Why you should never invite your sister on a business trip.

Last week I had an impromptu trip to Denver to visit the recruiting team at our corporate office. Without going into a lot of detail I will tell you this was a trip that made me nervous because of the typical Corporate vs. Region power struggles and office politics so common in the world of big companies. I don't do office politics well...and saying that is an understatement of such epic proportions it is akin to saying the Titanic had a little fender bender.

The work part of my trip went really well and I am honestly glad I went. I met lots of people who totally rock the Kasbah and they made me feel very welcome. BUT, it was meeting after meeting after meeting after meeting after meeting after meeting......sorry.......got stuck in the memory loop of those soul sucking time wasters that generally result in multiple additions to my immortal "to-do" list. Oh, don't worry, next time I'll tell you how I really feel.

The upside of my week in Denver was that Lexy came with me. For about 5 minutes I was overwhelmingly excited because she was coming all the way to Denver just to hang out with me. Then I realized she had ulterior motives and I was simply her excuse to go to Denver to see a guy. I was going to be mad, but that was before I realized the appropriate emotion was pride. That girl is Just. Like. Me. JUSTLIKEME! It is so exciting to watch her grow up and be boy crazy and headstrong and so insanely snarky that I am filled with equal amounts of pride and fear.

I made the mistake of hitting the town with her on Wednesday night when what I really should have done was go to dinner and then go to bed. I had been fighting off some kind of crud all week and the last thing I needed was alcohol and sleep deprivation. But, really? When has THAT ever stopped me?! So, off we went to downtown Denver.

I won't bore you with too many details of the evening, but it went a bit like this:

Stop 1: The Mellow Mushroom. Hockey on TV, beer on tap, awesome pizza.
Stop 2: The Tilted Kilt. $3.50 martinis. Kick ass bartender. Drunk girl who paid our bar tab in trade for half of a Pineapple Upside Down Cake shot I was just about to finish. I love that drunk girl. Hell...I have been known to BE that drunk girl.
Stop 3: Bar I never got the name of. Really bad karaoke. Totally random crowd of people. Free ride back to the hotel thanks to Lexy's dude. Thanks Tom!

Here are a couple of pics for your viewing pleasure:

Me and Lexy at the Mellow Mushroom:


Me and Lexy at the Tilted Kilt:


Lexy proving her ability to tie a cherry stem into a knot with her tongue. The bartender was quite impressed. Hi John!


Oh - and Lexy apparently has a picture of me asleep in the backseat of Tom's car literally hugging his hockey sticks. I have threatened her with slow, painful death if she makes that picture public. All y'all better have my back on this...I mean it...she posts. She dies.

So...we arrive at the hotel at 2:30 in the morning. I fall into bed already realizing that maybe I don't feel so great. The fever and chills were kind of a clue. I get up at 5:30 in the morning and realize how incredible stupid the sleep deprivation is because the full on flu has struck. And all you haters can stuff it because it really was the flu no matter what you think. Just because you know me doesn't mean for even one second it wasn't really the flu. Haters.

Thursday was not a great day for me. I spent the majority of the morning running back and forth to the bathroom and sitting in meetings. Remember all that soul sucking I mentioned earlier? Add nausea. That was my morning. Then, in what must surely be the pinnacle of joy and joyness I got to go to the airport and get on a plane! Whee!

The lady at the ticket counter was a bit dubious about my ability to fly.

Delta lady: Are you sure you are ok to fly? You don't look so good.
Me: Well, I have a fever and I am nauseated, but don't worry...I won't throw up on your plane.
Delta lady: Are you sure? How do you know?
Me: Based on the morning I have had I am quite certain there are no fluids what-so-ever left in my body. At this moment, I am a completely empty shell of human who is barely standing upright and hoping like hell you will simply give me my boarding pass so I can get through security and sit down.
Delta lady: Gate C40.

I made it home. I didn't throw up on anyone. And then I slept for 12 hours.

And that is my trip to Denver.

Vomit AND Superheroes. No lie.

I've been up since just before 6 am. It's a Saturday and I can't even believe I wasn't able to sleep longer than that. On the upside, that whole insomnia thing seems to have worked itself out.

