BA-GOCK!

About a year ago, a friend of my husband’s put a crazy idea in my brain: adopt chickens. As in those feathery animals that lay eggs. The idea has resurfaced a couple times lately. First, reading Marley & Me, I came across a family that named their chickens Feathers, Tweety, Fluffy, and Shirley (if I do end up raising chickens, I’m stealing a few of those names). Second, I’m moving to a part of the country where I might actually end up with land, perfect for chickens. Then today, at the editorial offices where I work, I talked with a lady Connie who owns chickens. Six or seven, I think.

“I want chickens,” I said to Connie.

“Chickens lay eggs,” I said.

“Chickens eat bad bugs,” I said.

“And good bugs,” Connie said.

“But do you name your chickens?” I asked. “Because if they had names, it would be harder to . . . well . . . when it came time for the . . . the . . . the meat,” I stumbled.

Oh to heck with it. Just ask her: “Do you chop off their heads?”

“Oh, no,” Connie said.

Connie’s probably a vegetarian. The people at the editorial offices where I work are into mindful living – mindful with a capital M.

Connie said she used to name her chickens, but now she simply calls them The Girls.

“Chickens are great for other things too,” Connie said. “Chickens poop and all that nitrogen fertilizes the land. And if they go to the bathroom in their chicken coop, I shovel it up, mix it with water, and it makes a great chicken poop tea.”

Most normal people would probably realize this comment was a joke. Not me. I take life – and all that comes with it – very seriously, which means that I often miss the fact that someone is kidding (ZOOM – funny comment flying over my head). So I stood there, speechless, thinking, Chicken poop tea? Why not? These mindful living people are waaaay stranger than I ever imagined. After all, they eat weeds. And they do. Seriously. Dandelions, chickweed, and nettle to be exact.

“I think I’d draw the line there,” I finally said. “No chicken poop tea for me.”

Connie began to clarify that her plants drink it, not herself, but by that time I was so mortified at my misunderstanding I escaped into my office and spent the rest of the afternoon slapping my forehead for being so silly (side note: keep an eye out for my personal essay on forehead slapping in an upcoming edition of Self magazine).

I’ve since regrouped and was able to come home and write about our conversation. And that’s the beauty of this profession. Writing allows me to reflect, and when I look back, I not only catch the jokes, I catch a glimpse at how funny it is that I take life so seriously. My laughter may be a little late, but as the saying goes: better late than never.

Random Stuff: The restaurant review I blogged about in my post Plain Ol’ Vanilla is now in print. Check it out at http://www.wholelifetimes.com/ (it’s the second article).

My dear friend Michelle started a blog today. Her writing is good – as in, Michelle, please don’t forget I’m your friend when you’re on the NYT Bestseller List list good. Read her post "To Go or Not to Go?" at http://www.michelleoneilwrites.blogspot.com/.

Splat

Under the covers, both awake, way past bedtime.

Me (the insomniac): Tell me a story.

Ron (dark circles under his eyes from a job with early hours and a sleepless wife): What kind of story?

Me: Something I don’t know about you.

Ron: You know everything.

Me: No I don’t. Anything. Any story at all.

Ron: There was a little bug in a pond. He blinked and blinked, trying to get his bearings. Once he figured out that he had just been born, he tried to learn how to swim. He mustered all his strength and struggled through the water, spending his days hiding under rocks, escaping the fish who tried to eat him.

Me: Yeah?

Ron: Then he grew bigger and became a little more confident, just a little. But suddenly he started to change. His broke out of his old skin and became a flying bug.

Me: That’s good.

Ron: No, because he had to leave the pond and fly around above it. And he struggled to learn how to fly and was worried all the time, trying to escape the bigger bugs and birds of the air that wanted to eat him.

Me: Aw, poor guy.

Ron: Time went by and he became bigger and stronger. Then, just when he gained a ton of confidence and could zoom around with his wings, he hit the window shield of a car.

Me (serious): Splat. He died.

Ron (serious): Yeah.

