after she’s just saved someone from a mugging.
Anyway, back to the song, it wasn’t played. 😦 After she left, another friend asked me to request “500 Miles.” So, between songs, I walked up to the singer and said, “I’ve been requested to ask if you’d play ‘500 Miles.'” They made that the very next song. Apparently I had some pull. Why, oh why, did I not just ASK them to play “Smells Like Teen Spirit”? Again, IF I had read M’s post, I would’ve asked them to play it in honor of the anniversary. Missed opportunity! Next time, I suppose, unless, now having read this, Hubby says to me, “Uh, no, honey. No dancing on tables.” Drat!
Remember the Betsy tattoos? Here’s a slideshow of my neighbor applying one to Hubby’s fun-loving Colombian coworker.
Previously, I posted about The Band that came in December. I’d been trying to get them back ever since. Finally, amazingly, I managed to book them for my birthday!
When we arrived late, I was relieved the band hadn’t started yet. The guitarist, my point of contact, told me on arrival that when he had asked his bandmates if they should start on time, the bassist said, “But Betsy isn’t here yet.” First of all, honored, secondly, the bassist knew and remembered who I was?!
The music was terrific, as, of course, I knew it would be. Remembering that I love Pearl Jam, they played three PJ songs for me. Literally. After one, someone in the band said into the mic, “That was for Betsy.” Then, at the first set break, I pulled out what I’d been saving since April! Behold:
I may have pulled off an excellent prank. But I’ll likely never know.
Neighbor asked what I wanted to do for my birthday. I suggested we get coffee and do our usual shopping trips. She responded “YES! and YES!” That alone wins her the title of my favorite person ever. Actually, just asking what I wanted to do on my birthday was enough. But it got even better.
We first arranged to go to brunch with another friend. Neighbor picked me up, which is sort of funny, since we’re two houses apart, but then I saw the side of her car.
First of all, no, he does not think CM is his mommy. He just surmised (as a four-year-old!) that I had gone to the store and bought him CM. I didn’t tell anyone I was going to the store. This child is just that good at sniffing the stuff out.
That and he’s been asking for it for days, to the point where, last night, after tucking him in bed, Hubby says to me, “Joe asked for Chex Mix again. You should probably pick some up.”
Finally I did. He’s lucky it was on sale, because you know that’s how I roll. So, in response to the above question from Joe, I laughed and said, “Yes!” more out of amazement that he guessed the reason for the sing-song voice than out of excitement for having the stuff in my home again.
I have clearly passed the CM torch onto my son.
He said, “Could you bring me a bowl?” But as I had other groceries to put away and did not bring him a bowl of the golden deliciousness in less than 60 seconds, he came to get it himself.
If only I could get him that excited about bed time.
The last time I brought CM home, he saw the bag on the counter, grabbed it, and literally tried to tear it open with his teeth.
Monster officially created.
That time, btw, was when I had gone to that other store where I’d seen new flavors. I had asked your advice. Remember these?
No, not that bird. Not chickens. Not this time. (But soon.)
My friend, M, and I have this thing about flamingos and birthdays. All too late I realized it would be fun to buy flamingos to put in her yard. (Much later I remembered there are companies that do this for you, but oh well.)
Amazon told me the birds would arrive the day AFTER her birthday, but often they only SAY that. Then later I get an email saying, “Your order will arrive early!” as though they are the most amiable, benevolent massive corporation ever.
I was banking on that email. And it came! Telling me the birds would arrive ON her birthday, but that was too late to have them on her lawn by the time she got up in the morning.
Plan B: Construct your own flamingo.
Step 1: Go to Hubby’s work and scour it for large cardboard.
Step 2: Enlist artistic daughters to draw and paint flamingo on cardboard.
I texted the Chicken Lady: We have another rooster. He is a fine looking specimen… If I were a few decades younger and a hen… Anyway, could we just bring him back to you?
CL: Hahaha [laughing crying face] yes of course.
We arrived with roses from our garden to grease the skids, and she seemed delighted with them. When she saw the rooster she said, “Wow, that is a beautiful bird. You sure you don’t want to keep him?”
We didn’t, but I agreed. He truly was magnificent to behold. I honestly stared at him for a while, as his multi-hued plumage shimmered in the sunlight.
And then we gave him the boot.
In addition to the roses and rooster, we brought back one of the new chicks. Thanks to superb chicken sex-identifying advice from Jacqui of Word Dreams, Hubs and I spread the chicks’ wings to try to ID any potential roosters. One was for sure a hen–uneven wings, and one really seemed likely to be a rooster–even wings. The rest were a little unclear, so we decided to leave them for now and hope for the best.
I expected her to give us a new chick to swap out, but instead she gave us two. Not complaining. We’re back to ten birds after starting with seven, four of whom were roosters.
I woke up this morning to blissful silence.
Until another rooster crowed.
Make that five out of seven roosters. You don’t even want to know how much we’ve spent on chicken feed these past few months raising these useless birds. Sigh.