My neighbor who always has mom-parties called me up last night. She’s British, so think “nice accent” when you read it.

“We’ve got three lovely ladies in the new coop,”* she said. “They’re quite beautiful. Harry loves them and he ate his first egg from the chickens this morning. Terry hand-trained them so they jump up in your lap. Bring the boy by–it’s great fun!”

I oohed and aahed and promised to bring the bun over for a peep at the peepers.

She continued. “But the real reason I’m calling is because the lovelies need names, and so we’re throwing a chicken-naming party. We’ll make some cakes and whip up some eggnog. Bring a name and we’ll put them all in a hat and then we’ll draw. Come by about 9:30 Tuesday morning.”

We’re going to drink eggnog and name chickens at 9:30 in the morning? This is completely my type of neighbor.

I will be so bummed if my name doesn’t get drawn:

Leggs “Boom Boom” McKlukski.

*I don’t know what it is about Portland, but we have an abundance of backyard chicken coops. Every third house in this neighborhood seems to have a coop, an anthropological phenomenon which deserves some study. I mean, urban Portland. Just the other day my husband looked out our front window and said, “I think there’s a chicken crossing the road over there.” And sure enough, there was a chicken crossing the road.

I’m not sure why.

Popularity: 1% [?]