Chickens

I still don’t have chickens. Mr. G is trying with all his might to keep me deprived of fresh organic eggs and the magical chicken shit that will make my canna grow. Recently the kids and I listened to an interview on NPR with a fellow who raised fancy chickens with blue skin. Mr. G is also firmly committed to making our children miserable and deprived. People have fancy chickens. We have none.

We looked at two houses on Saturday. First there was the one I could have lived in for ten more years, and next there was the one I could have lived in for all my days. I stood in that house and knew that it was mine. I imagined my children growing up there and then moving out. I fantasized about growing old in a house that was large enough for company but had few enough rooms that it wouldn’t feel lonely.

Alexander was with a friend on Saturday so Jane, Mr. G, Doug and I met at the house, my house, to take a look. Mr. G had no idea where he was in the city but he liked the street. He liked the house. He did not like the neighborhood. He thought about it. He drove around the neighborhood. Twice.

And then Mr. G crushed my dream again. He won’t take his life’s savings and invest it in a house that he didn’t want to live in. Clearly he is a husband hell bent on depriving me of what I need.