Friday, October 18, 2013

A Fowl Run-in with Mercury Retrograde

My Mercury Retrograde began a little early. Because of the BART strike, the roads were jammed—I was in Silicon Valley for a tech conference. Because traffic on Highway 280 to 92 was snarly as a hungry lion, I stopped off at the least exit in Foster City and bought a lovely Costco roast chicken, and waited out the worst of the traffic jam. 

Crossing the San Mateo Bridge under full moonlight was worth the wait—pure magic—platinum trail of moonlight on the indigo velvet of the bay. I thought I could see the after effects of the lunar eclipse, the moon looked a little lopsided on top. But I was imagining things. 

All was serene, it was as if I was inside a Maxfield Parrish painting. Hunter's Moon and eclipse. In the rearview mirror, the sunset was a dragon's blood glow, and Venus to the west, a beautymark. I was basking in all this glorious gloaming. Until an idiot in a SUV cut in front of me.

I stopped short, the chicken decided to fly the coop as if to get to the other side of the road. At least it didn't hit the window. The roasting pan lid popped off on the descent, and the damned chicken landed upside down inside my backpack and drooled on my brand-new skinny cuff jeans. 

They were the last pair in my size, and on sale for only $10. Costco pants rarely fit—I usually buy three pairs, keep one, return the others. In fact, that's why I was in Costco, to begin with—to return a pair of jeans. I really couldn't think of how I could possibly return these jeans smelling like a chicken roast-off. They'd better fit is all I can say.

Luckily I had a premonition beforehand and moved my gorgeous new purple and magenta silky down vest to the back seat. Apparently the premonition wasn't strong enough for me to consider putting the chicken on the floor of the car, shackled with snow chains, instead of in a shopping bag on the passenger's seat. Wish I had thought to move my cameras from the bottom of the bag as well. Nothing like chicken schmutz to lube the LCD screen. Of course, it completely missed the baby bagels.

So while driving with a greased gearshift, I grabbed the slippery sucker by a leg and shoved it back into the roasting pan and set it on the dashboard. Mopping up what mess I could reach with toilet paper, I felt like the lubricated inside of a BBQ basting pan.  

When I got home, I went to transfer that errant chicken back into bag. It leapt out of the roasting pan to take a roll all over my faux suede car seats, splashing chicken juice and fat into my eye and hair. And judging the look on Neil's face when I walked in the door—apparently I was modeling a Something About Mary coiffure. And how was your conference, dear?

Can I please have a pass? I already did my Mercury Retrograde time. Or was it full moon time? Oh, the car smells foul, the jeans do fit but they keep clucking and cats follow me wherever I go.

1 comment:

Glenn Ingersoll said...

Tsk. You should know better! I mean, this sort of thing happens every time I put food on the passenger seat. This your first time?