Got that right

So, according to the weatherman on the 5 o'clock news, we're heading into 60-70 STRAIGHT hours of below-zero weather, the coldest stretch in 3 years. Biggie blast of arctic air comin' our way.

Oh, joy.



He then cheerfully added that, although the winters here were "trending milder" (they are??) the "upside," such as it may be, is that this bitter stretch would surely help thin the population here. In other words, wimpy Californians like me would finally throw up our hands and leave the natives to their ice.

Yes. Oh, yes, indeed.

Equine Sadness; Weirdness, parts I & II

Equine Sadness: I just heard they had to put Barbaro down, the sleek, too-young racehorse who broke his right leg at the start of a race about 8 months ago (the footage of the break is horrible, actually). There was hope at first....but things went from bad to worse, and it was ultimately the most merciful thing.



He gave his life for human pleasure, and of course, I have enormous, enormous issues with that, but I won't climb on a soap box here. Let's just say I'm not a fan of horse racing (or greyhound racing, for that matter, but let's move on).

Weirdness, part I: I'm watching the 5 o'clock news, which is where I heard the news about Barbaro. Being a local broadcast, they're live from the Winter Carnival in St. Paul, where the newscaster was about to repair to the "hotdish tent." I honestly don't know how many "varieties" of hotdish exist--they're all similar, with cream soup and sour cream and some sort of frozen veggies and some sort of starch, either tater-tots or noodles, and ground meat.



And that's basically it.

Weirdness, part II: Some guy--owner of a sports bar in WI--"accidentally" hurtled himself 17 stories out of a Hyatt in downtown Minneapolis (he's fine, amazingly). Said it was an accident. Just not really comprehending how one "accidentally" overshoots one's own hotel room door and keeps going to the end of the hall with enough velocity to break through a glass window, but I have my theory....

Let me just say, they like their hotdish a LOT here. And their liquor.



Now, I'm not a teetotaler by any means, but honestly. What else is there to do during the long, gray winter?

Hazelden, anyone?

Yes, I did....

...just update the Hen House template, so if you're suddenly a wee bit discombobulated, I apologize. But a revived blog screams for a revived "look" (hell, any life change screams for a revived look, which I'm sort of learning....)

I like this one. And it has all my "blues" in it, which, being a Fire Element, I rather dig (they keep me cool).



That's a reference to 5 Element Acupuncture, for those who may not understand my West Coast patois.....

Speaking of the West Coast, I keep hearing how nice the weather is in California, all mild and probably a bit globally warmed.



But still, sure beats this 4 degree wind chill we're having in these parts. Sigh.

Twice Frozen

So, I'm an Episcopalian. I love the tradition--and I love High Church. It's very rich, just full of spectacle and pomp. Going to church on Sundays is like partaking in a very rich dessert; you feel really satisfied afterward, and know you've had something GOOD.

Anyway, one of today's themes (well, it's an ongoing theme, and really should be, in all faiths) was acceptance of anyone different. At one point, during announcements, our Dean said, "I want you to turn to the person next to you, right now, and say, 'I love you and accept you exactly the way you are,'" which I thought was very cool and somewhat like a theater exercise.

Now, Episcopalians are referred to as "God's Frozen People" or "God's Frozen Chosen" for a reason; like the Royal Family, they're a generally stoic (some might say "shut down" or "repressed") bunch, preferring to nurse their feelings over a plate of ham and a good, stiff G & T, rather then, you know, actually FEEL them.



Additionally, these are Minnesotans; also not exactly known for being demonstrative. So it was kind of a Frozen Double Whammy. You could feel the discomfort, the twinge of self-conscious fear ("I mean, what if I really DON'T 'love' the person next to me? What if he smells, or votes 'wrong' or likes butt sex or has something green stuck in his teeth?!") sweep across the congregation.

I turned to the guy in the pew next to me, just some random guy, and waited--and waited--to catch his eye. He pretended he hadn't heard or was suddenly deaf (which he was not, I assure you), or quadraplegic, or something, because (like many others) he kept staring straight ahead with a strange little grin on his face, looking neither right nor left. Just straight ahead, grinningly.

I thought, dude, I was SO ready to love you and accept you unconditionally, and this is how you repay me? This is how you TREAT me?? So I gave up and turned all the way around to the guy--some older gentleman--in the pew BEHIND me, and uttered the words, which he then said to me. It was very kind, and a nice exercise, and I think it pleased both of us to participate.

