Nothing Kills the Mood Faster Than a Dead Chicken
As moms we expend no small amount of effort trying to “make the mood.” We accept that our days of being spontaneously swept away have given way to planned dates, thanks to the decidedly unsexy demands of diaper changing, lunch making, chauffering, and homework help (when lord knows all you’d rather be doing is having a lovely glass of wine by the fire). So we work extra hard to prime the pump–we hire babysitters, we go out to eat, we take relaxing baths and imagine romantic trysts with sexy stars. But sometimes, despite our best efforts, something comes up that makes you instantly throw in the towel. So here’s my challenge to you parents—have some fun, fill in this line:
Nothing kills the mood faster than a__________________.
Here’s my opening entry:
Nothing kills the mood faster than a dead chicken.
That’s right, a dead chicken, and I am not talking about the roasted kind that ends up on your plate in bed with the potatoes. I’m talking about the kids’ backyard chicken. The one they’ve raised and fed since birth.
Last summer I was preparing for a night out–I’d gotten all my ducks in a row so I could enjoy an evening out, away from my kids, imbibing my favorite mood-making drink. I come home to see my dog sniffing around a big mound of something in the backyard. I walk outside to discover the remains of a chicken that had gone missing from its coop two weeks earlier. Apparently the turkey vultures had found its carcass somewhere else and had decided to pick it up then plop it squarely in the middle of my backyard. Two week old chicken carcass is nasty enough, but I quickly realized it was up to me to bury the darn thing before the kids came home from school. I am someone who screams at the sight of a mouse, dead or alive, so scooping that thing up while trying not to breath, that was a challenge. But a mom’s gotta do what she’s gotta do. So I buried it.
Sadly, no one had schooled me in chicken carcass disposal, so before I could slide into my nice cleansing bath, the damn thing had been dug up by the dog and deposited by the hot tub. This time, I looked around and decided to bury the pesky thing under the tetherball pole. Remember tetherballs? We have one, and it’s basically a pole sitting in a tire filled with concrete. I dug the hole and put in the chicken, but then I had one heckuva time rolling a concrete laden tire on top of it. Picture a middle aged woman hanging from the top of the poll, rocking the thing back and forth till there’s enough lift to get it to roll. That was me. I finished and went inside.
Pleased that I’d accomplished my task, I cleaned up, still looking forward to that martini in my future. I picked up the girls, relayed the sad tale, dried my youngest’s tears over the dead chicken named “Chip”, and waited for the babysitter to show up. I’d asked her to pick something for dinner up from the market and she shows up with…you guessed it, roast chicken.
Definite mood killer. My stomach had had all it could take for one day.
P.S. In case you’re wondering how Chip fared in his new resting place under the tetherball, the next day I found that the neighbor dogs had tried to dig under the tire! But they only partially succeeded, exposing one of poor Chip’s claws, which I waved to the rest of the summer whenever I mowed the lawn.
Share you comments or stories during January and February and you’ll be automatically entered to win the We-Vibe, Babeland’s bestselling couple’s vibe. We’ve got tips for making the moods, plus anecdotes on what makes, or kills the mood when you’re a parent. Contest details.
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