Chik or Treet

Make her stop.


Psst!      Hey You!    It’s ME!    BUC!

Chicker-Treet. Smell My Feet. Gimme Candy Corn to Eat.
Party City really stepped up its game for October 31st

I was reminiscing about Fall of 2017.

That Mother of the Clucker dressed me up like some giant red-meat goof in October.  She was getting on my last nerve after that “Hurricane Irma” thing, and that whole “I gotta be me” thing.

Gawd can that lady talk. I hope someone videotaped her jabbering on and on to her giant metal chicken while trying to fit this costume on my huge butt feathers.

Please. Help Me. 

Someone needs to “borrow” this itchy bovine suit from her and “forget” to return it… if you’re pickin’ up what I’m layin’ down.

I want to be a Fairy next time. And I got a punkin fulla Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups for whoever is willing to assist!

cease and desist on the trademarked fast food maker font
Help the Mother of the Clucker Get. A. Life.   This Cannot Go on much longer.







Chicken Scratch

Who buys Necco Wafers anymore? This Chick.

I’m not a doctor but I play one when writing long-hand.

Who buys Carpet Flesh and Necco Wafers in the same trip?
Cursive. The Lost Art.

Don’t worry. This is not a rant about cursive writing in public school. It’s about the one activity I dislike more than anything. SHOPPING.

That’s right, friends. I lost my Girl Card a long time ago. I don’t shop, I buy. I don’t browse. I get recommendations and click. If I don’t get my socks knocked off by the time I reach the second aisle, my cart and I roll outa there.

My local Publix is playing Disco. That’s about the only thing that keeps me coming back. Well. That and the free wine samples on Saturday at lunch time. NOW I get it. “Publix. Where Shopping is a Pleasure.” TM

Which reminded me of last Saturday. Here’s my list. I think I wet myself when I re-read item #6. Minor detail. Carpet Flesh. ewww.

You can’t be my friend if you’re saying ‘ewww’ to item #7. PS, Necco HQ is Hiring.

Licorice is best
Historic Treat for America’s Armed Forces






I Cocka-Doodle DO!

Here’s hoping no one breaks a heel on the big day

May 19, 2018

I’m counting down the minutes until the Royal White buc bridal w signLace and Promises Gig on Saturday Morning!

Let there be Crumpets and Lemon Tea and Catty Remarks, like “One would think St. George’s Cathedral could afford an upgrade from those metal folding chairs”, or “Ooooo! HATS!!”, or “Is the Queen carrying the nuclear codes in that purse?”

I invited BUC.  He selected an iridescent weather resistant netted table runner with no train.  And Mums. BUC likes his Mum.

Reminds me of a wedding I was in. My Flexible Husband-to-Be took me to Dinner. When presenting me a ring at the table, a fumble occurred. I got down to look for it, and when I stood up, the lace table cloth stuck to my hair. So. We got married. In a Mystery Dinner Theater. In a Four Act Play.  Titled “Who Cut the Cake?” I played the part of The Bride. That’s old news.

BUC lives in the NOW. He’s hoping Prince Harry has a change of heart.

Clink some champagne on Saturday. Happy Nups, Y’all!


Getting Chickened, Again.

Yes. That’s a Thing.

I like to refer to the place where my metal chicken is installed as a “Gated Community”.

One February morning I was hauling out the recycling and was startled by THIS intruder.

Someone’s a giver. A Chicken Giver.

“FREEZE!  And no one gets hurt!” I blurted, double-handed gun fingers aimed perfectly at his comb. He knew I meant business.

Whoever put this fairly handsome metal rooster inside my gate, staring right at BUC got my attention and obviously shares my sense of humor.

Hey! Hey! (or, Hei Hei)


A week later, ← THIS one showed up.  For those of us who don’t speak Mãori, or “Disney” this is HeiHei,   (say ‘hay hay’) Moana’s interruption; comic relief; chicken.

Looks like HeiHei woke up on top of my car after a  roofie-riddled night out.  Lucky for HeiHei, he came out of his fog near a potential ally, the not-so-free-range big ugly chicken.

The Chickens Plot Thickens.

Sorry. That flew off my keypad faster than “but wait. there’s more”.glittereggwide arrow

On Easter weekend, the culprit(s) returned.  BUC had been “egged”.  Chocolate? Nope. Deviled? Nah. Not over easy either.  Full-on Easter-Bunny-Glitter-Fancy Egged.

As of the writing of this post, the whodunit remains unsolved.  Miss Scarlet in the Conservatory with the Candlestick?  (Fact: I.Will.Play.Clue.ANY. DAY. And I regularly use my favorite 1987 Parker Brothers board game to haze my out-of-town guests.)

BUC’s human buddies have a storied past of sending him Alloy Allies — or Poultry of Precious Metal Competition. Heretofore BUC has not taken up rooster fighting. You know, because he’s a Lover.

Roosters. The Gifts that keep Giving.

Here’s a gift from Betsy. Meet 1950’s cast iron Flat Stanley.

betsy flat stanley
Flat Stanley




Rain Beau



This is Rain Beau from Lori & Ed.



Chicken Little, from my BFF.

chklittlebypool raw
Chicken Little
chickenlittle cropped
Stop Thief!


←Here, Maureen tries to make off with him.




