I can't be sure, but I *think* I deserve an award.

So, I have a sis-in-law who won't touch raw meat. Sure, she'll eat it (well, not RAW meat. Just, you know, meat. Prepared & cooked). She'll even cook it. But for some reason (e.g., it's gross?), she can't bring herself to touch it. Like to put it into little bags to freeze it or whatever--nope. That job's left up to her husband.

I have GOT to get me an arrangement like that. 'Cept it's too late for me. Paul knows better. Drat.

Anyways. Picture yourselves this: Me. Last night. Hastily trying to prepare dinner, which involved cooking a whole roasting chicken. Although I'm not necessarily a girly-girl per se, I'll be the first to admit I'm a *wee* bit squeamish about the "whole bird" thing. I kind of have to distract my brain for a few while I clean and prepare it. Like when you have to lift the wings to rub butter on the skin underneath? Yeah, I could do without that.

Well, EEEEEEEEASY on last night's whole chicken cooking endeavor topping the National Chart o' Grossness. [Editor's note: Because there is such a thing. On display in DC, I think, right next to the Declaration of Independence. Huh. I'm surprised you haven't heard of it.] Not only were there weird organs inside the chicken (which, I know there are always, like, the liver and some other organ in there, but these lumps were weird colors and shapes. And there were about 14 of them. ??), but there were also still FEATHERS. ON. THE. BIRD.

Honestly. I'll buy a whole chicken. I'll wash it and prepare it. I'll cook it up all delicious-like and enjoy the savory meat at dinner with my family. But I will not -- I repeat NOT -- happily pluck my own food. Eight feathers, there were, still attached to the bird.

If you grew up on a farm and are rolling your eyes at me, fine. Go ahead. And good for you that you wrang (??) your first chicken's neck at age 3. But I didn't. And, although I'm grateful to those who perform such duties on my behalf, I have no desire to witness such a close-to-life display of the food I eat.

But I swallowed my disgust, closed my eyes (almost), and plucked. And plucked. And plucked again. Eight times. Then I covered the dang thing with foil and threw it into the oven because I was starting to get heebie-jeebie goosebumps. And, when I tried to make dinnertime conversation about my award-deserving-self, my husband politely stopped me at the first mention of "whole chicken" and gestured to his food, as if to say, "I'm eating here, hon..."

Exactly. Gross.

So, to wrap things up: My overall goal today was to wear clothes that LEAST closely resembled a chicken. For obv reasons. My only requirement was a skirt for tonight's activities, but it's been super cold lately and tights alone just weren't going to cut it. So I added leg warmers. Mmmmm...cozy. And my very favorite zigzag scarf was calling out to me from the depths of my closet, feeling a wee bit neglected no doubt, since I haven't worn it for more than a week. I chose a kind of in-the-background brown cami and greenish cardigan to go with it. 'Cept the cardigan is striped, and with the zigzag it might be a little busy. (Opinions?)

The cardigan is a few sizes too big [Editor's note: Thereby making it just the right size. I love an oversized cardigan in the winter.], so I belted it. And belted the scarf for good measure. It just wanted to be close to me I think. Poor abandoned accessory.

Happy Friday.