You might remember that a few weeks ago, I wrote about picking up chicks. That is, buying baby chickens. I wrote about fancy chickens and the small injured bird that lived in my son’s room. If you haven’t read that story, you are missing out and need to click here to check it out.
Let me update you.
Broken chicken lived in Baby Snarky’s room for about a week. Then Baby Snarky’s room started to smell like a chicken farm and Broken Chicken moved out into a chicken coop with a variety of other semi-fancy chickens that The Pastor bought me for my birthday. Also, Broken Chicken made a miraculous recovery and is no longer broken, thanks to the love of a little boy.
Life was good.
Until the other morning.
The other morning I woke up at about 4:30am. This is not a normal waking hour for me. This is at least four hours from my normal waking time. I used to wake up at 4:30am. For 15 years this was a normal waking time. Then, one day, all of my children were able to make their own breakfasts and I was able to sleep as long as I wanted. I consider that day my independence day.
So I was sitting there at 4:30am, trying to figure out what the heck I was doing awake so early, when I heard it. Through my open window came the sound of a rooster crowing. And then the sound of another rooster crowing. The thing that woke me was the sound of several roosters crowing. Roosters crowing in my chicken coop. I tried to roll over and go back to sleep when it occurred to me. I don’t have any roosters. I made The Pastor pay extra for my birthday chickens so that I could be assured that there were no roosters in my chicken coop. The lady who sold them to us assured me that she was a chicken expert and that all of my chickens were girls. Nothing in my chicken coop could possibly be crowing.
Something was crowing.
About two hours later I decided to go take a peek at my chickens. This time I took a critical look. It turns out that the chicken expert lady who charged us extra for all female chickens was not so much a chicken expert as she was a “selling overpriced chickens” expert. Roughly half of my birthday chickens are boys.
This is a problem.
You see, I don’t have a problem with male chickens because I’m some sort of weird sexist chicken lady; I have a problem with male chickens because I’m not a big fan of cock fighting. Cock fighting is a horrible cruel sport, and if you keep a lot of male chickens in one area, they tend to fight it out. This attracts short men with slicked back hair and sleeveless t-shirts named Guido and when Guido shows up, the cops aren’t far behind. I don’t need those kinds of problems. Also, I’m only allowed to have chickens because they lay eggs. Male chickens do not lay eggs.
For two days I worried about the lack of eggs, the soon to be constant crowing noises, and the inevitable arrival of Guido. That is when the internet came to my rescue.
Last night, I read on the internet that a local store had ordered eight fancy chicks for a customer. The place they ordered them from had shipped them eighty fancy chicks. The store was now in a panic, trying to get rid of seventy two fancy chicks as fast as they could. They were so desperate that they were selling these fancy chicks for A Super Good Deal.
Do you want to know what I like next after fancy chickens? That’s right. I like A Super Good Deal next.
But I haven’t even told you the best part. These fancy chicks were all guaranteed to be female. As in “or your money back” guaranteed. Not like “I’m an expert, trust me” birthday chicken kind of guaranteed.
Convincing The Pastor that I needed these chicks was not difficult because they were his favorite breed of chicken. Also, he likes A Super Good Deal almost as much as I do. And he doesn’t like to see me crabby.
Early this morning, like 7am early, not 4:30am early, I woke up and set off to buy my new fancy chicks. When I arrived I was only somewhat surprised to find out that they only had a few fancy chicks left. Apparently I’m not the only one who likes A Super Good Deal. I was okay with this because they had the number of fancy chicks that The Pastor and I had agreed on. “You can buy ten fancy chicks” he said “that seems fair.” And it did seem fair. For a while.
I drove home with my fancy chicks in a box and as I pulled into the driveway, God made my happy day even better by playing one of my favorite songs on the radio. I couldn’t just leave it there unlistened to, so I turned the key back in the ignition and finished listening to my song while looking on the internet to gloat at my Super Good Deal on my fancy chicks. I did this by looking at all of the less good deals on the less fancy chicks.
That’s when I saw it.
Somebody had posted an ad for super fancy chicks! These super fancy chicks were so fancy, that they made my ten fancy chicks look almost boring. Also, the super fancy chicks were a good deal. Not a Super Good Deal, but still a good deal. Somewhere in the back of my head was a vague memory of promising The Pastor something about ten chicks. What was it I had promised? Was it really that important? Wasn’t U2 singing on the radio a sign from God that I also needed some super fancy chicks? Of course it was. I do NOT argue with God.
I immediately placed a call to Super Fancy Chick Man and arranged to pick up his last eight super fancy chicks in a few hours. In the meantime I baked The Pastor a rhubarb pie, because the U2 sign from God argument would be a lot easier to win while his mouth was full of pie.
A few hours later, at the designated time, I hopped in my car to go meet Super Fancy Chick Man . It was here that I discovered my biggest mistake of the day. In my excitement over super fancy chicks and signs from God, I had forgotten to put the key back in it’s proper position.
My car was dead.
Now someone who does not know enough about things like theology might think that THIS was the sign from God. Someone with barely a working knowledge of the mind of God might say that He was reminding me to “honor thy husband” or some other such nonsense. I know differently. God loves me and wants me to be happy. Also U2 was playing when I made this decision. Thirdly, when He said the “honor thy husband” stuff, it was like 4,000 years ago. Silver Laced Wyandottes didn’t even exist 4,000 years ago. If they had, the verse would have read something more like “honor thy husband… and go buy those super fancy chicks”. The dead car was obviously a distraction from Satan.
I then jumped in Firstborn’s car and set off to meet Super Fancy Chick Man.
Super Fancy Chick Man arrived at the designated location with a small box. I checked to make sure that box contained eight super fancy chicks and then pretty much threw my money at him. As I was gleefully getting into Firstborn’s car, Super Fancy Chick Man said “You know, I also happen to have a large batch of the fanciest chicks ever back at my farm. I could sell you some. If you wanted.”
“GIVE THIS MAN ALL OF YOUR MONEY!” my brain screamed.
I discretely turned on the radio.
It was a stupid commercial. Something about signs of addiction, I think. Or an ad for a divorce lawyer.
“I’ll have to discuss it with my husband.” I managed to spit out through my clenched teeth as I drove away with my now boring super fancy chicks.
Tonight, when The Pastor arrived home, one of the first things he asked was “So how many chicks did you buy?”
Because I am honest I answered “I bought ten chicks from the store.”
Without missing a beat The Pastor asked “How many chicks did you buy somewhere other than the store?”
Darn it! The man is good. I had to confess.
“Only eight. But they were a good deal AND they are super fancy AND U2 was playing, so, you know, God. AAAAAND when I found out that he had the fanciest chicks ever? I just walked away.” I said, giving him a look that said that he should be very proud of me for making this sacrifice. “BECAUSE I LOVE YOU.”
“Am I supposed to congratulate you?” He asked, giving me a very confused look. A look he gives me a little too often.
“No,” I said “you’re supposed to tell me to call the Fancy Chick Man and buy all of his fanciest chicks ever!”
The pastor just walked away shaking his head. He has been mowing the lawn ever since. I’m pretty sure that’s because he wants to give me plenty of time to call the Fancy Chick Man. I think I’ll put on some U2 and ask God for a sign.