More notes from the hen house....

Do you know how many chicken-themed t-shirts can be had off eBay?

A lot.

I want this one:
Problem is, the shirt itself is unisex and if you're a curvy gal like me, they kinda tend to bunch up above the hips (cut for those narrow-hipped, wide-chested dudes), or if you get them BIG, you end up looking like a low self-esteem schlub with a lot to hide beneath a billowing tent. I've had too much recovery to go that route, however.

Neither are good looks and are to be avoided as vehemently as the Republican convention, lutefisk, anything by Bananarama or people who seriously use the word "dealio."

Someday, however, I am certain I will have a chicken tee-shirt, or two or three, and I will wear them with pride and glee and heaps of self-satisfaction.

Peep.

Better late than never...

...is what I always say.

Is my mantra.

Is, truly, how my generally in-many-ways late-bloomin' life has unfolded. Tonight is no exception.

I commute to and from work by bus and to pass the time (other than by staring slack-jawed out the window at the passing urban landscape since I'm tired BEFORE work begins and AFTER work ends), I usually stuff my ear buds into my ear canals and either listen to my mp3 player, or tune in the little radio it comes with and surf up and down the dial in search of an interesting news snippet or a decent song.

Recently, I've been hearing Blue Oyster Cult's (sorry, can't place the trademark umlaut over the "O") "Don't Fear the Reaper," got all into it (which only took about 30 years--it was released in 1976, to be exact--hence, the Late Bloomy-ness of it all) and just downloaded it for my continued listening pleasure.

It's all moodily existential in a collegiate emo-esque, my-parents-don't-understand-me-cause- I-am-brimming-with-ennui-and-read-Nietzsche/Plath/Sexton kind of way.

Personally, it makes me want to wear blowzy layered skirts of gauzy black fabric over torn fishnets with Doc Martens and bodices made of velveteen and wear my hair long and parted in the middle (this is sounding a bit goth, admittedly) and tattoo one of my boobs and wear too much black eyeliner and write lots of bad poetry and daydream about sex and straight razors (possibly together) and how nice it might feel to run my fingertips along the backs of the necks of all the equally tormented young dudes in my writing classes and convince everyone I know that no one--NO ONE--has ever felt love/pain/loss as deeply or purely or exquisitely as I have, ever, ever. Ever.

In the whole entire history of the world, from the very word go.

That kind of thing.

Luckily I'm well out of college, black looks terrible on me (and black eyeliner makes me look disconcertingly iron-deficient), I actually love my parents, and I don't daydream about sex and straight razors.

Well, not about straight razors, anyway.

Although, yes, I do find the backs of necks terribly sexy, I think Anne Sexton's poetry is sadly brilliant, and I do have a small tattoo, but it's not on my boob.

And I'm very content to listen to my thirty-years-too-late song on iTunes while I do the evening dishes.

And she ran to him/then they started to fly
They looked backward and said goodbye/she had become like they are
She had taken his hand/she had become like they are
Come on baby/don't fear the reaper....