Oh Good! It’s My Third Post And I Already Sound Like An Alcoholic.

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Have I mentioned Papa Rooster’s affinity for beer?  The garage fridge is regularly stocked with a variety of microbrews, and because I worry about his liver health, I diligently help to reduce the stock.  One of the biggest challenges of living in the coop is hiding all of those damned beer bottles.  Not that I’m a boozer or anything (hah!) but when you’re unemployed and bored out of your mind, a nice cold beer can seem like the perfect remedy.  So what if it’s ten in the morning?

Because I’m practically a spy, I am extremely adept at concealing my beer consumption.  Just call me Nancy Brew.  Here are a few of the tactics I have employed:

Beer in the Shower:

Now this is just fun no matter where you live.  Is there any better feeling than the chill of an ice cold beer in your hand contrasted with the steaming hot water pouring over your back?  I don’t think so.  And while Mother Hen’s reach is far and wide, it has not yet extended to the bathroom.  Ahhh, my beige tiled safe haven.  Twenty minutes in that chamber of privacy and I emerge fresh, clean, and slightly buzzed.  Everyone wins!  Of course, then I face the following choice: do I walk out of the bathroom with an empty beer bottle in my hand and claim I just found it in there?  Or do I throw it away in the bathroom waste receptacle and hope that nobody else ever opens that trash can again?  The correct answer is option C: hide the beer bottle in my bathroom drawer (yes, I have my own designated drawer.  So does The Cock.  And his two year old nephew.  It’s like having cubbies in kindergarten, only less colorful and fun.)  Then, carefully place the dental floss in front of the bottle, thereby TOTALLY concealing it.  That’s called stealth, kids.

What beer?  All I see is dental floss.

What beer? All I see is dental floss

Beer in the Bedroom:

While the shower beer is all about stealth, the bedroom beer is all about speed.  This is the beer you pound right before you take the dog for a walk, since the big beer belches are sure to follow soon after the chugging is complete. Yesterday, as I was rushing to guzzle my sweet barley nectar while also grabbing my purse and putting on my earrings, my beer suddenly rebelled.  The foamy head bubbled up and over the top of the bottle, dripping all over the floor.  Have I mentioned that the carpets in the coop are all white?  You know, to help you see where you spilled, or something like that.  So there I was, trying to get my shit and get out of the coop while also trying to finish my beer while also blotting up beer spots with a beach towel and I found myself wondering if the mild buzz was actually worth all that trouble.  I decided it was.

Beer in the Coffee Cup:

Clever but labor intensive, this is a tactic that many an alcoholic office worker knows and loves.  I say labor intensive because if you have a coffee cup in your hand, people will usually wonder where the coffee is.  I hate wasting a pot of coffee, but sometimes you have to brew one up to justify using the cup.  I recommend a travel mug for this method, as the lid prevents spills (white carpet!) and keeps that distinct beer smell contained.  Just remember to wash the mug out when you are done.  It’s difficult to explain a forgotten, moldy, beer-stinking travel mug.  Not that I’d know or anything.


Day One: Welcome to The Coop! Now Get Out.

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I had no idea what to expect upon moving into the coop.  I had spent plenty of time with The Cock’s family before, and I felt like I knew them well enough to feel comfortable in their home.  It isn’t getting to know them that is proving to be difficult today; it is getting to know their routine and their comfort levels.  I did not expect to discover so quickly that adjusting to living in a new person’s home would also mean adjusting my sleep schedule.

On the morning after my first night in the coop, Mother Hen and Papa Rooster left at 7:00am and drove eight hours to a pretty city where I went to college.  They were on their way to attend their oldest son’s wedding.  The Cock had already left in his rental car to see to some very important bachelor party activities, and I was to fly down the following day.  Now, get this.  The Hen and Rooster asked if I minded leaving when they did, so that they could just lock up the house behind me.  You know.  The house I’d be living in for the next undetermined amount of time.  The house to which they had already taught me the alarm code.  I had a door key in my pocket.  And yet they were afraid to leave me there alone to lock up for the weekend.

When I heard this, it was like one of those movie-moments where everything slows down and clarity falls upon the protagonist’s head like inspired little rain drops.  Of course.  I thought, “This is my life now.  Oh. My. Gosh.  I’m back in my freshman year of high school.  There is no going or coming without notification to the coop-masters, and there is no more keeping of my own schedule.  Kiss freedom goodbye.  So much for independence.  I’m twenty-five years old and I can’t be trusted to lock a door.”  Over-reacting?  Maybe just a little bit, but I wasn’t too far off the mark.  Anyway, after this terrible revelation, I started remembering how much fun I had my freshman year of high school, and it suddenly became clear what I must do.

I smiled nicely, and said of course I understood and no, I didn’t mind leaving at 7:00am at all.  Why would I?  Then, I put my laptop and a duffle bag full of sweaters in the car, told them to have a great drive, and waved as I drove down the street.  I hopped on the freeway, meditated on nature for a moment, and went to a coffee shop where I enjoyed a very big, very sweet mocha and a breakfast sandwich.  An hour later, I turned around and drove straight back to the coop.  I unlocked the door, disarmed the alarm, and crawled back into bed.  Three hours later, I woke up feeling refreshed and incredibly pleased.  I thought, “This coop thing is going to be no problem.”

The Goose Is Loose

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Welcome, welcome!  Wow, so this is what it feels like to be on the internet, huh?

This is a blog about the experience of living with my boyfriend’s parents.  It’s an attempt to stay focused on the funny, because let me tell you, there is some funny floating around this chicken coop.  Mother Hen and Papa Rooster are very kind and generous to let me live here.  And they are making me freaking crazy.

Let me tell you all about it.

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