Nothing Says Love Like a Big Metal Chicken
This morning I had a fight with my husband, Victor, about towels. I can't tell you the details because it wasn't interesting enough to document at the time, but it was basically me telling Victor I needed to buy new bath towels, and Victor insisting that I not buy towels because I "just bought new towels." Then I pointed out that the last towels I'd bought were hot pink beach towels, and he said, "exactly," and then I hit my head against the wall for an hour.
Then my friend Laura came to pick me up so we could go to the discount outlet together, and as Victor gave me a kiss good-bye he lovingly whispered, "You are not allowed to bring any more goddamn towels into this house or I will strangle you." That little speech was still echoing through my head 45 minutes later, when Laura and I stopped our shopping carts and stared up in confused, silent awe at a display of enormous metal chickens, made from rusted oil drums.
Laura: I think you need one of those.
Me: You're joking, but they're kind of horrifically awesome.
Laura: I'm not joking. We need to buy you one.
Me: The five-foot tall one was $300, marked down to $100. That's, like, $200 worth of chicken for free.
Laura: You'd be crazy not to buy that. I mean, look at it. It's full of whimsy.
Me: Victor'd be pissed.
Me: But on the plus side? It's not towels.
Me: We will name him Henry. Or Charlie. Or O'Shannessy.
Laura: Or Beyoncé.
Me: Or Beyoncé. Yes. And when our friends are sad we can leave him at their front door to cheer them up.
Laura: Exactly. It'll be like, "You thought yesterday was bad? Well, now you have an enormous metal chicken to deal with. Perspective. Now you have it."