Farm Day Festivities

As she promised, Julie came into our room and woke Shelby and I up ridiculously early this morning...9:45. I know, I know -- tough life. As my sister and I made it out to the collection of teensy barns that my mother loves so dearly a few minutes later, Jewels started seperating animals.

"Gross," Shelby said as we neared the goat house. "I have served my time in there -- you can clean that." The whole reason we have goats is because Shelby is overly maternal and my mom is weird and just randomly lets her children get farm animals "for 4H." I mean, sesriously, most moms would laugh and drop it if their child asked for goats. Mom just started a list of potential names.

We walked up to where Mom was and she squealed giddily. "Oh goody!" She said. "We're going to have so much fun today!!" Shelby and I looked at each other. That was very doubtful. "Okay," she started, "now I need one of you in here and the other one in the chicken coop."

The words were seriously not even out of her mouth before Shelby all but screamed, "I'M IN HERE!!" You see, despite her previous loathing toward the idea of cleaning up after Buttercup and Westley, nothing is worse than the chicken coop. The goats have redeeming qualities. They're cute and they're stupid and they try to eat everything...but they're not mean. They don't circle around you and crow in a warning tone. They don't barrell around the yard, bobbing their heads like velociraptors. The chickens? They do. They're scary. Sure, they lay eggs so, unlike the goats, they serve an actual purpose...but they are not fun to be around, no matter WHAT my mother says.

So there I was, sweeping out hay and chicken...droppings, for lack of a better term [I said "chicken shit" today and was told to watch my mouth. Woops] when Betty, the worst hen of them all, started to circle.

Here's the thing: Mom insists she knows the difference between her birds. She swears that she can tell them apart and she calls them by name, but I have never bought it. Jewels will put her hands on her hips and looks at those dumb birds and go, "Oh Bernice, stop torturing Edna, she's your sister!!" and "Oh, poor little Gladys, that fox got some of her feathers," and "Maude laid three eggs this week!" but you know that she has no clue. Betty, however, stands apart. She's big, she's got black feathers, and I think that Satan himself might live inside of her from time to time.

She started to waddle around the coop as I was mucking out the stalls, puffing herself up and emiting this low, growing noise. It's a sort of crow, but it is evil; it makes you think she's on the verge of attack. I know that I'm a grown young woman and she's a chicken, but it's still pretty scary. I felt kind of defenseless. So I waited for her to poke her head in the door and then I swept a huge pile of gross hay and, um, chicken byproduct right at her [don't tell Julie]. She squawked and ran away like a linebacker. I laughed derisively. I beat the chicken -- I am Carly, and I defeated the evil hen.

Fortunately for me, Farm Day couldn't last too long; I had an interview at Victoria Secret [the irony kills me -- I spend my morning sweeping and scraping chicken coops and weeding and then I shower and interview at the girliest store in the mall... this is my life] in the early afternoon, so I got to peace out before Shelby did, God rest her soul. At one point, Mom laughed at our disgusted faces and said, "I wonder what sort of hobbies you'll have that your kids hate." I don't know the answer to that...but I can pretty much guarantee you that there will be no hens involved.