Chicken

I grew up in a small town, but not in the country. I didn’t live on a farm, on a gravel road or in the boonies. Smitty, however, grew up in the country. With horses and chickens and such.

She liked to mock my city girl-ness every year by inviting me to Chicken Day. Okay, admittedly her family didn’t call it Chicken Day, but they did kill chickens. On that day. Like farmers do. Or country people. I don’t really know. I never accepted that invitation.

What I know is that 1) I would die if I ever had to watch chickens meet an untimely end (or timely, I suppose, if you’re Colonel Sanders), and 2) this pointless story is what came to mind when I thought of the phrase “running around like a chicken with its head cut off” today.

You’re welcome for that.

This weekend is insanely busy, like every weekend in October, so I’m giving up on perfect by getting on with my [offline] life. And after a church meeting, a swim lesson, a birthday party and a movie date with my brother and Smitty, I’m pretty sure I won’t have a post in me for tomorrow either. So, come back on Monday and we’ll resume Giving Up On Perfect for 31 Days.

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