Irrefutable Proof that I’m a Chick
Not that I really thought it necessary (the proof, I mean), but here it is....

I have been cleaning and trying to sort out the mess at home that has accumulated in my absence. The other day I was dusting in my office. In order to dust off a little cabinet once belonged to my grandmother (one of my prized possessions), I lifted up the basket of dried flowers that was on top only to spot a dead cockroach.

the cabinet

Gross. I grabbed the wastebasket and swept the cockroach forward toward the garbage bin.

Not quite dead.

As it flew toward me, I shrieked, stepped on the basket of dried flowers, smashing it, bumped into the couch, knocked over the chair in front of my computer, and then fell back onto the corner of the coffee table. All in a split second. I stood up and surveyed the scene. Definitely a chick. I laughed out loud. Until the bruise came out that is. Size of a baseball. (And I hate playing baseball because I throw like a chick. Can’t seem to escape it.)