Kitchen Chicken


Brandon gave me this one for my kitchen. He used to have a partner, but it encountered an unfortunate end while I was trying to cook something.


flamingo christine
Fa-La-La-La-La Flamingo


Christine… Ah. Close enough. Sweet Avian Contribution.






What else can I say to you fellow weirdos, but… thanks for contributing to the gift shoppe economy?





My First Year in Pollo-ticks (See what I did there?)

Rock the Vote, Y’all

One way to get to know your neighbors is to volunteer for a committee on the Homeowners Board of Directors. And use your red-yellow-blue-black yard art as your platform.

Here’s the intro to my campaign letter to the neighbors:

Who is this new-ish neighbor?
What does she think she has to offer the Board of Directors?
When she threw her hat in the election ring, what was she thinking?
Where do our minds meet?
Why is there a metal chicken in her yard?

I went on to state I knew nothing about the current organization but was hoping to scrub in and help. I closed my getting to know you flyer with something like…

When you feel blue, just drive (slowly) past our place, and have a look.
Hopefully BUC makes you smile. Don’t worry. There won’t be
more yard art.
We are, after all, in [exact location redacted]. If
we run out of  conversation starters, here’s a few phrases about me:
    Girl Scout. Dog Mom. Recovering Apiarist. Former Ballroom Dancer.
   Community Activist. Ohio Farm Kid. Wife of a Hopelessly Romantic Sailor.
Looking forward to seeing you at the HOA meeting Wednesday night.

They haven’t thrown me off the board yet. But it’s early.Vote signonly


What’s in a Name?

Mine was “Bones”.
BUC got off easy.

I’m shocked and delighted every. single. day that my shit isn’t piled up on the curb when I come home. My flexible husband says it’s only because there’s too much of it.

After returning home from a particularly gnarly day at work, my little sister, my brother-in-law, and my flexible husband greeted me in the living room. And they seemed a little disappointed. I ignored that part. Hugs and pleasantries were exchanged. I began talking. (this will become a recurring theme.)

I must have paused to breathe or something several minutes later because one of them took the opportunity to ask me why I didn’t put my car in the garage like I usually do. Guess I was excited to see my visitors?

Rewind two hours prior:

My flexible husband recruits my sister and brother-in-law to go on a Chicken Caper. In a Subaru Forester. A deal at the artsy-fartsy shoppe is made. The males of the species manage to stuff a six-foot wild country color metal rooster in the back, with my sister sitting criss-cross-applesauce between its razor sharp tail feathers and its metal re bar talons for the ride home.

All three of the chicken crew experienced bodily damage while on the caper, as there are no dull edges on this yard art. At my flexible husband’s direction, the chicken was placed in my parking bay near the garage door– so that it would be the first thing I saw when I came home.

When asked what the chicken’s name would be, my flexible husband replied in an obvious tone, “The Big Ugly Chicken. BUC for short.”

When asked what happens if she hits it with her car, my flexible husband replied in the same tone, “Problem Solved.”

The problem continues.



My Year as a Politically Active Chicken

Go Get Me a Chicken. Please.

My brand spankin new yard art
This was stuffed into the back seat of a Subaru Forester with my sister.

I make myself laugh. Daily.

But no one made me laugh as hard as my friend Carol when she sent me Jenny Lawson’s Bloggess post, And that’s why you should learn to pick your battles.

I have been known to decorate my living spaces in the “early eighties garage sale” theme. And when I passed an artsy-fartsy shoppe on West Bay in Largo, Florida featuring giant roosters on their sidewalk, I hadda have one.

Here’s how that went down:

  1. I tell my flexible husband I found the perfect birthday gift. For Me.
  2. As we pass the artsy-fartsy shoppe, I point it out, clapping gleefully.
  3. My flexible husband stomps on the gas, and says I’ve lost my mind.

By now you’ve guessed I got my chicken. And the lore and joy this hunk of junk has brought me has to documented.  You’re welcome.


Cock-a-Doodle DON’T

Don’t cross the road. And other essential advice.

Buc cut bushes
Taking a little off the top

BUC and I had a little chat today while I was trimming his bushes.


“Why don’t you ever cross the road?” I asked.

He answered with a metallic stare.

He was probably thinking, “I like it over here.”  Or, “Was that a trick question?”

Speaking of Don’ts:

  • Don’t leave your entire Blondie LP collection in the hatchback of your AMC Pacer.
  • Don’t confuse the Cinnamon container for the Paprika one. Or vice versa. (Worst pork tenderloin EVER. Worst cinnamon toast EVER.)
  • Don’t refer to your husband’s undergarments as ‘panties’.
  • Don’t drink and draw.
  • Don’t brush your teeth in the car.
  • Don’t read The Tell-Tale Heart during a lightning storm when your husband is traveling on business; then call him after the electricity is out to tell him you can’t sleep.
DON’T say you want eggs with a pool party for your birthday, when you mean you’d like to eat brunch, then relax at the pool.


And for the record…

Don’t get caught talking to your metal chicken in the front yard.

BRB (Be Right BUC.) (or back)

Thanks for following me. Oh. The Pressure.

Hey I have to sprint up to the ATL for a wedding in Buckhead. If the bride and groom (BRoom) have already merged their names, they’d be “GRack” or Grachary, or ZAce. Looking forward to it. Should be a nice time.

When the paparazzi blind me with “WHAT ARE YOU WEARING?!” I will be retorting,

“I’m Living Colorfully in Kate Spade! and Yes I’m still a Medium!!”