It was a doomed relationship from the beginning. The light and love of my life, my English bulldog, Roxie was just a little too curious.
You see, it's become vogue to keep some chickens about the place even on the city lots. Yes, chickens. Live ones. Can you imagine? Chicken as pets. Chickens as food. Chickens as humane efforts. Yes, they rescue chickens. Bo Pilgrim would be proud.
Any way the neighbors, the one's that have come from the state or Arkansas have been delighted with this development. They've got white chickens, brown chickens, red chickens...and alas, boy chickens. Yes, roosters. Normally docile and simply watching over their flock, this birds give call to the morning quite early.
The first time they did this, Roxie almost broke down the door. I had learned to keep the two separate. But one morning Roxie had gotten me up especially early to relieve herself and we were out in the pre-dawn hours. The rooster, safely behind the fence, hopped up on a fence post and let a shrill screech that sounded like a cat being killed in a wood chipper machine. Trust me. You don't want to know how I knew that.
Roxie was stirred in her predator soul and ran straight for the rooster. The rooster, confused that something had come close to his safety zone managed to hop from one fence post, over to the other.
Now, a 50 pound bulldog cannot change direction at full speed. She is rather like a juggernaut. As the rooster hopped, Roxie's eyes followed the prey but found the distance between her and the former perch to be too short to change. I think she closed her eyes as the post gave a "doiiiing" sound. Roxie had been at full speed. And, she promptly sat on her rump, the loser in the game of physics.
The rooster was a real bitch though. It saw the weakness of my beloved dog. There was nothing that could be done to save her and the rooster new it was his one chance. A flap of wings, the look of horror from Roxie and skirmish erupting sending Roxie coming back to my home at top speed with a rooster riding her. I couldn't be sure, but it appeared the rooster was riding side saddle.
Roxie ran past me and into the house, rooster still attached. She crashed into the stove and much to the chagrin of the rooster a pot shook lose from the cooktop and feel upon the duo. Knocking the rooster out cold and sending Roxie scampering for other rooms where perhaps safety could be found.
I pondered what to do. An unconscious rooster and a panicked bulldog, all before morning coffee.
I did consider plucking the rooster but that seemed like poor sportsmanship. So, I took it and hurled it into it's own yard. It awoke flapped, fell over. Flapped again. Enough of a sign of life that I excused myself back to the house.
Needless to say, Roxie no longer barks at the chickens. And I haven't heard the peel of the rooster in a week. When the neighbors showed up with a pot of chicken dumplings to share, I could not help wonder if it was indeed the old red rooster. Either way, it was t
You never know what Momma will bring home from Wal-Mart. She makes a little journey almost every day. It's her and Roxie's outing so it's a required event most days. Who needs out more, I really can't say.
I had a small assignment for Momma. Having had weight loss surgery, a have a few thousand skin folds hanging about my body. From time to time, these folds will need some, um, special attention because fungi like to breed like Baptists in the dark, warm areas. I know what you're thinking. Too much information. Oh, honey, we haven't started.
Anyway, I gave Momma the assignment to fetch something from the Wal-Mart that would take care of the problem and really didn't think another thing about it. I assumed some Tinactin would appear and take care of it. I almost missed the completely innocent looking blue tube when I used the lavatory later that day.
As usual, Momma had deposited requested items in logical places. Toothpaste, check. Soap, check. Razors, check. Vaginal cream, che....what the hell? I reread the bottle. MONISTAT. Oh, lord, Momma had bought hoo hoo ointment. I knew she'd always wanted a daughter. Had we had some great confusion? After all, her mind is aging? Perhaps, she had thought the boys in and out of my life didn't mean I was gay, but rather a troop of suitors for her daughter.
MONISTAT. The little blue tube screamed at me. My, my. Hoo hoo cream. Now what was I supposed to put that on.
As a man, I'm delightfully free of anything resembling a vagina. I mean, I'm sure they are perfectly lovely things to own. At least most of the time. After all, the very existence of MONISTAT bespoke the little problems one can have in owning a hoo hoo. However, of all the problems I would have in my life, what to do with vagina cream was not one I had been expecting. Being at heart, a big dumb male, a decided to pick the box up at arm's length. "Um, Momma," the images being conjured up were not pleasant, "I believe you left one of your personal items in my bathroom."
Then, just as sweet as Southern sun came Momma's reply, "No, honey, that's for you." I waited for more information to come forth. Surely, some nugget of wisdom. But, that was all Momma had to say on the subject.
Now, having been a nurse for 20 years, Momma knew antifungal was antifungal was antifungal. Being a man for 40 years, I knew a truth, too. MONISTAT was for hoo-hoos. Not for, well, for male anatomy.
I followed Momma into the next room. "Momma, I don't know how to break this to you, but I haven't a hoo hoo on me and you see this is MONISTAT . " She replied, "It's antfungal. Just put it on your area you're having problems with."
So, here I am with hoo hoo cream under my arm. Yes, 40 years of proud masculinity and I'm wearing vagina cure ointment. And the sad thing, it's working.
Damn it, Momma really is never wrong. Even when it comes to pussy cream.
Top Ten Signs You May Be in a Gay Recession
10. Summer trip goes from Auckland Cruise to Habanna Inn, Oklahoma City. Relax, you’ll have just as much fun.
9. You find yourself passing on the CVS gift card aisle despite the perfect card for Aunt Sherry is staring straight at you!
8. You enter a Wal-Mart and don’t burst into flames.
7. Your new house wine is Strawberry Hill.
6. You’ve traded in your little yippie dog for a lot less yippee BF.
5. Lesbians are not waiting to second date to move in with each other, but plan it someone time after the “Hi, my name is Pam” and “We’ll have the shrimp appetizers”.
4. You cruise the IHOP rather than the bars.
3. You pretend to be an alcoholic so you have someplace to be on Friday night.
2. You’re not afraid to be seen holding hands in Macon, Georgia. It replaces gym fees.
And the number One Sign You May Be in a Gay Recession....
One.... You’ve cut down on mani/pedi until your BF refuses to play “Push My Buttons”... at least the fun kind, anyway.