I left the frozen church and made my way back out into the equally frozen city (-25 when I called the weather this morning), feeling good and really calm and soothed (I like my Sunday Dose o' God), and I appreciated that the Dean at least TRIES to get people to think about other people.

So if you're reading this, may I just say, I love you and accept you exactly the way you are.



Even with that green thing stuck in your teeth.

Queens & Balls

So, it was another freezing Minnesota winter day (in fact, I'm hearing the howling wind right now as I type this, and even the cat, in spite of a thickened winter coat, is stretched languorously in front of the radiator); the weather number is programmed into my phone, and when I dialed it this morning, the cheerless electronic voice let me know in no uncertain terms that the air temperature was a balmy 14 degrees but the windchill was something like -6.



Perfect day to go see a flick, which is what I did. I met my friend and her mom and we saw Helen Mirren in "The Queen," and I highly recommend it. She utterly disappears into the role; and although the character is staid (to say the least--perhaps that is a ridiculous understatement) and steeped in monarchical tradition (boy, do those Royals like their martinis), she actually manages to humanize the Queen and display a range of complex emotions (and thank God, because the Royal Wardrobe is dull beyond belief--all woolen earth tones and muted plaids and tweeds and sensible heels, although I do like those nubby British Isles knits on men and, may I just add, the hunting scenes looked like sweeping L.L. Bean photo shoots).

Hence the recently-awarded Golden Globe and the Academy Award nomination (which I believe she will get).

There is some beautiful parallel symbolism with a gorgeous and very noble Buck (given that the story is set during the week of Lady Di's death, it was an effective device), and I can't say more without giving it away. You'll have to see it, and I hope you do. 5 stars. Two thumbs up. All of it.



Oh, and the stumpy Royal Corgis. What a HOOT! All four of them and their little waggling butts, and as the credits roll, well, let's just say one of the Corgis lets fly in the Royal Gardens at Balmoral, and I'm so happy they left that in!

In an entirely different vein, I received a voicemail from a friend of mine in Oregon who wanted to share a sighting with me: vehicular testicles. Apparently, male insecurity has hit a new low. It's no longer enough to roar around in a jacked-up pickup. You have to prove to God and the Universe that you have something significant (or insignificant, but at least something) between your legs (whenever I think of insecure, over-compensatory males, I always recall that scene in "Priscilla, Queen of the Desert" wherein the imported Asian wife is leaving her beefy Aussie hubby and, waggling her pinky in his direction, says to him, "Me no like you anyway; you got little ding-a-ling!").



But "Bumper Balls?" I really have to wonder who thought these up, and why anyone would want them--no doubt the same knuckle-draggers that have those pissing "Calvin" stickers on their back windows, watch the WWF ('cause it's so "manly," all those long-haired dudes tackling each other in their stretchy gold lamé singlets) and vote for you-know-who.

My Oregon friend wondered into my V/M if these unfortunate accessories had yet found their way onto the bumpers of insecure Midwestern male motorists, and my MN friend (with whom I'd just seen the flick) assured me they had.

What would the female equivalent be? Driving around with big, round mud flaps that look like gigantic boobs? Or possibly ovaries?

Well, as they say in these parts, that's different.

Toys & flattery

Maybe it's because I'm a youngest child (we're supposedly more secure, since, I think the theory at least partially goes, our parents "practiced" with the earlier kids and ostensibly got it at least semi-right by the time the last one popped into the world) or maybe it's simply this narcissistic streak I admittedly have, but I've had a few people ask me already when I was going to post something NEW on my blog.

I think it's flattering to be asked, in a Sally Field-esque "Oh, you like me! You really LIKE me!" kind of way.



On the other hand, it may not have much to do with me at all (always a shocking, disarming thought, of course); it may be more of a reflection on the proclivities of the reader, that little touch of voyeurism, like when I used to babysit and came across things I had to work really hard to find, like, say, all manner of "Marital Enhancements," (yes, people in Berkeley really put it out there; okay, well, maybe not OUT there, but "it" was usually stashed somewhere that could fairly easily be unearthed by a nosy teenager looking to find, you know, WHATEVER. Ahem.) the discovery of which, I thought, might enable me to scratch below the surface a bit more and understand the very people into whose lives I had been invited to be the Temporary Nurturing Parental Surrogate to their kids for a few hours.

