My friend gave me a new recipe for a roast chicken, and I thought I'd try it today. You need a can of beer, half-emptied to stand the chicken up. It's supposed to keep it moist. Now I'm a good roaster of chicken, but you know, we all like variation. (I hope, haven't had it yet.)
Anyway, I'm with my son, he's buying a game card, and this man in line asks him if he's going to do track in high school and tells him about the coach (my son is wearing his track shirt.) No one says anything about the giant can o' beer on my person, but I can't stand it, I have to tell them, I'm not going home to drink. I'm making a chicken.
They just laughed. I think they believed me. I don't really look like the beer guzzling sort, but something tells me, this may be my last drunk chicken.
Being a mother has really destroyed my social skills. This morning as I flipped pancakes with my Darth Vader spatula, my son said, "The force is strong with that pancake." When I asked him to do the dishes, he said, "One does not simply do the dishes." And I got it. So I'm holding them accountable for why I must explain myself as I buy a brew for a chicken. I used to be normal. Really.