(Almost) Naked Chicken

Fun fact: My mom is a vegetarian. And I was too - for many years (much to the disdain of the rest of my family). It's a lifestyle I don't mind in many ways as I would much rather have a salad than a burger any day but it can also be rather challenging at times. It makes eating out extremely difficult. It was a practice I gave up when I moved into my fathers home after my sixteenth birthday - mostly because I knew it wouldn't be accommodated - but it's still something my mother holds fast to. She'll cook non-vegetarian dishes for the rest of us and just make separate little things for herself. And even though I'm more than aware of all the health/environmental benefits of it I've never been particularly tempted to take up vegetarianism again - until last night.

My mother was kind enough to pick up a chicken for us to roast yesterday at the store but upon bringing it home and opening it up to clean it we found this:

Yea - those are feathers. Yep. FEATHERS. Ew.

Is there not like a big long process in which all the chicken resembling parts of the chicken are REMOVED for the health/sanity of us chicken consumers?

My precondition with food is that it must not look like whatever animal it formerly called itself. I don't want to know.

I just about died upon seeing this. And just as I was gaining my composure enough to be able to take this picture my mom looks over her shoulder and goes:

"Hey [Little Brother] - will you go get the pliers?"

At which point I ran from the room, covering my mouth, and trying not to gag.

However I am now an expert on what it sounds like when an already dead chicken is plucked. Yeah. There's a sound.

I'll be spending the next week eating nothing but muffins and cornflakes - thank you very much.

Stress & The Yellow Canary In The Hat

The other day I was sitting at my laptop, writing a for the blog, when I was rudely interrupted by a chirping noise - coming from my ceiling.

That's never good.

I went to investigate and found nothing. However I did discover the culprit of a very obnoxious - albeit entirely separate - tapping noise. Mr. Woodpecker seems to have opened up spare whittling shop directly under the awning of my house. Unfortunately his hours happen to be exactly whenever I am working/writing/sleeping.

Since then I've decided that there is very much a small bird living inside some little space in the roof of my house. Which frankly, I've come to think, is pretty damn nifty. I like to consider him my little pet. He sits up high and watches me write and throws out little chirps of encouragement. Or so I like to believe. I think he's probably yellow and wears a red and white polka dot hat. My little yellow canary bird in a hat. (Apparently I've graduated from having imaginary friends but not pets. Nice.)

This little bird has also become somewhat of a metaphor for the way I've been thinking about my life lately. He has it all figured out. He probably has a mostly stress-free life. The area I live in is pretty wildlife friendly (the house cats tend to be rather tame and most dogs are kept indoors) so I doubt my little bird is having any Jason Bourne like chase scenes in his day-to-day existence. He has a constant food source. I know this for a fact because every time it rains the entire worm population in the tri-state area congregates on my front sidewalk and sings Christmas carols regardless of the season. Rain today? Yea well: BOOM. WORM SONGTIME.

Plus this bird also has an endless amount of entertainment. He can watch Sammy (the puppy) get chased by Little Brother, Little Sister, and Zoey - the evil dog. He can watch my mom have fits when she can't figure out something that's written in her textbook. And he can also while away his hours watching me at various times curse, hug, pet, and stare dreamily at my laptop (the last one is only when there's a picture of John Krasinski on it. Or something shiny. Or a Kindle.)

And all of this got me to thinking. I want a stress free life. My dentist says that I grind my teeth while I sleep - something to do with stress/how I lay when I sleep/my diet/exercise/the air/allergies and basically anything even remotely medical-ly sounding. However apparently if I was less stressed I would have fewer headaches and pointier teeth so that has become my new goal of late. Less Stress = Utopia Based Lifestyle. Or something like that.

Except that lovely God-like command isn't as easy as it sounds. You know just because the booming voice spouts off one day with "BE LESS STRESSED OR I WILL SMITE YOU IN SUCH A WAY THAT YOU WILL BE EVEN MORE STRESSED MWAHAHAHA" doesn't mean I can just magically poof and be all happy go lucky. Because, frankly, my life is a bit stressful.

Not that I'm not completely blessed. Because I am. I'm young, I have pretty great health, I have a family and friends that adore me, and I'm lucky enough to have found an amazing man who cares about me as much as I care about him. So overall I try really hard not to complain. But when it comes to matters like the economy, figuring out how to pay for college, trying to write my book, and ultimately finding some way to move back down to Salt Lake to be closer to the fiance things tend to get a bit overwhelming - and as a result - stressful.

