“Then you must teach my daughter this same lesson.

How to lose your innocence but not your hope. How to laugh forever.”

― Amy Tan, The Joy Luck Club

“Should I ask about your rubber chicken?” The girl behind the counter was as new as her tone was fresh. I had not seen her at the gym before and I knew immediately that I didn’t care to see her again. She eyed me like I was a freak to be made fun of. I stared her down as I sliced off her head. She couldn’t possibly understand metaphor. TMI. She is generation text jargon. I am generation X. I have factors she does not so I passed her up like she was retarded. I gave her an answer she could understand beyond any stunted mindset.

“My rooster is a celebrity. People want to see him.” I said plainly, as if she should know.

She curled her lip like a repugnant pug which made me want to bash in her face with a shovel. “Okayyyyyyyyyeeeeee” She had nothing more to say than a two letter word with a very long ‘E’ sound at the end. “OK.” She could have been short with it but she prolonged it to make herself seem superior. She lifted her snooty snot nose at me, rolling her eyes.

“Do you like to read?” I threw her a bone but got no erection from it. Of course she didn’t read. I judged her before she confirmed it.

“No. Not really. I like Netflix.” Her mouth moved and I couldn’t handle it. I wanted to pull out her tongue to dip it in ink. The kind of ink that writes screenplays and T.V. shows. The kind of ink that would let her easy mind digest what she is missing through words. Writing is the creation of all great things.

“I like Netflix too.” I softened a bit because I couldn’t blame her for missing out. Not every person has the imagine to know they can write their own show on Netflix. “If you want to know about my rubber chicken you will have to wait for the show.” I winked at her and smiled, heading to my workout and a time to clear my head of toxicity.

The gym is my level playing field, as in, it keeps me level so I can play the game of life without destroying myself and everyone around me. It’s my place to wage war and I am at war, both with myself and with humanity. It’s my place to make things right, to remain a hero, to fight my inner villain. I was a villain as I climbed up the stair mill to begin my workout. I tore Mr. Hyde’s throat out with my teeth to remain Dr. Jekyll. Good would only come by killing evil. Killing evil is what I do while I am at the gym.

“Let the bodies hit the floor.” My workout began with Drowning Pool whispering in my ear and then guitar. Fast and gritty. The song was like a mouthful of bullets, blowing open my throat to clear my chakra. Vishuddha. My soul opened to listen, aligning in the fifth, yielding to the expression of higher communication. The song was only minutes long but that is all I needed to be transformed and elevated.

My rubber chicken was working out with me, but the prop hadn’t really worked out the way I planned. I had imagined that people would be more open to my humor but most were disgusted by it. By most I mean the population of half. Half the town rejected me as a crazy. The other half embraced me as a crazy. I was thinking about crazy as the next song in my cardio playlist gave me ‘Crazy Train.’ Writing a cock blog is the crazy equivalent of Ozzy Osborne biting the head off of a bat. My words were like spitting out blood and little bitty bat pieces into the faces of innocent little children. What age was I when I stopped being innocent? How pure were they before I tainted them with my uncensored truth?

Cock blocked. My ten million dollar plan was up against a wall of opposition which motivated me to shear and defile the sheepel. If we have become a nation of sheep my plan was to evolve as the big bad wolf with a rubber chicken for laughs. I would be laughing all the way to the bank when the whole thing paid off and it would. I would huff and I would puff and I would blow the mother fucking house down. Nothing can last long in my way.

There was more than something in my way though. Years. I had years still to go, as outlined in my mind, as outlined in my plan, which had only allowed ten. I gave myself ten years to succeed at making ten million dollars and if I didn’t, or couldn’t, or wouldn’t, well, suicide was always an option. It shouldn’t be, but it was. I was finally at a place to accept every option including pulling my own plug. I refused to live a life wasted and money was tangible proof that I had made something of myself: something more than working nine to five or nine to nine for that matter, something more than what I was or what I had become.

Who had I become in the two years since my divorce? Sweat fell in heavy drops to stain my cardio machine with puddles of salt and make-up. I had become strong and fast, full of energy. Vivacious and capricious.  My divorce, while tragic, was also a time of great awakening and rebirth. It was coming into my own power at the same time I bowed to submit to the loss of everything. “Take it all. I don’t need any of it.” It was freedom from self-created shackles. It was the beginning of life lived open.

My cage was open. Could the bird fly? Where would I land now that I had nowhere to call home? Was it possible to fly forever? Could I build wings that were strong enough for such a journey? My muscles flexed instinctively as I held on to the final minutes of the cardio portion of my workout. It was a lot to lift to be sure. It was even more to consume. On average, birds eat approximately one half of their body weight every day just to gain the energy they need to keep themselves flying. Being a bird, free or not, made my meal plan choice imperative. How strong would I be eating a rubber chicken?

The rubber chicken came to be at the same time my writing career began, though I had no way of knowing when or if either choice would pay off. Nor did I realize that my life would be forever ruined by those choices. My choice to begin carrying around a rubber chicken. My choice to start a blog titled The Adventures of RUBBER my Yellow Cock. Both were epic failures. Both have been my smashing success.

How can I explain my mindset other than to say, simply, I needed to laugh more than anything and I chose to do so with fervor and fanaticism. Something in me snapped to realize that I was not living my true life. Something in me snapped to realize that I was falling short of my own potential. For all the success I have known in my life (and there has been plenty) I was still impossibly far from the person I was meant to become. The rubber chicken lady.

The rubber chicken lady is not exactly sexy sounding or even attractive for that matter. It certainly does not sound presidential or elite. The title is absurd and silly, not appropriate for my age or any age for that matter. Who wants to be called the rubber chicken lady? Certainly not me. I would prefer to be sexy but what does sexy look like really?

Sexy is a woman who takes care of herself as a priority, but what do most women do better than anything else? They take care of everyone else while no one takes care of them. My rubber chicken came to be because my husband was not capable of loving me the way he should. My rubber chicken came to be because I refused to keep crying about it. My rubber chicken came to be because I can find joy in every sorrow and love inside when there is none on the outs. My rubber chicken came to be because people have failed me but I will not fail myself.

Failure was not an option but I had failed on many levels. I failed to consider the implications of using the word cock to describe my rubber chicken which decidedly is a rooster. “What are you going to name it?” My friend Stephanie asked me shortly after she gave me the toy as a gift.

I turned the chicken from bottom to top, trying to decide. “I suppose the name will depend on the gender. Is it a girl rubber chicken or a boy rubber chicken?”

Stephanie let her head fall to the side, as if her brain was weighing down her head to find the answer. “It looks like a boy rubber chicken to me.” She chose the sex despite the roosters missing genitalia.

I was thinking about genitalia, and the lack there of, when the rooster’s name came to me. “His name is RUBBER. You just gave me the best gift a woman can get.” I was nearly squealing with glee. “I am now the proud owner of a fourteen inch golden cock.” My rubber chicken did not need a penis to be male. He was the entire dick and the laughter that followed was legendary. I laughed until I was choking on my own ribs. I laughed until tears ran down my legs and filled my shoes. I laughed without knowing that my new rooster would soon ruin my life, that he would be the ending and the beginning of all things.