Kevin!

An open letter to that great ball of hot gas:

"Dear Sunshine,
You lift my spirits. I can't fight it. I've tried. I've thrown my toughest, crankiest, bossiest, bad day, bad boss, painfully hungry, hungover, sleep deprived, jet lagged, unwarranted angry moods at you. But once I feel that warm hug..."

So, as you might gather, the longer and warmer days have begun to work their Pollyanna brain washing, mind control magic on me. Now, on most days after work I skip through the front door, drop my bag on the couch and continue my frolic into the backyard where the hero boyfriend is sometimes found tinkering, sweeping, or grilling. The other day, as I neared the conclusion of this merry routine, I saw a fairly stoic looking hero boyfriend. As I skipped closer he said, in an angry whisper, "I am so mad at Kevin!" Enter my favorite chicken of them all...

Kevin, beige and chubby, eats too much and doesn't lay enough eggs. She, along with the other chickens, had recently entered some kind of conflict (which I had not been taking seriously) with the hero boyfriend over their food. The hero boyfriend won't drive 40 minutes to get them their favorite food and they won't eat their new food. So, what's a hungry, stubborn chicken to do?

Kevin made her way into the little backyard lettuce patch. She, impressively, jumped the chicken wire fence (like any experienced thief might) and went to town on the romaine. There she stood, indignant in her Tiananmen Square lettuce patch making it known that if she wasn't given her food then she would eat ours.

Right, so maybe there wasn't so much of an activist chicken there as a hungry one, but I'll let you guess who's playing the North in this civil war.

As of tonight nothing is resolved.

Tomorrow, I encourage the hero boyfriend to take a surfboard to the beach, soak up the sun, maybe do a little jig in the sand, and buy some chicken crumble...