So what I would really like is to be like my little bird that sits up in the ceiling watching things with a detached perspective. It doesn't bother him if maybe my website isn't working one day or if I didn't manage to get up as many posts as I would have liked one week. He's just happy to be safe and warm and able to chirp without anyone getting after him (which I've warned my family away from by threat of using the blender at 6 am on a regular basis - you want sleep? the bird stays).

I think the most important thing to remember is that my little bird also doesn't get stressed about being stressed which, remarkably enough, is something I've been known to do. Because when it really comes down to it I'll figure out how to pay for college. I'll get my website up and running soon enough. I'll find a job and an apartment down in Salt Lake in good time. Maybe it wont work out according to my timeline or the way I planned but it will all eventually work out. And that's what really matters.

I think my little yellow canary in the hat is a pretty good example for how I should try to live my life.

Bug Zapper Racket

Has anyone ever seen one of these?

It is possibly the scariest and most inhumane little invention I've ever come across. So of course my fourteen year old little brother absolutely adores it. He thinks its God wrapped up in bug-zapping form. I think its mildly grotesque.

I didn't even know what this thing was. I knew it sat on the ledge in our exercise room and I knew it had been there for a while. What I didn't know was that this little thing had a button allowing one to send a current of electricity through its metal netting and subsequently kill whatever small winged creature it came in contact with, which vaguely reminds me of a medieval torture device. Fun right?

I might not be so biased against these things if not for the horrific display of bug homicide that was its first demonstration in front of me. The problem with this bug zapper is that it seems to be designed for small bugs. Flies. Bees. Mosquitoes. Well, I live in Utah - land of the ants that could possibly eat your dog for dinner and the beetles that chase you down with pincher's the size of a small crowbar, so the bug zapper is a little bit out of its league here. That however, does not stop my little brother from using it. Not even a little bit. So when a moth the size of vampire bat comes fluttering into my kitchen the first thing he does is book it out of the room in search for any death-by-electrocution-tennis-paraphernalia while us girls cower in the corners of the room, trying to avoid getting the wretched thing caught in our hair, and have completely forgotten the "It's Just As Scared As You Are..." rule. Whatever.

So Little Brother comes back into the room, hauling ass, in hopes that the giant winged bug will still be there. Unfortunately it is. Its landed all carefree like on the fireplace, completely unaware of the chaos its causing, and generally minding its own business except for the fact that its in my house. I can practically hear the thing singing "The hills are alive..." in all its nonchalance. Little Sister and Mom and I are all still freaking out shouting things like "Get it out! Get it out" "Its going to tell its friends to come back here if we let it stay!" "It probably has rabies!" and god knows what else while Little Brother slowly creeps forward, arm outstretched, racket in hand, and finger poised on the button that I'm sure is labeled "Emit Cruel, Unusual, and Surely Fatal Death Shock".

The room gets quiet as Little Brother brings the racket only inches away from the moth which is still perched on our mantle. We're holding our breaths. He fires up his miniature piece of electric sports equipment. And then.

ZAP!

If you've ever lit some of your own hair on fire (yes I've done this - both to myself and other people) then you can understand the horribly disgusting smell that this bug was giving as it burned. And I do mean burned. Because, as boys tend to be, Little Brother was thrilled with his new found power as Bug Executioner, and so even after the moth fell to the ground and was clearly dead he continued to roast the thing with the tennis racket. I am plainly horrified and am burying my head in my sweater to avoid breathing in the dead bug fumes which are now wafting through the house. Little Sister and Mom are egging Little Brother on with the type of chanting one would expect to hear at an ancient Roman gladiator match.

It would be one thing if it had ended there. Instead Little Brother gets down on all fours and presses the racket into the bug on the ground like one would with a spatula to a pancake causing it to not only smoke and sizzle but to emit even more of the awful smell.

"Just wait." Mom tells me.

"It gets better!" Little Sister adds.

Better how? I get my silent question answered when the moth, which is now stuck to the racket - held on by its 9th degree burns- crackles and finally gives a loud pop, accompanied by a small white-ish blue-ish ball of light which apparently means moths have a tendency to spontaneously combust after 50,000 volts. I'm immediately having flashbacks to the first time I saw The Green Mile.

"That was awful" I remark, staring at the mini cremation site our kitchen floor has become. No one agrees with me.

What is our world coming to if we can't be happy killing bugs with acidic spray and blunt force like we used to?