Column: Chicken Bowling!

I got the strangest e-mail from my husband last week.

“George has challenged us to chicken bowling,” he wrote. “We’ll need to freeze 20 water bottles. George has the chickens.”

I’d never heard of such a thing. But I had a feeling this event was a long time coming. George, our neighbor, had been watching our latest backyard project with interest — and probably more than a little bemusement — for some time.

Back in November, we (and by “we,” I mean “my husband”) built a two-foot-tall 36’-by-36’ frame in our backyard. We (again, my husband) lined it with a massive white tarp. And then we (yes, we) filled it with water. Gallons and gallons and gallons of water that were supposed to freeze into the perfect backyard ice rink.

Instead, we had a wading pool for the next two months. (Damn global warming.)

But thanks to the recent burst of winter weather, our wading pool is now a bonafide ice rink.

And George, our neighbor, had a novel idea for how we could christen it: chicken bowling.

So there we were last Sunday night — chilling a six-pack of Curveball beer in the snow and arranging ten water-bottle pins on either end of the rink as George crossed his yard with the chickens.

Only, these weren’t just any chickens. No, these were free-range organic chickens — frozen and enveloped in plastic grocery bags, handles tied for gripping power. Clearly, this would be a serious game.

Jay led off (home rink advantage, you know), his first chicken sliding with impressive speed before crashing and spinning six of the 10 pins to the ground. His second chicken nabbed two more. The game was on.

Though George and Jay were the ones facing off, chicken bowling fast became a family affair. Seven-year-old Christian stood rinkside, keeping score on his brother’s dry-erase easel. Four-year-old Bergen served as interference — periodically slicing his hockey puck through the line of fire.

As chickens slid back and forth across the rink, George and Jay said things like, “I think a little more speed makes straighter chickens,” and “This might actually work better with live chickens.” (Don’t go writing me letters, now — I’m fairly sure they were joking.)

The contest was neck and neck throughout — even though the occasional gutter chicken was thrown.

When George threw his final chicken at the end of frame 10, there was a moment of silence as I tallied the scores. It was a tie:
70 to 70.

The game could only end with a sudden death chicken-off.

We held our breaths as Jay rolled his final chicken — knocking all but one of the water-bottle pins to the ground. Mustering his concentration, George approached his lane — and rolled his chicken with such gusto that it spun right out of its bag.

The excitement was almost too much to bear. George’s second, “re-bowl” chicken slid toward the pins as if in slow motion… and sent them flying in ten different directions. A strike.

The crowd went wild. And by crowd I mean Christian and I. Bergen had been sent to the house by this time for high sticking (at his brother’s head).

It was a game that’ll live in infamy. A game, Jay said during the fateful chicken-off, that “could tear the neighborhood apart.”

But most of all it was a reminder to embrace the strange and unexpected. Because those adventures are always the most fun.

Column: January 21

I have a confession. I don’t know how to put my make-up on.

I mean, I can ease some lipstick on my kisser and add mascara to my lashes before dashing out the door. That much I can do.

But I don’t know where my eyeliner is supposed to go, and I’ve never figured out how to match foundation to my skin tone.

It could be because I don’t know my “season.” Apparently this is a big deal when it comes to make-up.

When I was in eighth grade, my friend Nicole and her mom got their colors done. Once Nicole found out she was a winter, everything fell into place for her. She graduated top in our class and lives in Georgia now.

I decided it was time for me, too, to get help. I called Jill Krieger Swanson, owner of Simply Beautiful Image Consulting, and registered for the three-hour color and imaging consultation. (If you’re going to do it, you might as well do it big.)

When I arrived for my appointment, Jill set me to work filling out personality profiles. Having determined that I was indeed spontaneous, energetic and a perfectionist worrier, she set me in front of a giant mirror.

Staring at myself in a wall-sized mirror isn’t usually my idea of a fun afternoon, but it was cool to see the transformation take place as Jill layered different colored swatches over my shoulders. Blues brought out my eyes. Reds enhanced the healthy flush on my lips and cheeks. Oranges, blacks, beiges, rusts, and olives made me look sick.

Guess what 95 percent of my wardrobe consists of. For that matter, guess what I wore to the appointment? A beige shirt with rust and olive accents.

And how many of my “right colors” — the pinks and reds, blues and teals — do I own? For starters, the blue shirt I wear in my official Post-Bulletin picture is the only blue shirt I own. And the reds? I’ve been avoiding them for years. I thought they’d bring out the blotches on my face. Who knew?

Next it was time to pull out my make-up bag and critique its contents — all seven items. Poor Jill. I don’t think she knew what a novice she was dealing with until she saw the motley grouping that fell from my 1996 Clinique bonus bag. It included one black/brown mascara at the end of its life, one eyeliner — which I apply, then smear off, one concealer with the brand name worn off, one quad set of eye shadow in the wrong tones, one too-light foundation, and two lipsticks — one of which I bought on clearance and, according to Jill, that’s where it should’ve stayed.

After giving me a lesson in all things make-up and writing a comprehensive list of what colors and brands to buy, we moved on to the swimsuit portion of the consultation.

Yes, I said swimsuit.

I exited from the changing room in my two-toned blue one piece — thankful I’d remembered to shave that morning — and stood with my back to the full-length mirror as directed.

It’s one thing to model a swimsuit. It’s another to model a swimsuit in front of a full-length mirror. It’s yet another to model a swimsuit in front of a full-length mirror while an incredibly put-together woman measures you and marks said measurements on the mirror.

Fortunately, this part only lasts about five minutes.

And it does have its merit. Combined with the aforementioned personality profile, Jill used my measurements to pinpoint the styles of clothing appropriate for my personality and shape.

In fact, as I drove home that afternoon, I was armed not only with a personalized book of “warm summer” fabric swatches, but a portfolio that included everything from my best belt widths to my most appropriate jacket styles. And — lucky me — it all fits conveniently into what I now know is my grossly oversized purse.