That Wild and Crazy Chicken

Being a mother, and a writer, is akin to running around like a chicken with your head cut off. You know you walked into one room to finish an outline, but your head is still in the other room thinking about if Stink's cough is an allergy, a random throat clearing, or birds' flu. (Birds' flu is no joking matter for a chicken, so I should restrain from such fowl jokes. Ha! I can't contain myself. Don't clip my wings! Should I go on? Okay, stopping.)

My point: Sundays are my day to slow down while Rooster Rex guards the henhouse. So, in my last half hour, I take a leisurely drive to the local El Pollo Loco. As I dream of my chicken legs and Lemonaide Lite, I reassure myself that even though Nickelodeon promised to come for a second look at the house, then bailed, there was a promising meeting at another production house for my tv writing. I reminded myself that although I miss the hustle and bustle of a movie set, I'm blessed for the time I have building train sets with Stinker. And though I long for coffee that doesn't always give me Yuban breath, I have the joy of delicious Pipsqueak's breath.

But despite how grateful I am, when I'm alone in the SUV, and the radio's blaring, and I get that ol' Mama P artist spirit that only comes from a few hours of silence and thrifting and blessed solitude, I feel a bit meloncholy for the ol' "Roll tape" of yore.

Then I snap out of it. Who needs those long hours! Who wants to write about tv familes when I have a family of my own! And, like Prince Charming on a white horse, El Pollo Loco comes in to save the day!

Then I pull into the stripmall to find the drive-thru blocked. The doors are closed and the parking lot is jammed with huge trucks. As I search around frantically for an open space, a kid in a headset approaches me. "Sorry, mam. We're closed for filming. Here's a buck off your next visit."

What could I do but smile back and reply, "Break a chicken leg."

Like my favorite chicken joint, life is loco.