In Which Post My BFF Slaughters Five Chickens

There are times in our lives when friends outgrow us and move on. It may have less to do with incompatibility and more to do with the need for greater stimulation.

This past weekend, my BFF slaughtered 5 chickens and graduated from our friendship. Love may no longer be enough to keep us together.

But first, a little backstory.

By Monday morning I had decidedly had a rough weekend. The last 60 hours had included the apprehension and prosecution of one in-house vandal, a basement sleepover robbing 9 people of 38 hours of sleep, and a garage cleanup which resulted in 6 cans of garbage, one truckload of furniture donations and 7 hours mediating the usage of an industrial broom by five children.

Story problem: After the aforementioned 60 hours how much sanity remains between the two step/parents?

Answer: There may not be enough back episodes of Parks & Recreation to completely recover.

So when I called my BFF on Monday morning to debrief, she calmly listened to me recount my weekend, for which she offered the appropriate amounts of sympathy. Then I asked how her weekend went.

BFF: I slaughtered the chickens.

ME: What? Where was Jason?

BFF: He had to fix the van so I told him I would take care of the chickens.

Before we go any further, let me just say, yes, of course they have chickens. It’s like Little House on the Prairie, Idaho Falls edition.

My next thought? If me and Mr. Charming were to ever have chickens needing slaughter, and he said, “Hey, honey. I’ve got to fix the car today.” I would immediately reply, “Ok, dear. I’m going to postpone the slaughtering of our chickens until next Saturday.” Because in no alternate reality can I imagine myself volunteering to decapitate, pluck and gut 5 chickens—and I don’t even know if that’s the proper ordering of butchering tasks.

The truth is my BFF has been leading up to this for some time. Since spring of this year I believe she’s canned or pickled quarts and quarts of peach jam, strawberry jam, apricots, black, white and pinto beans, tomatoes, zucchini, grape juice concentrate, apples, and jalapeno carrots—all while managing the affairs of a third-world country via email transmission.  Ok, so that last part’s not true, but it’s totally within her capacity.

This woman is better prepared for the zombocalypse than me, and I’m married to the man who actually created a board game about it. My BFF now simultaneously awes and terrifies me.

So thus you see how I am concerned I may not be enough friend for my bestie. She may be better aligned with a warrior princess from the Amazon. You know—like with an invisible airplane, a lasso of truth, and bulletproof golden bracelets?

Until then, I’m here as long as she’ll have me.  And when she offers me a jar of pickled jalapeno carrots and a budgeting plan that could restart the government, I’ll offer her a ride to Sam’s Club and a sneak peak at my column.  Heck, maybe I’ll even write one about her.

Because that’s what friends are for.