My neighbor was showing me how to water her garden so I can do it when they go out of town this summer. I don't know. When my neighbor goes out of town, I feel bad because I am still in town. And now, every time I water her garden it will remind me of how I am in town while she is in Lake Powell. There is nowhere I'd rather be at any given moment of my life than Lake Powell.
So that is what I was thinking about when one of my neighbor's free-range chickens started to scare my nephew Luke. And his scream was full of terror and struck me as funny because chickens really are absurd looking animals.
Then I thought about how someone in my neighborhood started a rumor that I hated chickens. And it circulated through the streets until finally, my next door neighbor heard about it and carefully approached the subject while our children played in her sandbox.
"Someone told me that you hate chickens. And you blogged about it."
First of all, I like chickens, but I won't eat chicken. So, I like live chickens, but I hate dead ones on my dinner plate. (Except for a very spiritual, orgasmic, culinary experience I had last night, but that post will come later). And second of all, is it a social status upgrade if false rumors are flying around about you? Does this mean I am my neighborhood's Jolie? Does that make Chup Brad? Am I more powerful than our neighborhood's version of Oprah?
When Luke was cool with the fowl in his face, I put him down and gazed across the fence at my property. You know, I am certified homebody. If I can get The Chief down for a nap and sit the sun for a half hour and read something stimulating I feel almost like I do when I am in Lake Powell.
That is when I stopped feeling sorry for myself.
***Image from Lake Powell from here.