So my dear husband got me a birthday card with four sections on the front--one with a chicken in cold weather garb in the snow, one with a vista of just grass and flowers, another with a chicken in sunglasses in the sun and the last one with a chicken and falling leaves. The inside said: "No spring chicken? You noticed, too?"
Cruel and uncalled for, yes, but it got me to pondering: If I am no longer a spring chicken, what kind of chicken am I? (I realize that it's highly unusual to be philosophizing about poultry themed greeting cards, but just stay with me...at the very least, it could get weirder.)
So after much thought, I have determined that I am a In-the-Last-Few-Weeks of August Chicken. Next year, I most definitely enter Early Autumn Chickendom--still hot from time to time, maybe, but also looking forward to things finally cooling off. It's that time in life where you can start to wear comfortable clothes to cover up fatal flaws without having to make excuses. By the time I'm a Mid Winter Chicken, I plan on wearing a cashmere muumuu and ballet slippers 24/7. Age does impart some privilege.
To celebrate the passage of time, I went karaoking on Saturday night with 20 or so lovely lady friends to the mysteriously titled karaoke bar, "El Notes". Is it Spanish? Is it English? Is it singular? Is it plural? Sometimes a Masters Degree in French Literature makes you worry about things like that. Let's just call it a gift.
I had never been karaoking at a bar before and didn't know what to expect. (That's not true, exactly. In my mind's eye, I did visualize myself singing out of tune with a bunch of rowdy stay-at-home moms with PhDs. But I just didn't realize how out of tune it would be.) The tambourines were a surprise. As was the all-you-can-eat ice cream/tea bar. And the equally random scenes of the New York Subway System being played on the big screen behind the lyrics of Sweet Home Alabama.
Maybe the plum flavored Chu Hai (Japanese Everclear) I was swilling made objects seem more surreal than they appear in real life. In any case, I woke up the next morning with a killer headache that lasted all day.
I have definitely noticed that no spring chicken resides in this picture.
3 comments:
Happy bday, fellow Libran! I'm dying to know exactly what songs you choose to sing...if you can remember...
Thanks! Happy Birthday to you, too! Uh, YES I remember what I sang...kinda. There was the prerequisite ABBA, of course, an unfortunate rendition of Garth Brooks and a frightening chorus of New York, New York. Thank God these places are sound proofed.
Below is a comment sent to me via email from my favorite heckler, H.A. in Turkey. He had trouble posting it. Is anyone else having problems posting comments? Please let me know via email.
Chickens who drink plum Chu-Hi are neither Spring nor Winter. They are baked.
Sorry to hear about the headache N., but you were drinking the Japanese equivalent of Boone's Farm. I'm a bit shocked, smart cluckers know that once you cross the road, you never EVER go back to the farm.
Post a Comment