Ron (laughing): I remember that story. It was a Non Sequitur cartoon. I cut it out, I may still have it, I loved that cartoon. The last frame had the drawing of the bug against the window shield. Big, smooshed-up eyes against the window shield. He just looked so funny.

Me (laughing): That’s so life.

Ron: Isn’t it?

Later, under the covers, one awake, one asleep.

Ron: Zzzzzzzz

Me: See, my love? There’s so much I don’t know about you.

California or Bust

I just busted. What a mess.

Thinking back ten years ago, August 1996, I can see myself squeezing into a red Jeep Cherokee stuffed with clothes, pots and pans, and of course my Mom (for extra help). We drove Route 66 across the country, heading to Los Angeles. By the time we hit New Mexico there was smoke pouring from the hood of the car. Then the engine died.

“You blew a gasket head,” the mechanic said. “And this part of Albuquerque can be dangerous.”

Dangerous or not, I abandoned my Mom with the tow-truck driver and caught a flight to LAX. Law school orientation was in two days, and I was anxious to start my Three Year Plan: study hard at a university overlooking the Pacific Ocean, then (once I removed my cap and gown), head back to the Midwest. Back to the place I called home.

By fall break that first semester, my Three Year Plan had converted into an indefinite stay. Forget the fact that “fall break” was technically an emergency evacuation from the law school due to Malibu wildfires. The flames I saw on television – as in, the gigantic bright orange ones inches from my dorm room – hardly deterred me. I even thought California’s earthquakes were cute – the way the world dropped out from underneath my feet and then, in a split-second, jolted right back where it belonged. At most, I heard a mop crash to the kitchen floor or found a rug crumpled up in the bathroom.

“I think we’ve lost her, Carol,” my Dad said to my Mom at Christmas. “She’s never leaving California. She loves it.”

It was true. I loved the sun, the diversity, the progressive thinking. I loved the lazy time zone, the lack of bugs, and the beachside living. I admit I missed my family, but they visited frequently enough. And I admit a certain ache settled in my chest each October (no brisk air or changing leaves) and again in November (no first snowfall). But rollerblading next to the warm sand in January, I forgot about those things.

When I fell in love and married, I knew I’d stay in California forever. That is, until my husband received a call from an east coast investment firm.
My husband wanted the job.
I didn’t want him to take it.
Instead, I wanted to plead: please, please, no. I moved out here all alone, hand-picked Santa Monica as my community, and built my entire adult life in this spot. Don’t make me leave.
Despite the appeal of the new job, Ron wasn’t sure he wanted to deal with the complexities of uprooting. That meant if I argued earnestly, I was pretty sure he’d agree to stick with LA. But in the end, I didn’t beg. Ron had spent the last twelve months supporting me through a career makeover. Now that the tables were turned, I wanted to be as supportive to him as he’d been to me.

But one thought lingered: Are you just going to pack up your bags and follow your man across the country?

Crap. We haven’t even been married three years. Had I already become one of those wives? The kind who has lost their identity and is always bowing to their man’s every wish? I didn’t want that to be the case.

So I thought.
And I thought.

We could be bi-coastal.
I could ask Ron to withdraw his acceptance.
We could buy a vacation home in Palm Springs.

Maybe.
Maybe one day.

But as I contemplated, I realized it was solely my head that wanted to yell and scream and throw a fit about leaving. My heart was a little more open.

See, there’s more to the story.

My brother and future sister-in-law are currently relocating to the exact same area on the east coast. I miss them so much it hurts, and I love the idea of being neighbors (we’ve already been daydreaming – Sunday night dinners). My parents are also moving closer to the east coast. Those are just two pieces that have fallen into place. There are tons more. One after another the pieces keep falling. Anyone with half an IQ could see they’re not pure coincidences.

“This is simply the next pattern in the tapestry of your life,” my friend Sara said over the phone. The cry resonating deep inside told me her words were true.

So I’m going to let it happen. I’m going to sit back and enjoy the ride. I’m going to pry away from California slowly and ease myself into Maryland.
You will experience seasons again.
You can carve a pumpkin and smell the fire of burning leaves on a crisp autumn afternoon.
You can sip hot chocolate when it snows (and I know you like to curl up with a good book!).
You can revel in the first thaw of spring.
All those words are from Sara. But they are my words too. Deep down, a place with extreme seasons, and a place close to family, is the place I truly call home.

