hardly shipshape

Spending a summer in Wyoming was... interesting, to say the least.  I never did get used to the abundance of cow-folk, country music, or the fact that K-Mart was my choice shopping experience.  I did, however, get used to the sounds of the country.  The birds chirping at hours birds shouldn't be chirping, the horses biting each other and their angry neighs, and my drunk coworkers whooping and hollering at strange hours.  To put it bluntly, my summer job was a mess.  I was more than happy to hit the road and make my way to fabulous Las Vegas.  My land of opportunity, my resume builder, my happy, happy place!


Alas, Vegas is a sad, sad place.  It is a place where alcoholics and gambling addicts come to die.  "God's Other Waiting Room," as I like to describe it... Florida's counterpart.  I have been here for a little over a month now and the sparkle of the strip still leaves me in awe.  Then I see the frat boys vomiting on the sidewalk and their scantly clad girlfriends giggling and tripping on their 10 inch heels and I'm reminded that is ALL this city really has to offer.  I've gone hiking, and attempted to explore and find that one hidden boutique filled with all kinds of ridiculously awesome knick-knacks, that one hole-in-the-wall restaurant so charming and delicious, that I become their new favorite regular, just one part of town where things are quirky and fun and interesting... I did find that you can gamble at every gas station and buy hard alcohol at the grocery store, but that's not the quirky I am searching for *sigh* Not even Yelp could help me here.    Nowhere compares to my stomping grounds, nowhere compares to Portland.


I tried.  I tried so hard, super extra, extra hard in fact.  Eventually, the depressing scenery 'round these parts got the best of me and I headed straight to the airport.  I had to get out of this boozy, hot land of sin.  I had to get home.  I had to get to Portland.  I arrived half past five that very evening and it even smelled better.  I smiled.  I felt instantly renewed.  I spent a wonderful four days at home.  I saw my favorite friends, my awesome family and even got to walk around downtown, perhaps one of my favorite pastimes.  Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end, and I had to get on flight 293, back to terrible, no good, sucky Vegas.  And I did... even if I did choke up a little passing through security.  I had to come back for Tessie and release her from Economy Parking hell (side note: Tessie is my beloved PT Cruiser.  Sure, poke fun, but she's a damn good car and I love her) and I'm leaving back to Antarctica soon.  Yep, back.  It's happening again folks, back to the Ice I go.  About three weeks later than my last stint, but whaddya do?  


You don't pack apparently.  I'm staring at my wall, where I have posted two signs,  "Stays" and "Goes to the Ice."  My "stays" pile has a pair of ripped jeans while my "goes" pile is an ever growing mound of costumery and sweatshirts.  Last time I was so organized.  Last time I knew exactly what was to be in my "stays" and "goes" piles!  What is going on here!?  Maybe its this holding pattern I've been put into the past three weeks by them.  Hopefully my current distaste for them will disappear within the next 24 hours, because I should finally be ticketed and told when I am able to leave.


Until then, I will continue staring, and lazily adding things to my piles until I have 12 hours to pack 'em up and move 'em out and I nearly have an aneurysm from all the last minute freak outs I am sure to have.  


Hey, you gotta keep life interesting.