In my boredom, I managed to concoct another semi-crazy idea. I want some chickens. Four chickens, actually. Live ones. D thinks I'm nuts, and although he admits it's a good idea, he seems to think I won't take care of the chickens.
This idea sprouted from an article I read in one of my favorite magazines, Sunset, a magazine about life in the west. It's all very fashionably outdoorsy and stylishly crunchy. I get the northern California edition by default, which is almost perfect since it's close enough to southern California. To me, having chickens and growing a garden (these days, who wouldn't want to know exactly where their food comes from) is all part of the sustainable, handmade indie artisan lifestyle.
So, I want some chickens and I've already named them. Ready for this? My future feathered egg-layers are Dorothy, Rose, Blanche and Sophia. In case you don't recognize those names, just run a google search for The Golden Girls. And D is wrong. I would take care of the chickens (and keep Thing 1 and Thing 2 from eating them, although we may need some assistance from Dog Whisperer, Cesar Millan on that one).
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