A Chicken Ranch, not THE Chicken Ranch

By Jody Worsham

All rights reserved for therapy

My ten teen is now a tween-ager.  She turned 11.  According to her, “Babies have teeny birthday candles on their cakes.  I want something more grown up.”  So we had sparkler candles on her cake.  I’m just glad there was a fire extinguisher at the ready, a precaution taken after the number of candles required on adult birthday cakes in this house sets off the overhead sprinklers.

 She asked for a special birthday treat, that we all go out to eat.  This is not an unusual request given my inability to cook.  Every special occasion is followed by a request to eat out:  Arbor Day, the Equinox, first day of Spring, summer, fall, winter, Secretary’s Day, National Hot Dog Day, Bring Your Pet to Work Day, National Pickle Day, first day of the month, last day of the month, Pay day, Anniversary of Wal-Mart, Free Willie Day, as well as the regular normal everyday holidays.

She has definitely crossed over into the Tween-ager years of her life as evidenced by her birthday loot:  8 bottles of fingernail polish, 1 bottle of zebra striped nail overlays, nail file, lip gloss, packets of mud facials, skin exfoliate cream, facial moisturizer, skin peeling masks, cell phone (not the flip, track or Wal-Mart kind), subscription to “17 magazine”, and an iPod 2.   Gone are the Barbie Doll days, I guess.

However, the present she was most excited about was becoming the proprietor of her own business.  Dr. Hubby constructed the Donald Trump Condo for Chickens, complete with semi-covered courtyard, modern laying/nesting cubbies, fans, security lights, guarded entrance, and eco-friendly indoor/outdoor space.  He purchased 12 chickens, feed, and a ledger for her to record her expenses and income for IRS purposes.  She will even have her own bank account.

She was even more excited when she learned she would soon be getting 12 eggs a day.  Unfortunately her favorite little chicken, the one she called Sweet Heart, has turned out to be Sweet Boy, the rooster.  Loss of one egg per day.

Today the newest member of the free enterprise system sat all afternoon watching her business, listing potential customers, and figuring ways to cut costs and increase profits.

At this point I am in a quandary.  What do I tell people when they asked “What was your tween-ager’s favorite birthday gift?”  What do I say?  She now runs the Chicken Ranch?”

P. S. If you aren’t from around La Grange, Texas or you missed the Dolly Parton and Burt Reynolds movie, you won’t understand my concern.