Chicken Marsala for the Soul
On the hike-and-bike yesterday, a cute bicyclist caught my eye and smiled as he was passing. "Hi," he said, so I smiled back, and as he passed, he added, "You look like a million bucks."
Isn't that nice? Frankly, for the last couple of weeks at least I've been feeling like maybe a buck-fifty, buck-seventy-five, tops. So this really made my day, though I was much too surprised, slow, and shy to turn around and yell "Thanks!" at his retreating form.
No wonder I never get any.
Chickens are a whole nother story, at least according to some very highly placed people in my division, who made some surprisingly inappropriate comments at dinner last night. This is perfectly all right, of course. The comments were not aimed at me, and actually this is the first time I've seen the higher-ups in my "new" job (one year next month!) behave with anything less than the utmost probity (which sounds dirty but isn't).
The conversation turned, as conversations sometimes will, to the topic of chicken resuscitation. Someone, a friend or relative of the teller, used to swat flies for his chickens, and the chickens ate them as they dropped. Perfectly normal so far, of course; we all do that. But apparently, one time, one of the target flies was too close and the guy accidentally swatted a chicken clean into next week, right? So the chicken fell over senseless. (As opposed to how chickens normally are.) Anyway, the guy freaked out and tried to revive the chicken by giving it mouth-to-mouth through its beak - "I guess that'd be mouth-to-beak," added the husband of the Big Boss, sitting next to me. "Mouth-to-pecker resuscitation."
Oh no he didn't!
The chicken survived with only a mild concussion, though the conversation never quite recovered. Still, our dinner was tasty and the service (Romeo's, by the way) was really superb. Hooray for planning an event where everything comes off perfectly!
But I had to rush, because my high-school friend Pam is in town - for the funeral of a friend, unfortunately, but it was really nice to see her. Tony was my date to the reunion, so she knows him; and we met up at his house to drink wine, reminisce, and muse about men; panties; childrearing; vibrators; unwanted body hair; going in the out door; prayer; virginity (appropriate attire for, loss of, Rohypnol and); alcoholism; turtles; penis size and sexual duration; and perhaps one or two dozen other things that wouldn't really interest anyone, so I won't go into details.
I didn't get around to telling her the chicken story, though. Maybe she'll be able to visit again sometime under happier circumstances. I think we should go hit the hike-and-bike trail.