The Chicks and Their Destiny

I've already been asked which chick we plan to eat. We have no idea whether we have boys or girls. We're hoping we have girls, as we merely want their eggs and fertilizer for now.

If we have a gaggle of boys, things will get complicated. What on earth does one do with five roosters? Break up cock fights all day?

I suppose we could make a pretty penny showing chicken fights. We live in the dirty South, after all.

Fortunately, the internet assures me that feed stores only sell female chicks, although there's a possibility of getting one or two males.

Ian wants to cook any roosters we may have received. It's the practical thing to do, I suppose.

However, every time I so much as look at the chicks, I involuntarily squeal, "My babies!"

It must be some sort of maternal instinct. You know, the instinct that prevents mothers from eating their young.

Please don't eat me, mommy.

Ian and I are stunned at how fast they're growing. Every day, we see a remarkable difference in size. They're starting to lose their baby down and to sprout feathers.

Which produces more squealing:

Laura:  "My babies! They're growing up so fast. Soon they'll be off to college..."

Ian: "Uh huh. They're getting big enough to eat."

Laura: "They're bigger than chicken nuggets now. They're more like chicken strips."

Here are our babies. Or rather, my babies!

They enjoy dance parties. They were forming a conga line here.

When We Adopted Six Babies

Guess what we got?

We got adorable, down-covered, freshly-hatched chicks. Last Saturday, Ian and I drove out to a tractor supply store to buy the tiny babies.

We had planned on buying four, but store policy insisted we buy six. So we watched a store employee grab up six squawking chicks and stick them in a box.

The shape of the box spelled out a clear message regarding the chicks' purpose in life:

It's the original Chicken McNugget Happy Meal. It comes with Happy Meal toys: chicken poop for the girls and salmonella for the boys.

As we drove back home, I cradled the box on my lap and opened the top to gaze inside. I watched in horror as one of the chicks snapped onto another's leg and yanked with all his might.

I lowered my head into the box and yelled, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

The chicks erupted into intense, resounding peeps.

The chicks: "PEEP PEEP PEEP PEEP PEEP PEEP PEEP PEEP."

Ian: "Close the box! They're scared! They're loud! Oh my God, so loud."

Laura: "I'm sorry. I just can't believe the little devil tried to murder his sister. What a bastard."

Ian: "So you think the evil one's a boy?"

Laura: "Oh, I'm sure of it. That one's gotta be a rooster. Which means we get to use our boy name!"

I've spent the past couple of months preparing for the arrival of our chicks by analyzing chicken names. What, did you think I was going to prepare by buying chicken feed and light bulbs? Please.

Here are their names (and the inspiration thereof):

Bernadette

Marjorine

Sal (short for Salmonella)

Hester Prynne

Gertrude (Gertie)

And our bastard boy who likes to chomp legs and peck faces: John Proctor.

Unfortunately, Gertie looked sickly from the beginning. She passed away after her first night.

That leaves us with five.

(Of course, I have no idea whether we have boys or girls. John Proctor may morph into Jane Proctor at some point).

The Roller Blades

I've been going to thrift stores in pursuit of roller blades for ages.

I first found a pair of roller blades at Goodwill. They fit, but they cost 30 bucks. As you can imagine, I screeched, "Oh, hell no!" and walked out.

Used roller blades are never worth 30 bucks.

Goodwill, and just about every other thrift store these days, is overcharging. When you charge $10 for someone's used socks, you need to do a little soul-searching.

Anyways, Ian and I discovered a wonderful new thrift store that offers fair prices. And last Saturday, I found my roller blades.

They fit perfectly and cost $5. They are original, authentic roller blades made in 1988.

They are also horrendously 80s ugly. Ian pronounced them "cool."

A word of caution: I'd never roller bladed before. Roller skates have always been my thing.

Ian and I strapped on our roller blades on Monday evening and took off. And when I say I took off, I mean I took off. It seems I can go damn fast on roller blades, but I can't stop.

As we rolled down a small hill, Ian glided expertly while I sped uncontrollably, blasting through the atmosphere.

Ian: "You're going a little fast there."

Laura: "I CAN'T SLOW DOWN."

Ian: "The bearings on those are excellent."

Ian tried multiple times to teach me how to stop, but I continued shooting along at turbo-charged speeds. I finally discovered that I could stop by making a circle.

Because when you're charging downhill towards oncoming traffic, you definitely want to get out the way BY MAKING A COMPLETE 360 CIRCLE.

Ian and I opted to head off the road and try a school parking lot. I got pretty good at looping around. As I said, I'm good at circles.

As we prepared to leave the parking lot, we realized we'd have to roll down a fairly steep incline.

Ian studiously clopped down the incline, calmly preparing me for the ride down: "You just want to carefully glide to the left and to the right, to slow yourself down..."

Meanwhile, I had launched down the hill at a terrifying speed, limbs flailing wildly. As I zoomed into the stratosphere, I spotted a sharp bump in the concrete at the bottom of the hill.

I jumped it.

I landed with a thud, arms flapping and legs contorting, as my blades smacked the pavement. Then I made a 360 circle and turned to face an astonished Ian.

Ian: "I was following you the whole time. I was going to try to grab you if you fell. And I was trying to figure out how to tell your parents that I broke their daughter."

Laura: "Nah. I don't fall. I just go fast."

Ian: "Were you even watching for cars?"

Laura: "No. I was watching my feet."

Ian: "You could have wiped out and bled all over the road. You would have started crying, and I wouldn't know what to do. What then?"

Laura: "......."

Ian: "......."

And then we laughed hysterically. The End.