Whenever I travel, I tend to spend the whole afternoon and evening before I leave coming up with all the ways the trip will be ruined. It’s a healthy behavior, I know. My most commonly considered fear is being that girl who pukes through an entire plane ride, because dude, no one wants to be that girl. I also carefully consider the ramifications of missing my flight, losing my luggage, or getting injured (um, hello, this is me we’re talking about, that’s a total possibility).

So naturally Wednesday night, I got no sleep because I was way too busy worrying and when I woke up at the crack of dawn on Thursday, I was exhausted. I put some clothes on, made sure I had the route to the airport mapped and walked out the door. I made great time to the airport, parked, grabbed my backpack and went to get my suitcase out.

And then I found a whole new traveling fear. Because, dude, I left my suitcase at home. I LEFT MY SUITCASE AT HOME. Who does that?

Oh right, ME.

So I drove home, drove back to the airport, ran to the terminal, which ended up being the wrong one, took a shuttle where a TSA agent LAUGHED at me, and made my flight with 10 minutes to spare. I may never sleep the night before traveling ever again.

Before I even had a ticket for the conference, Jen had told me over and over how much she wanted to go to the photography session on Friday and take a gondola ride, which, in my mind was a boat. Like Venice. Or Las Vegas. So the gondola that ended up being a huge enclosed ski lift of death that got us to the top of an enormous mountain? was sort of a surprise. Though to be fair, I think I handled it better than Brittany.

That night, after we somehow managed to get down the mountain, Brittany and I decided that we would buy liquor for a party we were having for Heather’s birthday in our amazing hotel suite. We had rented the largest SUV in the universe that morning (though ironically, it wasn’t quite large enough to fit all of us, plus the small children and their baby equipment) and we set out to find some booze.

First we tried 7-11. I found all kinds of drink mixes and mixers, but nothing alcoholic except beer. So I asked the checker, who, after looking at me like I was either a) a lush, b) a ho or c) a lush ho, informed me that, no, they do not sell liquor there. And moreover, he had no idea where I would find some, because he was not a lush and/or a ho.

Using the power of google, I found out that there were 4 liquor stores in Park City and got the address of the nearest one. After parking in a garage with a warning sign that basically said: THIS GARAGE IS SO LOW YOUR CAR WILL BURST A BUNCH OF PIPES AND THEN EVERYONE WILL KNOW YOU’RE HERE FOR LIIIIIQUOR, we started walking to the address, which was up a hill and also? Did not exist.

The address did. not. exist.

The more I think about it, the more I think this is an elaborate ruse to get all the heathens and ho lushes to look completely crazy in public. The website I used had an address, with a picture of the building that apparently did not exist.

Well played, Utah.

We got lost on the way home because, lighting street signs is overrated and also, because it was us and there was no way that futile mission would end easily or quickly.

And then I got a bloody nose. Well, like eleven of them.

And then I accidentally flew across the living room while opening up the sofa bed to prove that I didn’t need help. Which may have been more my fault than Utah’s, but whatever.

And then I almost ripped my pinky toe off on a chair.

Utah is hard, yo.

(It’s also really beautiful, by the way)

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