This weekend Nancy and I picked up three new chickens while we were in Macon, Rhode Island Reds, good layers albeit Yankees. Also, and I won't say this in front of them, they're not as g-o-o-d l-o-o-k-i-n-g as Sorche, my bantam barred roc.
Sorche, also, has not fully integrated with the new birds. She keeps herself to herself. They have not actively mistreated her, but I have the sense they never let poor Sorche join in their chicken games.
All this asid, I'm so happy to have some more chickens. One chicken just does not a flock make. And I'm looking forward to fresh eggs again.
One other thing that's been troubling me:
We've been watching Sex in the City reruns, and I've noticed something. Carrie Bradshaw's supposed to be this hotshot writer with a column in a New York paper, then a job at Vogue, and finally a best-selling book, but the only thing we ever see her actually write are rhetorical questions like, "Are love affairs unfair?" or "If you get pissed on, do you feel pissed off?" and like that.
What's with that?
