Another Day. Another Rooster

I had to call Mike the other morning with this report, "So, guess what? I have bad news." (And then I had to hurry and answer what the bad news was before Mike had to actually guess about the bad news because if there is anything my husband doesn't like -- besides miracle whip and ranch dressing -- it is having someone slowly tell a story of bad news. He needs the bad news straight out, then you can back track and tell the story if you must -- which is less fun, but is something I try to do so as to help him keep his sanity. For example, if the dishwasher broke down, I would like to say something long starting with, "So, I went to wash the dishes the other day . . . " continuing with something along the lines of, "and I had the whole thing loaded and the soap in . . ." and finally ending with, "and no matter what I tried, it wouldn't turn on." But that method would have Mike pulling his hair out and feeling like he might break something for want of just knowing what went wrong. Was the kitchen flooded? Was something simply jammed? Did a dish break or is the whole dishwasher on fire?? He can't abide the slow build up when something serious may, or, as they case may be, may not be at stake. So, I always have to use straight-to-the-point style: "I got in an accident. The front end on the right side. Dented a little. Everyone OK." Then, I can go on and tell him the beginning and how it all came about and all the details. It really takes the fun out of a good "bad news" story, but it's the way it has to be with that man). Ooh. Goodness. Was all of that in parenthesis? Wowzers. Maybe I'll do a paragraph break now just to loosen things up.

Well, so, I got straight to the bad news -- probably dilly dallying more than Mike was comfortable with by my initial "Guess what? Bad news" shenanigans. But I came out with it pretty quickly, "We have another rooster." Then I told him about how I heard it crowing away that morning and how it seemed just awful that we only JUST got someone to come take our first rooster. He agreed this was indeed bad news. Then, later, he had the gall to suggest that it would have been nice had I actually been able to report just exactly which chicken had decided to go rooster. (I guess I was supposed to get up and go look at who was crowing rather than put my pillow over my head and moan). You see, usually roosters look way cooler than their henny counterparts. It's sad that it is so, but it is. That's why Mike was bummed we had to get rid of first rooster. They have bigger combs and look tougher. None of our remaining chickens look this way. They all look pretty hen like if you ask me (sorry rooster -- no offense intended). I guessed that maybe it was one of the two scrawny little sissy gray chickens -- they look wimpy enough as is that it stands to reason one might be a less robust rooster. Who knows. What if all our chickens turn out to be roosters? Even the one who lays eggs. Actually, that would be a stroke of astonishingly good luck. Zoologists, young and old alike, would be vying for the chance to come study our chicken. It would probably end up as famous as that chicken who lived for years with out a head (admittedly, some of you may not be in the proper social circles to know all about that chicken, but I'm sure you could google it). Our rooster hen would probably appear in all kinds of scientific research journals, and we'd be RICH RICH RICH!

Or, maybe we wouldn't be rich. What would those zoologists want with our chicken anyway? Don't zoologists work in a zoo? Just so you know, thanks to that question, I have taken to lying about my major and just telling everyone it was biology -- which it essentially was. Anyway, turns out I should probably switch my lie to something totally different like . . . english. That way no one will think I should be able to tell a rooster from a hen. Next time Mike and I have this discussion, I am just going to say, "I was an english major. How should I know?" Not that english majors don't know things. They do. Oh how they do. I know because my whole family majored in english -- well nearly -- some of us majored in other things like zoology. Dang. I said it again. Plus, if I said I majored in english, someone might say, "Well, so fine, you wouldn't know about the rooster then, but what if you have a sentence that ends right at the end of some parenthesis. Do you put the period in or out of the last parenthesis?" I think I majored in economics. No. Communications. Leave me alone. Yes, you too, rooster. And, while I'm at it, Thor, you leave me alone as well.

P.S. Mike just said, "I didn't hear the rooster this morning. Did you?" When I said that I didn't and that was what was so confusing, he said that maybe it was some other rooster who had come to eye our hens, and, "heckle them."