It turns out I'm doing it wrong.

Mmmm. Happy Beer.







So, I was reading my swimming magazine and I came across to the story of Captain Matthew Webb... the first guy to swim the English Channel.

Here he is:


Anyway, in August of 1875, this paragon of a man crossed the English Channel.

Bully!

What really impresses me here is that his pre-swim drink of choice was wine. Then he lathered up with porpoise oil and jumped in the channel, having his boat crew feed him beer and brandy, among other things, at regular intervals as he breaststroked his way from England to France.

Not only does this information support my notion that you pretty much have to be drunk--or high--to swim the English Channel, it also makes me question my Rockstar-before-swimming ritual. Perhaps what I really need for that totally epic swim is a 5th of Jack Daniels. Or Happy Beer.

Mmmm. Happy Beer.

It's just not meant to be.

At long last, I have accepted the sad, sad truth. I have fought it hard, but it is time to give up the dream.

The dream. Ah, the dream. The dream that I could exercise like a fiend and eat whatever the heck I wanted. A lot of it. And whatever the heck I wanted was not salad. Or cucumbers. It was rich, thick chocolate in its many delicious forms.

Sigh.

It does work. It works very well for awhile... and it is splendiferous... and then it doesn't. It doesn't because I get sick or I get injured or both. 'Cause the reality is that my lame old middle-aged body can't take that kind of exercise. I'm not Dara Torres or.... (insert awesome athletic 40 year old here.) I'm just not made that way. Alas. So I need to kiss this absurd eat-like-Michael-Phelps fantasy goodbye and grow up.

So sad. I love you chocolate cake. I'll always love you. (Insert sappy Celine Dion song here)

Yes, salad, I heard you. I'm coming. (Eye roll)

Finally I won't have to get out of the shower to answer the phone

My parents just replaced their old phone with a pack of cordless phones. Three of the phones are regular vanilla but the fourth, the fourth is an underwater phone. Not waterproof... underwater.

Awesome.

Wait, what?

So, it's not like it's a smart phone where you could check your e-mail in the tub or text or surf YouTube. It's a cordless phone. All you can do is talk on it. And if you are talking on your cordless phone underwater, what will you be saying?

"Blub, blub, blub..." That's what.

I think my parents done got swindled.

Not your bargain basement chicken

I bought a chicken.

Yes, I scoffed at the Texas lady for spending $100 on a metal chicken and yet, here we are.

So... meet "Rico", the party chicken. I wanted to call him "Steve" but was voted down. Actually, I wanted to call him "Choke". Choke, the chicken. Also, voted down. But it got props for being "delightfully vulgar."

We got Rico at Costco. Not in Costco, but at Costco. We had gone to Sequim to pick strawberries and on the way home, we swung by Costco for gas. Right next to the enormous Costco, was a tiny little house with a couple dozen metal sculptures on the lawn. Roy paused in front of the house and said, "Want a metal chicken?" and I said, "Don't be silly." But by the time we reached that pump, I had to have a metal chicken. So I jumped from the car and bolted across the parking lot to the little house.

Now, you'd think that a house next to Costco would have cheap metal chickens. Or at least sell them to you in a blister-pack of 6. But no. The man's an Artisan. Wouldn't even haggle over the price of his masterpiece. So I shamelessly shelled out roughly $100 for Rico. Who is only 2 feet tall. So I am a much worse bargain hunter than the Blogess. And here I mocked her for her impulse buy!

The story should end there, but doesn't. We get back on the road and we are all giddy about our chicken, making jokes and coming up with names and we blow past a cop at 70. In a 55. Guess what, he was not looking the other way. So, in addition to our $100 chicken, we have a more-than-100-dollar speeding ticket.

I would like to blame Party Chicken but, as Roy points out, the chicken wasn't driving.

And that is how Rico came to live with the Pardees. Please stop by to check him out. Five dollars a peep. We have a speeding ticket to pay off, you know.

Remember when the only choice you had to make was Coke or Pepsi?

I don't want to spew my "old" all over all of you, but I wanted into the drink section with two minutes to find something fizzy and not-too-sweet and this is what I faced. I mean, I'm all for selection but come one, Lychee Wasabi Nectar. WTH? Wasabi needs to stay the hell out of my beverages.

Finally, my evil chicken hunting operation has a home

As seen coming into Seattle, my new metal chicken hunting lair. I took a photo myself but you could barely see it in the distance. Thanks for building it for me, Missile Defense Agency. Now I will be able to hunt chickens in style.

Chicken sighting!

This little bugger showed up at Caffe Cocina. I don't mean to alarm anyone, but these effers are everywhere! It might be part of some, great, nefarious plot. Keep your eyes open.

And so, I promise to hunt down the elusive metal chicken wherever I go. Laurel Pardee, Chicken Hunter.

You're welcome.