A Million Dollar Beak

Whitestrip or pregnancy test?

After years of debate, I have given in to a life-changing product in hopes to fly from my modest, middle class status to a slightly less modest, middle class status. I bought a pack of Crest Whitestrips to add some new shine to my beak.

Many of my hen friends have used Whitestrips and have had successful results. I've hemmed and hawed - is it worth the $20? Do I have $20? Will it work? Am I giving in to a superficial society? Is it a tax write off? Where are my keys? But rooming with Sasha Hen, who uses them and has an especially white beak, I went for it. And if I had any problems, she could help me.

Back on the Icy Road

Hidalgo's Statue of Liberty

The hens are back on the ice. We won't be touring any of Europe or Mars, but we will be taking our show to many of America's cultural hot spots, such as Tupelo, Mississippi and Hidalgo, Texas. We just don't have the time for New York or L.A.

During last year's European tour, we had to adapt to European culture and coups. We learned some of the native language - British English - and we squished our feathers and seeds into the "cozy" confines built for hens a foot shorter than ourselves. We will now be touring North America, and although we just began the rehearsals, we are readapting to American life. Here are a few things these hens will need to get used to again.

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.

Hashtag Olympics

No, Mitt Romney! No!

The Olympics are happening as we speak. Every two years we see the world's best athletes in hot and cold sports fly onto our radars and make us yell at the TV with national pride. With the presidential election just around the corner, I'm also yelling at the political ads in between events with national disgust. There's a lot of yelling.

Maybe it's because I went through a journalism and media studies program. Maybe it's because I'm in between work and spend idle summer days flapping around the coup. Maybe it's because of the onslaught of social media adding to the coverage. And maybe it's all three plus low blood sugar, but the commentary and coverage of the events is driving me mad. More yelling!

Confessions at Chick-fil-A

Cathy: "Can't marry." ^

Chick-fil-A is in the news both locally and nationally. Nationally, CEO Dan Cathy has reaffirmed his strong opposition to same-sex marriage, reiterating his "Christian" and "Godly" views. But more importantly, a new Chick-fil-A restaurant opened in northern Lakeland, Florida. And if one can make it here, one can make it anywhere! ...or something.

The Lakeland Chick-fil-A countdown was epic. That famous cow showed up in front of the restaurant under construction weeks before the opening, mooing about how soon it would open. Each day, the sign was replaced and each day came 24 hours closer to the grand opening. Lakeland hadn't seen so much excitement since one week earlier, when a new Panda Express opened across the street. The addition of Chick-fil-A would round out Highway 98 as the most American stretch of highway in the nation - housing every reputable chain restaurant, box store and vacant strip mall within a one-mile strip. With the occasional man in an Uncle Sam hat biking with a buggy of free bibles, the image belongs on the back of a coin.

Hens in Africa: Jambo!

Hello.

When our Hens on Ice troop traveled to South Africa to bring the country its first ever Hens on Ice show, none of us in the cast or crew had been to South Africa (except the weird girl from New York who lives in England but has family in South Africa and Dutch roots, she doesn't count). We were all very excited to venture to this foreign land.

None of us pretended we knew much about South Africa. Sadly in most of our educations, African histories are seldom taught, aside from when European men colonized/raped and pillaged the continent when world exploration and pillaging were all the rage. But a few of us did a little research to help us be knowledgable. I learned that Johannesburg is the largest city in the world that is not on a major body of water or river. This fact never came in handy, other than that I knew not to look for a beach. Our friend, Kim, immediately began using "Jambo" as her greeting. I was impressed she learned a useful word in Afrikans, South Africa's other official language besides English. In spite of her pasty skin and red hair, Kim was one step more African than the rest of us.

Hens in Africa: A Search for Roots

I should've flown coach.

Hello, or should I say "Jambo?" That is Swahili for hello, but I never heard anyone from South Africa say it. Other African people apparently do.

The Cackling Hen is back after a wild goose chase to find my roots in between Hens on Ice shows. I flew nearly two days to South Africa, the part of Africa furthest from my home (Sometimes a hen needs some space from mother goose, and lots of it). And before rumors start swirling, I flew coach on Delta. Hens can't really fly, and I had to save my wings for the shows. It would be the first time African children, parents and crazed skating fans would see a hen on ice.

Flying to Mars

The Cackling Hen is flying to Africa!

Those are words that will never feel natural flying out of my beak unless I move to Africa. It catches everyone off guard the first time, including myself. It continues to throw off the forgetful and friends who don't listen the second, third and fourth times they hear it.

Over the past few weeks, I've told friends and family I would not see them for about a month, as Hens on Ice will be having shows in South Africa for the first time in history, and the company keeps throwing me feed to skate in the shows. Everyone's immediate question is, "Where are you going?" And there is no time to prepare them for my response: "South Africa." Once that last "a" is pronounced, their eyes bulge and mouths open as if I'd said, "Mars."

Where's the arena?

A Mini Henplaint

In today's digital age, we make many purchases online. After a few times, I've become accustomed to the same process for buying flights, text books and my support for the less corrupt politician. A key part of forking my money over online is entering that "billing information," including my home address.

It is convenient in today's hustle (and usual bustle) to just type quickly, hit the "tab" key, and continue typing in the next box. On fancy sites, it will even automatically move me over to that next box - no "tab" necessary! Whew.

A Day in the Office

What is this crap?

When I returned home for a break from Hens on Ice, I had lofty but seemingly reasonable goals and tasks for my free time. I would only work two days a week part time, so I'd have plenty of time to tackle those boxes in the garage, finish that Lady Gaga-inspired painting and write the next great American novel. But now after over a month at home, the boxes have a year layer of dust, the painting canvas has been dry since 2011 and that novel has a long way to go. Now is the time to publicly address my problem and see where I've gone wrong so that book hits the shelves and that painting hits my wall. The boxes can wait.

It's always easier to point the finger at others and inanimate objects than fully accepting blame and responsibility. So here starts my finger pointing to why I am always doing something but never finishing anything.