Gripe Session

For one thing, the tree is still out on the curb. Unbelievable. F-ing Department of Sanitation. I am absolutely at a loss.

For another thing, my sister and brother-in-law did me the “favor,” last night, of telling me about a certain Mike the chicken who, back in 1945, got beheaded but then proceeded to live — for another eighteen months. With no face. No eyes. No mouth. No head! Being fed through the neck. Becoming a poultry-celebrity in his parts. I don’t know why, exactly, but it has really upset me. It’s caused me, frankly, to enjoy my just-made batch of chicken noodle soup far less than I might have. Thanks, kids! Like it didn’t suck enough to begin with!

But really, who am I to criticize? Who was the headless chicken today? Not Mike, that’s for sure. I need to ratchet it down tomorrow or I’ll never make it to Saturday. Pace yourself, woman! Very little cooking, no cleaning, one iteration of the Arthur books only. Nothing strenuous, tedious, or arduous. Homemaker Lite. I’m all over it.

Except for a small project involving a saw, a Christmas tree, and the yard waste bin. That, I fear, can’t be put off one more day…

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