Freak Flag Friday - What's the deal with chickens?

So can we just PRETEND this was done on Friday? (insert Sarah Palin-esque wink here) You betcha'!
I'm baaaaack! Never really went anywhere, per se, but a LOT has happened during the second half of September. Let's recap quickly, shall we?

Left job to be a stay-at-home-mom 9/19.
Continued to finish up work (although pay ended) through 9/26.
Immediately began watching another child that is close to my daughter's age.
Immediately acknowledged that this was, in fact, NOT necessarily a good idea for the sake of my sanity.
Acknowledged that my daughter might possibly be the easiest baby ever.
Made list of 10,000 projects that can now be accomplished since I'm at home.
Recognized the futility of this list while watching another child.
Was thrilled to see the progress that Hania has made since I've been able to focus on teaching her new skills.
Lost 5 lbs AND my mind from chasing around after small children for two weeks.
Recognized that we need in-home training from the Humane Society if Keira-the-no-no-bad-dog and I are going to coexist peacefully in the same home.
Continue to work on learning how to be still. And patient. Neither is a virtue that I currently possess, but I'll keep you updated on the progress!
Lather, rinse, repeat.
Has it only been two weeks? Really???

I owe you a Freak Flag Friday funny, don't I? These are 2 quick little stories, both chicken-related, that still crack me up. I can't quite muster the energy for one of my doozies tonight!

My first job in Georgia was as a school-based emergency services counselor, who responded to crisis calls from the public schools. On occasion I was asked to go to a home and follow up to ensure the family was using the mental health resources available. Weird job, grant funded, not well organized and very slow paced, which drove me nuts. On this particular visit I can't even recall why I'd gone to the home, but the exit is what truly stands out in my mind. As I'm walking out of the small rural home a chicken streaks out the door past me. I can't say exactly where this chicken came from, but apparently he'd been inside the home the entire time. He ran up onto the hood of my car, which made for a pretty funny sight. Yes, funny funny stuff, up until the point that I try to enter my vehicle and it flies straight into my face! I managed to stay upright and threw my hands up in time to avoid being mauled by a bird, but apparently this was no ordinary bird. Oh, no. He continued to strut around on the hood of car, pooping no less, and gave me a look at that said "Oh yeah, lady? You wanna piece of this? Bring it, fool!" To which I replied "Oh it's already been BROUGHTEN!" (Did anyone else see that dumb cheerleader movie "Bring It On" to find that quote funny? Or am I the only one laughing?) Swatting at him with my planner didn't do a thing, aside from provide him with some agility training. Then he did speed drills from the trunk, over the body of the car to the hood, and back again. Each time I attempt to enter the car he flies at me, flapping his wings, screeching, and I can't help but scream like a girl. Little did I know that every time he screeched, he was calling his little friends. Chickens are literally coming out of nowhere. From under the car, around the corner of the house, across the gravel road... as if they were lurking around, like the bad guys in a movie, ready to gang up and take down this citified female human that invaded their property. Apparently he was a chicken mob boss. The Godfeather, if you will.
I then realize that maybe the family who lives there could help me, and I turn around to see them gathered on the porch watching the spectacle. As in, studying the scene, chin on hands, watching like it is reality tv. I yell back and ask if they have any suggestions, and the father informs me that yes, this has indeed been a problem in the past, and no, he only does it with strangers so they don't know what to do about it. Thanks, buddy.
Finally I noticed a window of opportunity when Mob Boss Chicken was on the hood, and I made a break for it - dove for the rear door and leaped into the back seat of the car before climbing into the front and peeling off.
My conclusion: I am chicken s$#t when it comes to aggressive fowl. And apparently that chicken needs anger management, for which I can provide some excellent referrals.

The second story also occurs in Georgia, when I'm working in foster care. My job required me to visit each of the foster homes each quarter to ensure that they met safety requirements and were following agency policies. You tend to grow close quickly to the families because in completing the home study required to foster there are many personal questions that they are required to disclose, including their beliefs on a number of hot topics, details of their background, and parenting philosophies. I loved visiting most of my families, but one couple in particular had been my favorites since I'd met them - a Jamaican couple in their late 50's who were raising their grandchildren, and were ready to open their home to foster children. Their home always seemed quite warm and inviting, and the mother consistently had a Jamaican dish bubbling on the stove and always asked if I'd like to stay for dinner. I usually had just a little taste, and although it was delightful I had other appointments waiting and never stayed to eat.
Well this time she called me in advance to ask me to stay and eat to celebrate her husband's birthday. She had made his absolute favorite meal, a Jamaican delicacy that they only made on special occasions and she was so proud to share it. I have to admit, I was psyched. I loooove Jamaican food... jerk...curry...plantains...you name it. What could it be? Seriously, my mouth was watering all day. I even picked up a little red velvet cake from Publix for the birthday celebration.
When I arrived the house smelled incredible, the kids were running around having fun, it was a nice scene and a much needed break after a horrid day. They were so happy I could attend and the mother called me over to the stove, pulled the lid off the pot with a flourish, and there I saw... (this is coming across like a Halloween after school special)... CURRIED CHICKEN FEET. Bwahaaahaaahaa! I'm not kidding. Actual little chicken feet (claws intact, mind you!) filling up the pot, simmering in a yellow curry broth. Oh. My. Goodness. I vaguely hear the mother exclaiming about what a delicacy it is, and how much her husband adores them, and how difficult it is to find them in that part of Atlanta, etc etc. But I'm busy thinking about how I plan to choke them down, and instead hear Charlie Brown's teacher's voice: Wah wah wah, wahwah wah wah.
At dinner the mother served up the pot, ya know, so each of us could have equal amounts of the hearty chicken foot goodness. Naturally. You know, they really didn't taste bad but the texture was just awful. It certainly conjured up images of Fear Factor while I was gnawing on the talons. Don't you know that I thought back to that dang chicken that held me hostage at my car? Not that it made them taste better, but it was mildly amusing to pass the time while I chewed vigorously. I just continued to chew-swallow-repeat, all the while eyeing the Publix red velvet cake on the counter!

Apparently chickens were the only ones flying the freak flag in this installment!