What's Going on Tonight?

My flying endeavors recently took me to the party capital of the USA: Salt Lake City! The large Mormon population may disagree, but that was the plan reuniting with one of my college hen friends. For 25 hours, we could relive some carefree college partying in the shadow of the Mormon church. Fetch the reality cameras!

yeehaw! 

The plan was simple enough. We'd catch up and laugh for hours over a sassy dinner. Then we'd dance the night away with mason jars of liquor, just like in our prime. We may be a little older and a little wiser, with more bills and less energy, but we could still tear the night up and make the dance floor fall in love with us again, right? I'd also tested out the bar 4 years ago with Hens on Ice. We all had mason jars full of fun, so this reboot to SLC had the recipe for success.

The Power of the Unfollow (EXCLUDING UNFOLLOWING THE HEN!)

Sorry not sorry.

What happened to all the days between May 4 and today? It's too astonishing to address or consider, so I won't.

Instead, I write here today to urge all of you in my coop to take action in your social media lives and to teach something I've learned recently. I will not be teaching you middle school science, figure skating, or kindergarten phonics; I'm here to teach you the power of the "unfollow." You may have also just learned proper semicolon usage (see previous sentence).

First and most importantly, this unfollow lesson DOES NOT APPLY TO THE CACKLING HEN. DO NOT EVER UNFOLLOW THE CACKLING HEN. That would be a horrible life choice and you will cry when this bird takes off for entertainment domination and you're out of the coop.

Surprise Instagram Study! Shocking Results!

#Science

In just 2 Instagram posts, I inadvertently created a social experiment that gave a glimpse into my friends' minds. My initial intention was not to cross-examine my coop, but rather catch up on posting very important pictures to this social medium. I had 5 free minutes and 2 pictures needed to be filtered and shared: a selfie of my new hair cut and a Bloody Mary from Sunday's brunch. After posting, I enjoyed checking the "likes" and comments, but as I checked the notifications, I realized these little red hearts and words were revealing more about my friends than any of us realized. In The Hen's first exclusive (marginally) scientific study, I'll reveal my findings so you can also conduct a study of your own! (In lieu of donations and flowers, please share this revealing article with your friends!)

Bucket List Travel: The Salton Sea!

When Hens on Ice took us to Ontario, CA, I quickly learned that Ontario and Orange County are not the same place, and Ontario isn't even in Orange County. After a dizzying putter through the outlet mall and coughing on valley smog for 2 days, I craved an adventure. Thankfully, a bucket list destination was just down the road: The Salton Sea. Not knowing the next time I'd return to SoCal, I seized the moment being antsy and tipsy and booked a car to get out of Dodge. I dragged 2 friends along by telling them we were going to Palm Springs and we hit the road.

The Salton Sea had been on my bucket list of places to visit since I saw the wonderful documentary Plagues and Pleasures on the Salton Sea in college. It seemed like such a funny place that could be great, funny, and/or horrible to visit, and I vowed to find out personally.

Beach Day in Polandia

Come December, much of the world is cold, dreary, and possibly snowing. Florida is one exception in the U.S. where it cools down, but it's usually still warm enough to go the beach. Typical Florida "humor" is sadistically rubbing it in everyone's faces by taking selfies at the beach tagged, "Beach in December!" like it's a novel event. It's nothing new in Florida, but it really pisses off all friends and family not in Florida. "Jealous!" really means "Fuck you, I'm blocking your social media posts in winter months."

I moved coups to Florida to escape winter forever and to "get an education." When I finished learning, I got a traveling job. (Calm down, I know one never finishes learning or paying Sallie Mae loans.) Nowhere in my contract did I sign up for winter climates, but my feathers are back to enduring winters.

Can I Ask You a Question?

Can I be honest?

I recently spent a few of my days off at home. With just me in the house, it was very quiet (minus the cats) and I enjoyed our peaceful neighborhood on the fringe of Lakeland, Florida. But one morning, as I pushed through the overgrown palm fronds to get the newspaper, I heard a clamor that was neither the cattle mooing behind our house nor me swearing at the ridiculously overgrown palm fronds. It was a grown man down the street having a conversation with another man at a volume the whole neighborhood could hear, except the "conversation" was really just Yelling Man A squawking at Standing Man B. As I pretended to be caught in the palm tree so I could eavesdrop, I realized that we too often ask questions that we don't let be questions.

Bleeding Love

Someone shovel me.

After having a relatively mild winter last year on Hens on Ice's European tour, we've gotten the brunt of Old Man Winter this year stateside. I thought I was done with winter in 2004 when I moved from Colorado to Florida, where winter is any temperature below 60 degrees. Now that I have a traveling job, I have to bear places with real seasons. Life is hard.

Last year when it dipped below 60, I threw on layers and coats and told myself, "I'm in Europe." Even frostbite wouldn't stop me from taking pictures in Belgium while it was frozen. This year, I tried to tell myself the same thing, but I knew I was a liar. Knowing warm, sunny Florida is just a stone's throw away compared to last year, I've saved my whining only for when it's extremely cold. It's been extremely cold for two months now. "I hate winter" is my new "I'm in Europe."

A Farewell to Luxury

Last week, I bid farewell to an old, loyal friend. No one died, and I didn't defriend him from Facebook over too many political comments. I sold him because I met someone better.

refusing to accept his real age

I sold my first and only car, known by all friends as The Luxury Sedan. It got its fancy name fittingly from its many luxurious features, including manual, roll-up windows and two doors for five seats. The Luxury Sedan was just too luxurious to tolerate electric locks, cruise control or a tachometer.

When I got the car at age 16, I always imagined being the only owner, driving it until it drove no more. But when my grandma recently moved to Florida, she decided not to drive anymore and offered me her car if I'd sell my old friend and give her the money. At first I refused. How could I sell my old, loyal friend for a younger, fancier friend? No way.