Went out on the town last night. Found this spectacularly awesome dive bar. This place was the bomb - cheap beer, smoke filled, pool table with crooked cues, bad karaoke and bikers. BIKERS, Y'ALL. I mean, really? It. Was. Awesome. I fully intend to return. Probably tonight. Fair warning has been given.

OK...I've bored myself so I'll move on.

Last weekend was Drew's birthday extravaganza. The best part of the entire night was witnessing the epic reflexes of my friend Carrie. Let's set the stage, shall we?

Open on a hotel room. Several adults are debating movies and drinking Captain Morgan's Tattoo with Dr. Pepper. (I had to throw that in because it rules.) In the adjoining room four 8 - 10 year olds have been shoveling pizza, root beer and birthday cake down their throats in a disgusting display of little boy gluttony while staging an epic battle between the Jedi and the bad guys from Gears of War (don't question these things - just roll with it).

Drew enters hotel room not currently under attack.

Drew: Mom, I don't feel good.

Me: What's the matter, Bug?

Drew: (crawls up into my lap) I don't know. I just don't feel good.

Me: OK. What hurts? --- (speaking to room) He feels really, really hot.

Drew: Well, I think it's my stom.......

At this point, Carrie (who is clearly some sort of superhero in hiding who possesses freakishly fast reflexes) LEAPS from the bed, runs a wide arc around the room, grabs a trash can and shoves it under Drew's chin. Everyone else in the room is sitting stone still, mouths open, still furiously trying to process what the hell is going on.

Drew:.......ach....BLAARRRRGGGGGG........

The kid literally projectile vomits into the trash can Carrie has produced. (Seriously, y'all...it's like she's some kind of freakin' wizard.)

Entire room: WWOOOAAHHHHH!!!

Eric: Holy shit, Carrie! How did you do that?

Chris: (shakes head) She came out of nowhere. I was still trying to process what Drew was saying and she was just...THERE...I mean...holy hell. I need a drink.

Dave: I'm impressed. A little queasy, but impressed.

Julie: Ummm...there are no words. None.

Kelly: She just saved me from getting puked on. Twice. Once from Drew. Once from Dave.

Me: Would someone please, please, please, for the love of all that is holy get this can out from under my nose....

Drew: Hey! I feel better! Can I go play now? Can I have a Root beer? And some cake?

And...scene.

Here are pics:

When in doubt, watch Food Network

This weekend is Drew's birthday party spectacular. We are heading to Boise so he can spend his own personal holiday with Oma and Opa and his best friends. It also gives me an excuse to insist all my friends clear their calendars and spend every waking second with me. Just sayin'.

It is hard to believe Drew is going to be 9. When did that happen? It was 5 minutes ago when I still held primary responsibility for wiping his butt. Now he is practically asking for the car keys and sneaking in right at curfew. I would tell you how old that makes me feel, but I've already forgotten what I was talking about.

This week has been better on the anxiety front. I still haven't managed to make it through a day without hiding in a bathroom stall in order to talk myself down from yet another ridiculous panic attack, but I have smiled more, so...you know...I WIN!

Eric is trying to cope with my insanity. I feel bad for the guy. You would think I was regularly whapping him on the nose with a newspaper. Everytime he walks in the room and I open my mouth to say something I swear he literally ducks. I keep waiting for him to develop temporary psychosomatic deafness as a coping mechanism. It hasn't happened yet, but I am pretty convinced a diagnosis of PTSD is forthcoming.

In the meantime I watch a lot of Chopped on Food Network and avoid using my "out loud" voice. The bonus is I now know two very important things: 1. That a squab is a tiny little chicken-like creature. - and - 2. Don't puree cactus pear with raw red onion.

You're welcome.

Speaking of Food Network, my weightloss adventure (see how upbeat I am? It's an adventure! (...an adventure is constant hunger, aching muscles and a chronic lack of anything actually resembling weightloss...) I know I am doing something fundamentally wrong, but I can't quite figure out what. Excercise? Check. Smaller portions? Check. Vegetable-laden plates? Check. Actual weightloss? Not a freakin' check anywhere on the freakin' horizon despite the constant hunger and aching muscles. I would hire a trainer or a health coach, but I'm afraid they would yell at me for eating an M&M. I guess I'll keep at it. Eventually the weather will warm up enough that I can run more often. The elliptical just isn't cutting it. If anyone has an extra treadmill sitting around under a pile of sweaters and feels oddly compelled to drive it all the way to Nevada that would be great. I'd make it worth your while.