There had to've been more, after all, than boxes of mac n' cheese and chocolate milk and stacks of diapers and "Goodnight, Moon" and a chipper, "We'll be home by 11:30 or so."



And, yeah, there certainly was.....but 25 years later, I'm not really sure how finding such things helped illuminate their lives for me very much, other than by my ultimately realizing that, well, these happy, smiling, here's-the-number-where-we'll-be Berkeley parents liked a li'l sugar in their coffee now and again. I mean, they had offspring, for God's sake. You don't get preggers by just sitting there and holding hands.

So, all that being said, perhaps my musings will be a bit more illuminating and possibly more titillating than a basket of ribbed & flavored condoms or a random Japanese sex toy or an assortment of really tacky porn vids found stuffed in the back of a closet.

But then again, maybe not.

Dude, like, NO

Okay, so I admit, I had wanted to see "Lady in the Water" when it first came out. I really dug 6th sense, and kinda dug "The Village," and hadn't seen that other one with Mel Gibson, but basically, I consider myself a fan of M. Night. Never got around to SEEING it in the theater, so got it thru Netflix.



May I just say, if there's a God in heaven, M. Night will NEVER be allowed to make another completely loopy, stoned, brainless mess such as this as long as he is allowed the privilege of a film career.

This was the most freaked-out, spacey, Marin county/California encounter-group-semi-kinked-soft-porn-underdeveloped muddle I think I've ever witnessed. Everyone speaks in a whisper, r-e-a-l-l-y s-l-o-w-l-y, as if all they do for days on end is lie around puffing one giant bong-o-rama (or they're all missing a major chunk of frontal lobe). I mean, peace out, dude.

And the lead chick ("Opie's" daughter, actually) is beyond ethereal. She sort of stares, and whispers, and lies around either naked, or wet, or wrapped in a terry towel or a guy's dress shirt and has a penchant for taking showers with her clothes on while being stared at by all the neighbors who somehow miraculously all fit into one little apartment bathroom, and is supposedly wise but basically just seems stoned off her ass or severely iron-deficient. In fact, everyone does, and for a giganto apartment complex, the residents sure don't seem to ask many questions of anything that goes on, cause they're all weird, too, and weirdness is okay and most of them seemed to be, like, blocked writers posessing bitter, existential streaks (what's up with THAT??) who sit around and stare into space and utter meaningless, futuristic crap and wonder if "man" is supposed to be happy (I think M. Night has been in way too much gestalt therapy or EST or weekends at Eselen or something).



Now, if you were the caretaker of an apartment building and some nubile, naked, soaking-wet young chick at least half your age suddenly appeared before you, would you be all like, "The fact you're totally starkers is doing nothing for me whatsoever, so let me just help you find your way back to wherever it is you came from, 'cause I'm so down with you saving all of humankind from destruction" or would you be all, "Thank you, JESUS!" and start gettin' jiggy wit it?

Grass-covered werewolves slinking around? No biggie. Naked chick camping out in the shower who calls herself a "Narf" from another world, here on a mission of, I don't know, world peace or something? Right on. Big-assed eagle gonna pick her ass up and carry her off to spread The Word, now that her job is ostensibly done? Awesome. But can she get to her spot before a "Scrunt" (the grassy werewolf thing, and what's up with THAT halfway-indecent made-up mythological word?) scratches her up and ruins her day? Well, who knows.



And M. Night sticks himself in this flick WAY too much. When he first meets this Narf chick, he gets all instantly weirded out cause she's, like, "hot" and I tried to see that, her supposed "luminous otherworldly beauty" which I guess we're supposed to "get" by her staring and smiling slightly but it really mostly just looked like a come-on from a long-haired vegan hippess grooving to the beats at a Phish concert, and Paul Giamatti (so wasted here) asks how the writer (M. Night) is feeling and right away, he cops to feeling "weird" and then P.G. asks if it's like being on pins and needles or something and he says yes, right off the bat. Now, NO ONE is ever this forthcoming, ever, to one another, this instantly casual and candid and self-realized (and the Self-Realization quotient was through the ROOF in this thing, as if all the men dropped a few tabs or smoked some really good sh*t or do regular Shiatsu).

