We're all lying in bed. Spousal. Snoozaboo and me. The girls are with their dad.

I hear the neighbors chickens squawking.

Hm.

I hear them again. Neighbors aren't home. The coop is still open.

"Hey, you think I should go out there?"

I'm out of bed, up the stairs and sprinting out the door in no time flat.

In my socks and my robe. Yes, my Alcoholic Bright Blue Terry Cloth Robe.

It's been raining here in Seattle. I sprint across the yard in my socks and feel the muddy earth squish up between my toes. I have to hold my boobs while I'm running because I have no bra on.

I get over to the coop and I'm trying to see because it's dusk and also because my contacts dried out while running. So I'm blinking and squinting like mad trying to get some moisture to cover the contacts again and the chickens are just sitting there. Dazed and confused. One is on the coop and a few other are perched on the fence.

The light in the coop isn't on and the plug-in is on the neighbors porch.

I hold my boobs and go running into the neighbors house because they're not home and run onto the porch, greeted by their two dogs who are jumping up on me, so glad to see someone. I bend down and plug in the light to the coop. I realize at this time that the neighbors could arrive home any minute and here I would be in my Alcoholic Bright Blue Terry Cloth Robe and I could just imagine me in my muddy socks standing in their living room, holding my boobs so they didn't flop around and run into all 6 of them (The husband, R, is away until Monday). The funny thing is, I know Barbie would think nothing of it.

So I haul ass back outside in my muddy socks and yeah, I know I was in their house in my muddy socks, but you can't tell on their carpet, they have five kids.

And some of the chickens have SEEN THE LIGHT and are heading TOWARDS THE LIGHT while the other chickens are squawking "DO NOT GO TO THE LIGHT!" and the other chickens are saying in a trance-like tone "BUT IT'S SO BEAUTIFUL!" and when they go in, since the other chickens can't see, I grab them and don't get their wings real good so basically I'm holding onto chicken legs and there's wings flopping all over and the chickens are very scared. They are chickens of very little brain, but they know enough to be scared and I don't think they're so stupid anyhow.

So I get the chickens in the coop and I like picking them up because they're fluffy and warm, and I go running back to the house, again holding my boobs because quite frankly it hurts to run without a bra and take off my socks and get into bed again.

Shit. Johnny Cash died. I hate that. We grew up on Johnny Cash and my dad's temperament was a lot like his. And John Ritter? What the hell is going on?

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