Besides, come to think of it, I didn’t bust. I crossed the border into California. And I made it out here for ten years. Ten good, long, beautiful years.

Blog House Keeping Matter: Requests have trickled in . . . Hey, Jenny, could you create an e-mail distribution list that notifies me when you post a new blog entry? Typically I try to post on Mondays, but I do have a distribution list and I'd love to add your name. Simply drop me an e-mail: jenny.rough@jennyrough.com.

Plain Ol' Vanilla

Good news. Out of the blue I was assigned a restaurant review. Never mind that I’m not a foodie. Never mind that the restaurant was located in a food court (albeit a high-end one). Never mind that the assignment was handed down from someone who’s probably tired of writing restaurant reviews. As a fledgling journalist, I was bouncing off the walls with excitement.

First, to a writer on a budget, a restaurant review is a lovely blessing (free food). Second, the restaurant was the Coral Tree Express, sister to the Coral Tree Café in Brentwood (which I loooove). Third, I could be wrong, but I’m almost positive Anne Lamott started out this way.

Over the phone, I scheduled the tasting with Elaine (the restaurant’s PR lady). We made plans to meet at 2:00 on Tuesday afternoon. I let her know I’d be bringing a guest: my husband.

Change of plans. My friend Kari and her eight-month-old baby Audrey came instead. And then, standing in front of the restaurant, I panicked. Would this woman Elaine take one look at me and determine (accurately) that my idea of a gourmet meal is chicken with Prego dumped on top? Or worse, what if she assumed (inaccurately) I had a super-discriminating palate and asked me to decipher the variety of ingredients in each dish? Either way, I’d be screwed.

A few minutes ticked by. I panicked again. Since I was standing around flapping a squeaky toy over a stroller, I was pretty sure Elaine wouldn’t recognize me as the writer “on duty.” To make matters worse, I am horrible at figuring out who’s who.

“Don’t worry,” Kari said. “PR people are so easy to pick out. You’ll find her.”

“Why? What do they look like?” I asked.

“Oh, you know,” Kari paused. “The look like . . . like . . . PR people.” And she launched into a story about Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes and their PR assistants. During the story’s pauses, I popped aside and approached any female over 30 who was wearing a black pant suit and had an “I’m waiting around” expression on her face. Of course, this ended up being about 99% of the women, since everyone was on their corporate office lunch break waiting for food orders.

“Are you Elaine?”
“No, I’m not in line; I’m waiting for my burger.”
“No, not in line. E-LAINE. Are you Elaine?”

Nobody was Elaine.

“Are you Elaine?” I heard Kari say. When I turned, I saw a woman over 30, wearing a similar outfit as everyone else. Elaine.

Let’s move on. Time to order food.

Elaine suggested a pomegranate-something-or-other, a chicken curry sandwich, and a salad with walnuts. I hate curry. I hate walnuts. I don’t know how to spell pomegranate. It dawned on me that I was the last person who should have been given this assignment. For dessert Elaine ordered samples of cinnamon bread pudding, a carrot nut thingamabob, and fruit pie. I hate fruit pie. I hate bread pudding. And I hate carrots. I just wanted a chocolate brownie (without nuts) because that’s the type of eater I am: plain ol’ vanilla (well, the chocolate kind of vanilla).

In the end, however, I tried everything. After all, I was eventually going to have to write 500 words about these different foods. With each bite I was reminded of certain moments in my past. For example, the first time I finally tried mushrooms – and loved them. The first time I finally tried blueberries – and loved them. The first time I finally tried escargot – and hated them. Point is, that day at Coral Tree, almost all the food that I'd normally never order was delicious.

Yet another life lesson:
Branch out Jenny.
Try new flavors.
You might be delighted.

And I will branch out. I promise. But next time I’m assigned an article, I hope it’s a book review.

P.S. To read the actual restaurant review, check out the April 2006 edition of Whole Life Times http://www.wholelifetimes.com/.