Then there was a scene toward the end where P.G. has a "pivotal" moment of Self-Realization and sits there wailing (well, doing what he could with a lame script) and rocking the fading, now inexplicably blond Narf chick (Scrunt attack) while surrounded by neighbors, and after I got through laughing so hard I nearly careened off the couch, I was like, END already!!!!

And the snarling, grass-covered werewolf/Scrunt (what IS it with him and crappy, grass-covered monsters?) was, well, crappy. Dude, a mad pug is scarier to behold!!!



Just a lame, sleepy, unraveling, laughable, boring, self-conscious script with majorly vacant acting across the board.

I sincerely hope M. Night makes something better next time. He's allowed one utter failure, and this was it.

Dude, no.

Yet another random thought

I love sushi. If I could have only one sort of food for the rest of my life, that is what it would be.

Random, overdue thought

I'm fascinated by drag queens. I always wanted to be one, except I'd have to be a Real Girl, and that doesn't seem as much fun somehow. Seems like cheating.



All that 'tude.

Three-snaps-in-a-'Z'-formation and all that.

It's not that I can't be bitchy, but...you know.

Love it.

About those long o's

Speaking of midwestern-isms, there are some pronounced differences in words which I've noticed since being here.

I never said "pop" before moving here. It was always "soda" in California.

"Hotdish?" We ate casseroles.



"That's different" means, Dude, you are WEIRD. (Or, actually, "THAT is weird," or "I don't get it," or something like that.)

"I suppose" means I can't really wrap my brain around that right now.

But I've been here 5 years and it's happened. My o's sometimes come out all long and Norwegian and even I'm surprised. What if I start wearing plaid? Or brightly-colored sweaters with puffy appliques all over them? Or develop a taste for Lutefisk? Or Lefse?



Hey, I'm not getting my bitch on about the midwest. It's been good to me here. It's what I needed at a time I really needed it. I'm just sayin'.

And she's off.....again.....

Okay, so, I'd originally started this blog in 2005 with one initial post and I like to believe I had high hopes of, you know, regularly blogging, but apparently, my committment was fleeting and so I let it majorly slide for various reasons (I sort of thought of it for a long time as Virtual Navel-Gazing and, like, who truly CARES about the totally random goings-on in my brain???) but the fact that I am finally getting around to resurrecting it indicates I no longer worry about such potentially narcissistic trivialities.... Actually, I mostly talked myself out of it because I used to have a friend who was very critical of the process of writing, writers (I am one), blogs, blogging, etc. and it seemed easier to avoid his criticism rather than expend energy deflecting it and defending my motives....whatever. (Thankfully, I am so not in that let-me-hide-my-light-under-a-bushel-to-placate-your-insecurities phase anymore....)



We have since gone our separate ways and, yeah, it was bitter, and, yeah, it sucked, but it wasn't entirely unexpected....But, boy....may I just say, you don't know how...absolutely serene, absolutely functional...you can feel until a giganto chunk of perpetually critical negativity is finally no longer a factor in your life! Some very positive changes have begun to manifest themselves, such as a palpably improved outlook on, well, just about everything. I even had a friend at work say to me a few weeks ago, quite out of the blue, "You just seem really happy!" and, I mean, THANK GOD, because I really wasn't for a very long time.

So the blog is just one thing I'm breathing new life into.

As for the title, I actually really like chickens. I collect them, and that itself has been a sort of unofficial evolution. I think I had a few poultry-oriented items at one point and people noticed them and started giving me more and more and before I knew it, they multiplied exponentially and now I have a full-fledged collection on my hands: aprons, plates, figurines, potholders, wind-up toys that lay eggs, stuffed animals, books, even a mobile. All chickens, alla time.



I promise it'll be pretty random. That's how my brain works. Linear thinking--nay, rational thinking--can be a drag for me, since I'm, as my mother might phrase it, "a creative type," and as impressions pop into my brain, so I write. I used to verbally share my random impressions, but I soon learned that that wasn't a terribly, uh...appreciated approach. I grew up in California, currently expatriated to Minnesota and once cheerfully blabbed to a hairdresser here that my impression of the midwest was that it seemed full of fat blond women stuffed into plaid, after which I received the worst haircut of my life. So much for sharing my tactless enlightenment; I have since learned to keep the yap shut, even though I admit I have never gotten used to the accent.....



Anyway, there it is, my initial post, a second time around. I could go on, but I'll save it for subsequent posts...more trivialities to come, cause I've got a lotta time to make up!

Buh-bye.