We could watch Food Network together. And eat vegetables. And maybe squab.

I am quite certain they make pills for this.

Most of the time on when I write it is about whatever I want. This is MY blog and I can write absolutely anything and if you don't like it you don't have to read it...you know...cause I'm an adult and, if you haven't forgotten already, this is MY blog and I can write whatever I want.

After I write whatever I want I go back and edit out anything likely to get me into trouble with my Dad...or my friends...or my job...or get me arrested and/or involuntarily admitted to a psychiatric ward. That is the basis of why I don't post every day...and why my posts are often short.

This post, however, isn't written to amuse or make a point. I don't have a psuedo-humorous story or a rant. I honestly don't know if I am writing this post as a form of therapy or a frighteningly misplaced cry for help. What I can say it is one of the most difficult posts I've ever written.

Depression is one of those strange diseases (yes, it is most certainly a disease) not easily understood unless you have experienced it for yourself. The sudden feeling you just can't shake that something has gone seriously awry in the world. You are convinced to the depths of your soul that somehow it will result in hellfire and/or demon frogs raining down upon you at any second. The debilitating, yet inexplicable, stealth Ninja anxiety that strikes for no reason what-so-ever at the most inconvenient moment possible. The sensation of being so emotionally and physically raw that the mere hint of someone touching you results in actual flinching.

Having been diagnosed with chronic depression in high school I have been medicated for the majority of my life. I am certain this has resulted in stunted mental compacity and short-term memory loss, but it keeps me normal ...ok, ok ... haters ... mostly normal.

The last 4 months, however, have been some of the most difficult months I can remember. I resurrected this blog in the hopes it would help me begin to ease back to what passes as normalcy in my life. It gives me an outlet - a place to put down all of the frighteningly angry and, most frequently, plain old snarky things milling around in my head. A way of keeping those thoughts from compressing into little nuggets of pure evil...like some sort of twisted anti-diamonds. While that would be impressive, I'm not sure they would have the same retail value as an actual diamond.

I truly believe, in a lot of ways, depression has allowed me to learn how to recognize the absurdity of the world we live in. It has most certainly helped me to develop my sense of humor. It removes the filter and the blinders we wear - the blinders that allow us to more easily navigate "polite" society. Don't get me wrong, I've never really had a filter and most of the time I am peeking around the edges of the blinders, but like most people I do my best not to make a total ass of myself.

When you find yourself at a point so low that you aren't even sad anymore...where you have lost any ability to feel or express emotions and are instead completely and utterly empty...the only thing you can do is laugh at the absurdity you suddenly so clearly see. The world is absurd. Life is absurd. The fact you are still wearing the pajamas you put on 5 days ago and you can't remember the last time you brushed your teeth because you are in the middle of debilitating depression and anxiety because someday, somewhere, somehow I am going to die and you are going to die and the dog is going to die and people are homeless and the rich are paying taxes and the spotted-whitetailed-horned-jumping platypus is going extinct and OMG we are all going to DIE!!!

One of my favorite bloggers recently posted a much funnier post(with pictures, y'all!) about her struggle with depression. What struck me, besides realizing I must not be the only person concerned about that platypus, is her description of hitting a point where you are so far past caring about anything that nothing can touch you. Nothing matters anymore. You've become this empty human-like thing in filthy clothes and ratty hair. She wrote about how that precise moment is the turning point. That is the moment you begin to crawl back out of whatever pit of despair you've found yourself in.

I haven't hit that point quite yet, but I think this post is pretty darn close. I can tell because I just realized I don't care what you think about what I've just told you and I don't care what you think about my particular brand of crazy.

My brand of crazy is just as absurd as yours thankyouverymuch.

Want meaningful? This is not the blog post you are looking for.

Today was one of those days where not even going back and starting over would have helped. I should have known it was going to be one for the books when my beloved, and much needed, vanilla yogurt was actually Eric's blackberry yogurt. Unfortunately, inadvertant transportation of rogue blackberry yogurt doesn't qualify as a family emergency.

My original intent for this blog was to spend the entire time ranting about various crap until I felt better. Instead I will move on and talk about other stuff. It's called alcohol self-control, y'all.

