I discovered that my chickens are smarter than I am. That does not bode well with me. I have college and graduate school degrees. I speak 2.75 languages (meaning besides the two languages in which I am fluent, I speak enough French and Spanish to order a glass of mineral water in a small, uncrowded European cafe). I know how to color coordinate clothes. And I am capable of realizing that I should feel full after eating three slices of lemon meringue pie. But still, my chickens are smarter than I am.
I feed them every morning. I give them water. All I expect in return, are a few eggs now and then. They’ve been fairly cooperative. But one hen, Coco, feeling rather broody, gathered sixteen eggs beneath her bottom when I turned away for a few moments. Then another hen, Ethel, climbed into an adjacent nesting box in a concerted attempt to monopolize all eggs.
Although their nesting boxes are separated by a two inch high wall, these hens managed to drive me crazy with their silly chicken games. One morning, I’d arrive to find Coco with ten eggs beneath her and Ethel with six; the next day, Coco sat on two with eight under Ethel and so on. When I dared reprimand them, they gave me the evil eye, throwing me looks that said,
“Don’t even think of touching these eggs or you’ll be at the bottom of our pecking order.”
Idle threats.
After two weeks of this nonsense (or hensense, in this case), I announced to my family that I planned on collecting all coop eggs and tossing them. These hens’ behavior was not conducive to hatching chicks. They’re idiot hens, I said.
“Doesn’t it take three weeks to hatch a chicken egg?” Son #2 reminded me. “Can’t you just give them another week?”
I caved in, knowing full well that there’d be no chicks. The same thing happened last year.
Early one chilly morning, as trooper and family feeder, I stumbled out to the chicken area for the feeding. As usual, I peeked inside the coop to exchange dirty looks with the hens, but they ignored me. Instead a tiny gray head, no bigger than my thumbnail, stared back, covering me with a thin film of guilt. A beautiful little chick. I thought I knew.
I rarely periodically jump to conclusions about people and situations. It is the habit that’s hardest for me to break. You’d think I’d know by now that thoughts should be weighed carefully before being expressed, with wisdom and understanding. Giving careful consideration to our thoughts prevents us from acting like or even becoming stupers (short, as most of you know, for unjustifiably stupid persons).
Think.
Keli
Keli@counterfeithumans.com
My fascination with Michael Jackson began in the seventies when I happened to ride up a Las Vegas elevator with Michael and two of his bros. No words were exchanged, but he smiled mischievously like some one about to pull a prank, and appeared very self-assured to my young eyes.
Do you like to gamble? I don’t. Unless I use some one else’s money. Like the time my mom and I went to the nearest Native American (notice I didn’t say “Indian” or “Injun,” as I strive to be politically correct) Gaming Casino and used their money. The Casino gave $100 credit to anyone who joined their “club.” We did, and we each spent $100 of their money and walked out with our self control intact and $140 cash to split between us. Had it been our money, we would have lost $60. This way, we gained $140. That’s the way I like it. Mom really liked it too.
I typically sign her up online. But when the online form malfunctions, I have to call and talk to a live, but not necessarily, mentally functioning, person, ie, a stuper. When I called last week, the online system was down. I placed a telephone call.
The first customer service representative, who sounded like she’d been smoking for fifty-five years, told me that the only way to enroll was to fax in the forms. Forms available on a website that wasn’t operational. I called again. The second representative sighed deeply, then begged me to try again later. The next one promptly hung up on me, clearly insulted by my request for assistance, but #4 asked,
Husband (H) takes extreme care in selecting apricots to buy from the store. He examines each individual fruit, sniffing the neighboring air for the right scent and gently prodding to make sure they’re on the very cusp of ripeness, without blemish or visible scar. Only then are they edible. He’s trained our sons to appreciate the barely ripe as well. Anything more or less is eaten by me, the most easygoing family member.
Once home, H raised his arms to the ceiling and wailed in anger as he unpacked the groceries. His beloved apricots had been shoved down…way down below weighty cans of tomato sauce, oversize peanut butter jars, then crowned by a gallon of milk. They were squished beyond recognition. As you may imagine, we’d been bagged by a stuper (short yet again, for an unpredictably stupid person).
“No, thank you,” I said, and patiently explained the process, step by step, to Mindy, as if I were an aged, wise, philosophical bagging master, well versed in the meticulous placement of all food items, hoping beyond hope, that my model bagging would open a whole new world for moronic store workers so they’d never again return to the sloppy, haphazard, eggs-belong-at-the-very-bottom type of slouch bagging job.
My last concert was at the Hollywood Bowl. I sat next to a stuper whose posterior appeared to equal the size of Lake Huron, the second largest of the Great Lakes. Every time he stood up to…shall we call it dance?…to the music, I found myself in a sort of a pillow fight except instead of pillows, there was a fat bottom swaying to and fro next to me, using my left side as a bouncing board. Ironic because the group I was watching was singing Queens’ Fat-bottom girls.
I tapped him on the shoulder and asked that he stay on his side, drawing a line with a black Sharpie across the bench for emphasis. Silly me. He grinned broadly and proceeded to lift his bottom up and down in time to the music, forcing all on the same flimsy bench to momentarily levitate an inch or so each time he crash landed.
Fortunately for me, I carry a handbag, as some of my readers may recall, the size of Lake Superior, the largest of the Great Lakes. I planted said handbag which was stuffed with snacks, blankets, jackets and 1.5 liter size water bottles for my party of four, between me and Mr. Hippo. When Mr. Hippo realized he no longer had room to land, he moved away. In fact, he and his entire family of five hippos moved away to a nearby empty bench. Peace was restored and I enjoyed the concert.
Once I’m done with a stuper (short for an unsparingly stupid person), I’m pretty much done. I don’t expect, encourage or incite any further contact. However, yesterday at the Farmer’s Market, I found myself standing next to the ghastly 
I was about to shake a clenched fist in front of Kimmie’s face when she rudely interrupted two nearby shoppers to explain to them what yarrow was, an herb apparently near and dear to Kimmie’s heart, and one she was about to purchase. Observing that she was not only an expert on college acceptances but yarrow as well, I walked away thinking fatalistically that if I was meant to interact with this stuper again, I’d be given a second chance.
As I was about to leave the Farmer’s Market, I ran into …
There are things that just can’t be helped: shoelaces coming untied while jogging (if you’re like me and don’t do Velcro); bad hair days (for those of us with somewhat longish, wild and untameable hair); bird poop on the windshield of a freshly cleaned car (that’s not even parked beneath a bird hotel disguised as a tree); and picking the slowest moving line to wait in at the retail chain store, behind a sweet little old lady (whose sweetness rapidly diminishes the moment she decides to pay using change she’s stored up in the bottom of her purse since 1967).
Then there are the things that can be helped, but usually aren’t…by stupers (short for undeniably stupid persons): How about thinking and using awareness and not multi-tasking while operating a motor vehicle? Or actually listening to the speaker during a conversation without interrupting to switch to a topic that you find far more interesting and coincidentally is all about you? And standing way too close to a polite listener who keeps inching backwards in a valiant but feeble effort to escape?
Sightings of celebrities acting stupidly are really not everyday occurrences, unless you happen to live in Southern California and be a stuper (short for a phenomenally stupid person)-magnet, like myself. When we think of idiot celebs, we generally gravitate towards the same old name. You know who I’m talking about: on the youngish side, blond, most unfortunately female, leaves thimble size dog with pet-sitter, then forgets after thirty seconds and reports the dog missing, and finally, can’t remember the name of the city hosting the Eiffel Tower although her own name is Paris.
“Isn’t that Dustin Hoffman?”