Chicken Blog

Holy kilowatts! Thanks Enron, Governor Davis...
our electric bill reads more like a mortgage payment for a Malibu Beach shack.
Guess what's worse than the heat.
We will have to cut usage even more.
Don't come around here after sundown; we'll be reading by candlelight, naked.

I am hearing from a couple of readers that our garage adventure and purge sessions have been inspiring. My heart swells. In all honesty, ( and I am all honest, all the time) the work really sucked, and the emotional factor was trying as well. I felt embarrassed and ashamed. I felt like I had pursued material goods to an ill extent and then neglected to care for everything. BUT (there's always a big but in every good story) it was worth it. I don't regret any action we took to remedy our situation. I do not miss the books and clothes and housewares I donated, or the reams of paper we finally shredded and hauled to the curb for recycling, and I certainly don't want to ever see any of the broken and worn out things we tossed in the dumpster. Use or lose it. When in doubt throw it out. If you can come to a point where you are ready to make a big change and release, free up space, and chase away mice and spiders, then go for it. I wish you success, and when it seems daunting have courage and persevere.

I know some people will not relate, because they have "the gift of constant order." Their bills are paid and filed, their children are fed at the appropriate time of day, and they don't rely on chickens to come in and clean under the kitchen table. People with the gift don't opt for letting the dishes soak overnight, in to the next day, overnight again. The gifted people would never make a move by emptying drawers in to boxes and vowing to sort them at the new house. I think these people who iron and alphabetize would read Chicken Blog and react the way most of us do when hearing about a celebrity's release from rehab; we wonder how they ever got so messed up in the first place.

Well, I should be cleaning the kitchen. There are dishes in the sink, and tomatoes are spoiling on the counter. But I hear Max hanging on his brother's bedroom door. He is heartbroken and in a bitter tone he says, "You guys don't understand me. No one will play with me. You aren't my brothers any more, and I am proud of that." Poor Max. I think I'll just let those dishes sit awhile more, so Max and I can play in his kitchen...