Instead of being all ranty and stabby I'll list out random things I spent time wondering about today:

1. Is there ever a point in life where one stops and says, "You know what my day needs? More organ music, that's what."

2. How long does it take, in dog years, for karma to come back and kick a spineless piece of shit in the ass for having a complete and utter lack of self-respect? How does one bribe karma to work faster?

3. If your last name was Clutterbuck would you change it or would you have an entire line of clothing and accessories created with your own label? Would Katie design a logo for me if my last name was Clutterbuck?

4. Could I actually create a new internationally known slang term if I started using clutterbuck as my new psuedo-swear word?

5. How many times does one get to use the term "internationally known" in a sentence? Can anyone say "internationally known" in a sentence without rapping it?

6. Does anyone but me have a problem seeing Dustin Hoffman as a serious actor? Everytime I see him or hear his voice I immediately think of Rain Man and Tootsie. Dustin loses a bit of his menace at that point. I just have this mental picture of an autistic drag queen randomly counting things.

7. Who greenlit the remaking of The Crow and what sort of public humiliation can be heaped upon him?

8. Would traffic be bearable if one was driving this:

BTW - that is me standing next to the tire. For frame of reference, I am 6 feet tall.


Oh! I almost forgot! I met a famous person today! Or, an infamous person. Or, maybe a somewhat well-known person if you like motorcycles and the Discovery channel. This is me and Mikey from American Chopper. Granted, it is probably the WORST picture of me ever taken, but I'll deal because he's famous!!



And another:

Nope...this is so NOT Kansas anymore...

My how things change when you abandon your blog for almost two years. I can assure you I am not anymore clever or funny than I was two years ago. However, I will have lots of interesting stories about life in small town Northern Nevada. Ok...maybe not interesting. More like, "Don't worry, you will thank the Goddess it's me and not you that has to live here because you might just jump in front of a quickly moving method of mass transit except there isn't mass transit here unless you count the buses that take all the people to the mines." Yeah. I said mines.

DISCLAIMER
While I haven't entirely embraced life in a small town I do love my job and I am really happy I have this opportunity. I am working on meeting more people and getting more involved in community activities in order to better appreciate our new town.

DISCLAIMER 2
I mean that with no sarcasm what-so-ever. Strange for me since I am generally all about sarcasm, but in this case I am really sans the sarcasm. And, really, it is quite beautiful here.

Ahem - moving on -

For the purposes of not boring you directly into a coma I will avoid recounting the entirety of the two years my blog was abandoned, but it goes a bit like this:

Lose job, wallow in self-pity, abandon blog, move to new house, wallow in self-pity, do many contract jobs, wallow, get new job, wallow less, have many hot tub parties, open pool, stop wallowing, have many pool parties, get new job in Northern Nevada, move again, resurrect blog motivated almost entirely by complete and utter boredom resulting from move to Northern Nevada.

That pretty much sums it up.

Since moving, my husband, who has clearly made some kind of deal with the devil, has managed to fit 3000 sf of stuff into a 1300 sf house. Granted, only one car fits in the garage due to a truly heinous number of boxes that haven't been unpacked, but it remains a feat of unexplainable sorcery as far as I am concerned. I've learned not to question such things.

In addition to being packed into our new house like sardines - only without the handy roll back lid - we are learning to live with an utter lack of customer service. Store clerks won't wait on you. Servers won't wait on you. Typically, you just wait a while and eventually someone goes, "Oh hey, you've been here a while. Do you need something?" This has resulted in my muttering to myself while gradually increasing volume until Eric finally threatens to duct tape my mouth shut and the employee wanders away because they have lost their train of thought and have no idea why they are standing in front of the crazy mumbling lady.

The upside? We rarely go out and are saving money. The downside is we are starting to get a bit of that snowbound insanity-thing going on and Eric is starting to get a bit concerned I am going to chop through the bathroom door with an axe everytime he has to use the toilet.

Next up -- Our fair town is being invaded by hundreds of Cowboy Poets (I seriously can't make this shit up) from all around the world. Even though I have never heard of it ever in my whole life it is quite a famous event...

...It's a tourist attraction...

...I'm a little scared...and yet, disturbingly intrigued...