"Ma, you can’t feed the chicken chicken!" "What, I should make separate meals?"
They’re coming. The real housewives of The Lone Star State. They’re really coming.
Growing up, I’d always heard my mother refer to the women at our country club as "Cackling Hens." In particular she meant the ladies who sat poolside beneath an oversized yellow umbrella, at a table with an ashtray, playing Bridge. I remember their hair, always sprayed, pulled off their shoulders into big up-dos, as if they were ready for prom. Their bathing suits never had straps. No halters, no two pieces. All of them, as memory serves, wore strapless tube-top-styled suits. And I envied, so much, their long white tubes of orangey Bain de Soleil gelée. I remember trying to eat some, hoping it might taste like tangerines. It didn’t. Though today, when I want to taste the beach, I drink anything with Malibu. It tastes exactly like Coppertone. I digress…
This weekend I was home sick hugging a bottle of codine-laced cough syrup (which tastes awesome, actually) when Phil made his escape. With sprouts in tow, he headed to the club, cozied up to the bar, and exchanged how-do-you-do’s with one of the women from The Real Housewives of The Lone Star State. I’m not sure when the official taping begins, but here’s one thing I know: the chicken crossed the road to try and whore herself out.
Phil came home talking all about cackling hens. Only he called them Silkies. I assumed he didn’t mean the Lone Star housewife was out and about in her silky PJs. "Yeah," he said, "One of her best friends owns a Bantam silkie. It’s the latest designer pet." This is coming from a man who wears tee shirts printed with photos he’s taken of sunflowers. In public.
"The latest thing, huh?"
"Yeah, look ’em up."
I had a vague feeling I’d heard of these Poultry Princesses before–back when I was having nightmares of chickens being strapped into baby strollers–in the comment section of this blog back when I’d posted about finding hair folicles on my chicken. Still, I looked them up again. Let me just say: there’s something to be said about designer pets–especially when said pets are often entree items–but what that "something" is, I’m not so sure.
I understand buying local. Produce. Meats. Poultry. I get it. Support Mom & Pops. All for it. In fact, even today, we drove past a truck selling squash, just squash, on the side of the road. Okay, we didn’t stop, but I support the idea of stopping.
BUT. Raising a flock of chicken cheeks hoping it’ll read as chic? Instead of designer poodles, people are strutting about town with pet chickens in their designer dog carriers. Scoop up your Silkie, tote him off to Neiman’s, and if you’re hungry, you can sweet talk your Silkie into prepping you an omelett. But, like everywhere else, you’ll still have to pay extra if you want egg whites only.
Why? Why? Why? Why would you even consider putting a rhinestone collar on a chicken?
Their poops are as small as chicken scratch. And now laying an egg is no longer a euphamism.
"And Doll, they’re just precious! And practical now that I’m back to the Atkins." Shame she’s still on the waitlist for a pink one. "Really? They come in pink?"
"All colors. Lavender, scarlet…" That’s what we need Phil! A scarlet silkie we can name Tara. We’ll let her "play" with Rebecca’s German Shepherd, Rex!
(crickets)
I know. I butchered it. HA!
It’s my father’s influence. Blame him for the corn.
2 YEARS AGO: Disposable Income and People
4 YEARS AGO: Stephanie in Wonderland
