I'm so excited. This is not my chicken suit, but I have one just like it. If this was me, the chicken would have a slightly bigger butt. I found the suit on ebay about a year and a half ago, and I was SO happy to have it.

The first thing that I did when I took it out of the package was put it on and cross the road... repeatedly. (Much to the dismay of my daughters). Next, I went into a KFC wearing the suit, but the manager told me that I couldn't wear it in there. I showed him my chicken finger. It was late, but the office was still open and the night crew was working, so I wore the costume to work that night. The security guard grabbed his radio and paged the support staff, "On your toes! There is a six-foot chicken entering the building and it has badge clearance." For the record, I'm only five-eight. I did the chicken dance and put my floppy feet on peoples' desks. It was nice... we bonded.

About a month later, tragedy struck. The head and the feet were missing. Nobody knew what happened to them, but I suspected that one of the girls was tired of seeing me driving/walking/dancing around the neighborhood in my big-chicken-glory. Every once in a while, I would open the hallway closet and look at the furry yellow suit without its accessories and it would make me sad. But today...
today I found the head and the feet.. the gloves and the goofy long red stockings... all stuffed into the corner of a cupboard down in the laundry room. Tomorrow is Saturday, and I am looking forward to a stroll along the river. Those geese think they're so hot.

I finally did my "100 things" list, but I got to 90 and had to make a turkey sandwich.

I got my first tattoo last year. It's a daisy. I always wanted one but have strong inhibitions when it comes to unnecessary pain. It was a pickle of a year, though, so I figured that no matter how bad it was, it wouldn't be the worst thing that happened to me in that calendar. It wasn't.

The tattoo guy's name was Bear. He was a little bit scary and wouldn't play Manilow for me (He played the "Ladies of the 80s" instead). He did show me his butt, though, so that was interesting.

At least once a week, I laugh until I cry.
I can't remember the last time that I cried because I was sad. I can remember the last time that I felt like it, though.

I am a Pac Man genius.

As much as I love what I do, I've always wanted to drive a really big truck... just for a week or two. Something about the open road, old country songs on the radio, and looking down on cows is so appealing to me!

It can't happen, though.

First of all, my depth perception is so skewed that the security department at work has nicknamed me "Can't Park For Shit". I would have preferred a cuter name.. like.. Gidget, or Gumby, or Six-Toes. I still remember the first grain elevator that I hit.. with Dad's new car. Yep. I'm afraid that as soon as I got behind the wheel I'd make the six-o-clock news, but not for cornflake racing this time.

And second, I have no sense of direction. I'm not sure if I was born without one or if years of playing Outrun-The-Tractor-In-The-Cornfield did me in there. When Jim and I were dating, he and his friends used to play a really mean game. It went something like this... "I'm Kristin, and I'm lost again. This is what I see (insert local landmarks)... Where am I?"

Aside from these hindrances, though, I bet I'd be a great truck driver. I'm not exactly Teamster material, but I know to pass on the left and I did have a rudimentary understanding of the Interstate Commerce Commission. You never know... it might come back. It just wasn't meant to be, I suppose. Well...there's always singing memories as a tribute to Ricky Nelson.

He's also a sheltie, but from a much smaller family. He weighs about 15 pounds (most of it hair and butt), compared to KD's 45.