9.27.2005

Yesterday my husband and I went to the Big E (or the Eastern States Exposition, otherwise known as the ninth largest fair in the USA, if you please). Because Chris would rather jump off a cliff than indulge in blatant consumerism, it was barely fun. He wasn’t always like this, but now that I am a stay at home mom (from here on referred to as “SAHM” in proper deference to Internet lingo) the lack of a second income has gotten to him. It was a shame, since I had been looking forward to a night out and a day at the fair for weeks. Despite some grumblings and the occasional “So, why do you want to go to this thing again?” he took the day off from work and we made arrangements for my mother to watch our nine-week old. We were off.

In one of the agriculture buildings, we saw a SAHP with approximately 8 out of 10 swollen udders and a pile of piglets basking in the fluorescence. She was beyond ugly, but the piglets were cute. It’s easy to become so enchanted with the wiggly lethargy of a baby piggy that you don’t think about the fact that it will soon grow to resemble Ted Kennedy and grunt similarly, too. I looked down at my own engorged mammaries and thought that I would never feel so connected to that pink, hairy and maternal swine as I did just then. It wasn’t appealing when I thought of it in those terms, so instead I pictured my own smiling baby, soft and cooing, separate from my breasts and years away from any possible runs for senate as a bulbous democrat from Massachusetts.

It was the chicks, however, that won best of show in the cute department. Row upon row of brown eggs incubated atop wire mesh as fine lines developed on the shells, hidden chicks pecking for their lives. The audience of fair-goers, peering in through the glass, were fixated on one particular egg as the crack grew and a few straggly hairs poked out and receded, poked out and receded. This went on for five minutes, then ten, till the girl next to me stated that she had been caught up in this chick’s fight for over a half hour. A woman behind us clucked knowingly and said that most of these little ones die of exhaustion if they are not able to extricate themselves from the albumen within 20 minutes. In the time that this chick worked spasmodically to break through one final piece of eggshell, another egg developed a crack, was pushed open, and heralded the arrival of a newborn chicken, all bedraggled and weak-legged. We were happy for this new little guy, but sad for the other fighter whose birth we were still all caught up in. While I didn’t know if the woman’s ominous foretelling was accurate, it was too depressing to find out. My husband and I traded the shit-filled dome of the agricultural building for the overcast September sky, heading out into rows of vendors hawking wares and fare that we couldn’t nearly afford.

3 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

11:33 AM  
Anonymous mga0306 (marie) said...

I'm not sure what the above comment means, but anyway, very cute story. I do love the way your write.

1:22 PM  
Anonymous Roxie Carol said...

Your husband sounds like a loser. Why are you still with him? You have all the love and companionship you need from Tolby and that amazing dog of yours.

11:18 AM  

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