Strange turn of events: two chickens have joined our flock, and by flock, I mean pride of pussycats. These chickens came from a previous address, where a benefactor had decided they were meat, but residents named the chickens, making them pets. It’s a sentimental distinction. You could have a pig, name it Precious Loveydovey and still look forward to delicious smoky bacon. Many people do. These chickens came here last Sunday and already Pete’s collected four eggs; when he has eight, we will bake a celebratory souffle. I’m thinking it’ll be broccoli.
Our eyes met across an empty coop.
The arrival of the egg-laying chickens has caused us to reevaluate the chore chart at the Handmade House. The hens eat dandelion greens, other weeds and bugs and produce eggs. I have asked the cats what they contribute to the household. I can’t be 100% certain, but I believe they’re secretly updating their resumes.
So, I was pushing through things with my head down – my laptop is dying and I’m saving up for a replacement – when I suddenly realized April is nearly over and Poor Impulse Control is a gangly twelve year old. While I’m relieved that the blog doesn’t need braces, it’s still exasperating. What am I going to do with it? Where should I go now? I’ve given it a whole lot of thought and re-registered with the unnamed university. The application process, the counseling meetings, the phone calls have all offered daily tests of my resolve, and I didn’t know I had that. This has been very damned unnerving and I haven’t started having those naked/missed exam dreams yet.
On the other hand, a twelfth anniversary was worth marking. Faced with the choice between murdering me or setting up a blog so I’d write, Paulie Gonzalez set up Poor Impulse Control and demonstrated tremendous restraint. As thanks, I sent him a lovely port wine from Unionville Vineyards last week and hope he has a serene weekend. Thanks, Paulie, you mad charmer!
With good luck, I should acquire a new laptop pretty soon and posting should be easier, my stories should be lemony fresh and springy. And that’s good because no matter how it whines that all the other blogs have them, I’m not buying the blog heels.
Last week, I looked up and saw nothing but sticks.
Just about any time I’m listening to a radio station, I’m wondering where are all the women who make music. You may wonder, for example, who were the punk rock women and where’s the music. They’re here, in this one unbelievable catalog. And we are fucking lucky to have it.