Geeezzz.... I am on a roll today... repost from one of my gal pals :)

I cannot stop laughing... one of friends posted this to her blog....

What's Chicken got to do With It? (or, The Demise of a Doomed Relationship)

Recently, I was the bludgeoned victim of a brutal breakup. My ex—to protect the innocent, let's call him Sam—finally decided that he couldn't bear to be "distracted" from his true love—the military. And hey, who can blame him? Donald Rumsfield was a demanding lover.

Ok, maybe I'm not buying it, but I'll try selling it.

Regardless, I've spent several months mucking through all the crap associated with a breakup—you know, those 5 stages of grieving: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance. I even added one: Piercing Hatred. And throughout this, I kept coming back to one question: At what moment did it all go wrong? There had to be a turning point—a fork in the road where, had I went left, we'd be a happy couple. Instead, I chose right (hahah…that was a completely unplanned pun!). After months of mulling over that same question, the answer hit me like a punch in the face:

Chicken!

That's right. Chicken ended my relationship. Now, I know that might sound a little bizarre, but let me explain.

Months ago, Sam was returning from an excruciatingly long trip away. It might be romantic to say he had been deployed to war, but truthfully he spent 11 weeks at some training facility in Alabama (not exactly in the $hit). Anyway, the homecoming I had planned was finally here and all my preparations were about to pay off. Clean house? Check. Belated birthday gifts? Check. Schoolgirl outfit? Check. Fabulous dinner? CHECK!

In fact, the dinner was the key to my future happiness. How? A couple weeks earlier, a coworker sent me a recipe for "Engagement Chicken," a magical, mystical chicken dish that when served, was like 99.9% effective in guaranteeing a proposal. I would have been crazy not to prepare that, right?

So, I printed out the recipe, memorized it, and threw it in the gutter outside my boyfriend's house (lest he find it, and then the whole thing would be pointless, right?) Then I painstakingly prepared the poultry, making sure to do everything as I remembered.

I set the table with new plates (that's a story for another day—but the gist of it was I had purchased plates I knew Sam wanted to buy for me. I accidentally let it slip that I had acquired new plates for the dinner, and then had to cover up the fact that I had ruined his gift by finding different plates to purchase to cover up the fact that I had bought the ones he wanted to buy for me. Then I had to hide them in my closet, where they stayed for two months while I waited for him to follow through and purchase the rest of the set. Which he never did).

Ok, this blog is really long so I'll try to speed it up. Sam comes home. Chicken's in the oven. We begin to drink. Thermometer in the chicken pops up—it's done! I cut into it, and it BLEEDS. Not great. It goes into the oven for another 45 minutes. Still not done. Another 30 minutes. What the hell???....At this point, I am TRASHED. He suggests we skip the chicken and just eat the side dishes (which at this point are severely overcooked). And I scream, "NO!!!!! WE HAVE TO EAT THE CHICKEN! WE HAVE TO EAT THE CHICKEN!" Nice, huh?

Take a moment here to picture me, dressed like a schoolgirl, lounging sloppily over the side of his brocade loveseat, drinking champagne out of the bottle, belligerently yelling at him about chicken. Pretty.

At some point, he chastises me for spilling champagne on the loveseat, and my remark is something like "This loveseat isn't that nice. You got it at a garage sale…" To which he replied, "Not a garage sale, an estate sale." To which I replied, "That's just a dead woman's garage sale."

Then, I passed out.

Which brings us to the present. Maybe I expected too much—from Sam and the chicken. Maybe it was too much of a commitment to occasionally spend time with me. Call me once in a while. I guess that's what you get when you date a chicken.

At least when the question of what went wrong comes over me—which is less and less these days— I know the true answer. Engagement chicken poisoned my relationship.