Chicken Fight!!!!

Hey there, World:

(Mean Chicken enters stage right and says:)

Know what I hate?  I hate when bloggers apologize for their absence.  We’re all busy.  No one cares. 

(Mean Chicken exits stage left)

So I cannot win a fight with my husband and I hate that. 

I wish I had hyperboleandahalf’s MSPaint ability for this post because I really think the illustrations would help, but I am just going to have to go forward with a verbal demonstration with the hope that I can create a nightmarish visual in your head from which you will most likely recover given five minutes and a handful of Lays potato chips to distract your brain sensors.

Anyway.

My husband’s brain:  Picture one of those accordian files with everything neatly labeled.  Typed labels, not handwritten. That part is important.  And in each “file” portion of the accordian is a Chicken Transgression labeled by date (primary) and transgression type (secondary).  Transgression types might be noted as such:

• Was not empathetic
• Did not support
• Was volatile due to perimenopause symptoms
• Took husband for granted
• Assumed (because when you assume….)
• Subcode to Assumed:  Assumed mind reading capability
• Was a bitch (also code as:  In general)
• It is your fault (also a subcode to in general)

Etc.  You get the picture.

So let’s say BigB has a problem with the Chicken:

There is BigB’s brain, all nicely compartmentalized, and when we have an argument he puts on his reading glasses (figuratively) and starts thumbing through all his files and pulls out the perfect argument to whatever the current argument encompasses. BigB’s files are many and his files are equal to his task.  BigB is a warrior. (cue Irish fightin’ music)

Now let us take a look at Chicken’s brain:

Chicken’s brain looks like a big cloud, which is really a rather trendy techno-geek word right now, except it ain’t so pretty in an argument with BigB.  Up front of the brain cloud is a primary cumulous cloud entitled, “Arrgghhh I hate conflict.  Please.  Please.  Joke Joke. Save me.  For the love of God, get me oughta here.”

Behind the primary cumulous cloud is a general cloud that encompasses all Chicken’s thoughts, feelings, and philosophical leanings.  The visual for Chicken’s brain resembles Bob Marley’s head.  Times 10.  No organization, no process. Just a lot of dreadlocks shooting out all over the place with a downward gravity. And when Chicken has a bone to pick with BigB, picture Bob Marley checking his head for lice. 

Compare that to the visual of BigB thumbing through his accordian files.

So when BigB has an issue to discuss, the conversation might sound like this:

BigB:  Why are you being such a bitch?
Chicken:  (tries joke escapism) And by “Bitch” do you mean really hot dog that you would like to have sex with?
BigB: (shuffles through files) No, I mean you are being a bitch, as in you are being a bitch right now, just like you were last Tuesday at 5:00 PM .  And the prior Saturday at 11:00 AM.
Chicken:  (in conflict escape mode) I’m not a bitch, I’m a creative and sometimes we are moody.  Don’t take it personally. It is not about you. 
BigB:  No, you are definitely being a bitch.  Stop it.
Chicken: (defense mode) Leave me alone, I don’t want to talk about it.
BigB: (calm and reasonable) I do want to talk about it. 
Chicken: (ridiculous mode) But I don’t and I said it first, so I win. ….So there.
BigB:  You are being ridiculous!
Chicken: (agree and get the hell out) I know!
BigB:  (confused by agreement strategy) Well, stop it!
Chicken:  OK!!!

Now, let’s say Chicken has a bone to pick with BigB:

Chicken:  (in defense mode after having worked self into perimenopausal frenzy over “unfairness of it all” and can no longer remain silent despite Conflict Avoidance Cloud screaming, “DON’T GO THERE YOU CRAZY BITCH”) You are not being fair.
BigB:  Yes I am.  Last Tuesday I cleaned out the dishwasher, and I always give littleb his bath, and who always mows the lawn? huh? Who sorted out the Slurple Lexus Fiasco, huh? And hey, do you want to do the taxes this year? Do you even know what a W-2 form is? Plus two years ago on February 5, when you had the flu who was there for you?  huh? 
Chicken: (furiously trying to remember Feb 5, 2008 and choosing to overlook Slurple Lexus drowning)  I know what a W-2 form is.  D’uh.
BigB:  Oh you do?  And where is yours? 
Chicken: (perplexed) uh.  I gave it to you.  Remember?  You said, “have you gotten your W-2”, and I said, “yes, I’ll get it for you.”
BigB: Yes, you said that on Feb 1 at 4PM, and then you went out for milk (allegedly) and you never gave it to me.
Chicken:  Yes, I did (knows she totally did not)
BigB: No, you didn’t.
Chicken:  (Wildfire dreadlock number 34 kicks in, also known as the “Fabrication defense”) Not only did I give you my W-2, but I also advised you on the new tax law regarding college tuition deductions for children over the age of 22 that is only effective this year.
BigB: (sad, disappointed face) Chicken.  No you didn’t.  That isn’t even a law.
Chicken: (self-rightous mode) Well! It should be!
BigB:  Chicken.  Life isn’t fair. 
Chicken: (just wanted BigB to do more housework.  Does not understand how conversation turned to taxes.  Does not compute.  Does not compute. Emergency. Emergency. Escape. Escape at all costs.  Joke.  Code Funny)  Did you just fart?  Gross!!!
BigB:  Chicken, Why are you being such a bitch?

Repeat. 

(Amiable Chicken enters stage left) Sorry I haven’t been around.  
I have a lot of catching up to do, yeah? (Amiable Chicken exits stage right).

Chicken out