Life is a Highway

I’ve had my Jeep 7 months. We got it new and I’ve taken quite a liking to it. That baby now has 13,303 miles on it. I drive. A lot. My Jeep and I have been around southern California, Arizona, Nevada, Utah, Colorado, New Mexico, Kansas, Oklahoma, and (duh) Texas.

Y’all, I thought Houston was my motoring nightmare until I met southern California. Sure, there are good drivers somewhere – there have to be! I’ve been toying around with these letters in my head for months and every on ramp has only justified the snark that is about to be spewed.

Dear Suburban Driver of Southern California Roads:
Does it physically pain you to stop at a stop sign? No, really. Because no one seems to stop at them EVER, but if it’s your turn and someone doesn’t stop for you, whoa, Houston, we have a problem. Also, brake lights: are they optional? You have them. I can see them. So why don’t they work? Lastly, I am almost convinced that the blinker is the vehicular equivalent of an appendix in your mind, Suburban Driver of Southern California Roads. Much to your chagrin, I assure you that little stick on the left of your steering column does have a purpose, and a good one: it lets people around you know what the heck you’re about to do.

Sincerely,
Not Miss Cleo

Dear Fast Driver of Southern California Roads:
I know, I know, you’re in a hurry. Guess what, sugar britches? No one cares. We all need to get somewhere, but you don’t see all of us raging around, in and out of lanes, no blinker, mere inches between bumpers. If it’s really that important, find yourself some lights and sirens. Might I suggest you put your middle finger back on the steering wheel? Please and thank you. You may do well with some smooth jazz or classical music to soothe your ragey nerves. 88.1FM or 105.1FM are good options, as are SiriusXM 66 and 76. Oh, and those pesky speed limit signs: I know you say to yourself, “Fast Driver of Southern California Roads, I know that sign reads 70 miles per hour, but they really meant 90.” WRONG. Literacy isn’t that hard, my friend.

Yours Truly,
Simmer Down Now, Here’s A Baby Animal

Dear Slow Driver of Southern California Roads:
The pedal on the right makes the car go. You should step on it. Everyone else is flying by at 80 miles an hour and here you are, putting along somewhere between molasses and grandma. ProTip: the fast drivers occupy the left side of the road and the slow drivers creep on the right. It makes sense: traffic needs to slow down to exit, ergo right lane is slower than other lanes. Don’t worry, you don’t have to exit – just stay there and cruise along at 47mph. No one will care. I promise. It’s just when you trudge along at the speed of a turtle when the rest of the road is going Ludicrous Speed, you’re a liability. Someone will hit you, or get unnecessarily aggressive and cause you to have a bad day. Just move to the right. Get out of the way. And, no, driving with your hazards on doesn’t make it any better if you’re not in the right lane – lookin’ at you, rusted blue 1989 Ford Ranger.

Sincerely,
The 68 MPH Speed Racer

Moves Like Jagger

And The Greatest Thing Found on the Internet Today Award goes to…

Y’all. I think Mick Jagger is my spirit animal. That is amazing. So, how did I come across this wonderful piece of bust a move brilliance? I just wanted something to express how awesome my knee feels after 3 miles this morning. No, really.

When you’ve been running for 20 years, you’re bound to have some wear and tear on a joint or two; for me, it’s my left knee. It’s not so much that it sounds like gravel that’s the problem, but what I’m guessing is my MCL, possibly my IT Band, hurts like nobody’s business after 5 strides. I have iced and applied heat, rested, stretched, foam-rolled, and medicated but nothing has given me any lasting relief. I know, I know – I should go to a doctor. There’s no swelling, discoloration, or limited movement: it just plain hurts when I run.

In fact, between the knee pain and the cyst in my foot (same leg), I really haven’t done a whole lot of training for anything because Holy Ouch, Batman! But I might have found a solution: KT Tape.

I managed to put in 3 miles without stopping because of knee pain. Full disclosure: I had to stop about a mile in because a bug flew into my eye (#RunnerProblems). Sure, it ached a little bit, but it was a gagillion times better than it has been. Yes, “gagillion” is a technical term and is totally measurable.

Monday I’m going to see an acupuncturist. I’ve been told by lots of runner friends that this is a good way to go. As I sit here with a bag of frozen Chicken Chow Mein on my knee, I’m trying not to think about how terribly afraid of needles I am. This is how I envision acupuncture:

I’ll make y’all a deal: if the KT Tape and the acupuncture don’t work, I’ll go see a doctor. Okay? Until then, I’m going to follow the happy-go-lucky encouragement of my favorite trainer, Jillian Michaels.

Desperate Housewife Confession #1

What have I become, dear reader? This is a picture I snapped yesterday afternoon after I realized what it was, exactly, I was doing:

There I was, sitting in my Jeep in the parking lot of Yogurtland eating a serious bowl of FroYo reading Harry Potter. “A nice afternoon escape?” you say. Oh, I wish it were so…

Adam and I are usually pretty healthy people: we eat lots of fresh fruits and vegetables, opt for lean proteins, shy away from sugar (except the occasional ice cream indulgence or, in my case, ginger snap binge), and limit the processed grains intake (breads, pastas, etc.) to practically zero. It’s just the way we’ve always been, even before we knew each other.

We decided to take it a step further this week: no sweets in the house at all AND no alcohol. No wine. We have our reasons, even if I don’t remember what they are… Did someone say sauvignon blanc?

So what happened yesterday?

1. Sitting in my Jeep — because I was too ashamed to sit out in the sunshine with the rest of the FroYo fans because I knew I wasn’t supposed to be eating it…
2. In the parking lot of Yogurtland — because I didn’t want to get busted putting the cup in our trashcan…
3. Eating a serious bowl of FroYo — salted caramel pecan with a sidecar of dark chocolate, topped with toffee pieces, brownie bits, and caramel sauce. Y’all, I don’t even LIKE chocolate. This is what bordeaux deprivation looks like. It ain’t pretty.
4. Reading Harry Potter — on a Kindle so no one would know what I was reading because 31-year olds aren’t supposed to read Harry Potter. Oh, and because I wanted to draw the ordeal out as long as possible because, as long as we’re being honest, I had a sink full of dishes waiting for me at home and, dang it, I just didn’t want to do them.

And the worst part?

5.  I paid cash.

My name is Ashley McCully and I really don’t like hard lines when it comes to calories.

 

 

The Wheels On The Struggle Bus Go Round and Round (updated)

Lucky number 13. 1 week, 6 days. With so much to do and so little time to do it, I thought it’d be a great day to hop on the Struggle Bus and ride around for a few hours. Or all day. Or, ya know, buy a 2-day pass.

Yesterday we were without power due to some scheduled outage for maintenance. The notice indicated it’d be back on by noon. Hahahahahahahahaha *deep breath* hahahahahahaha. Yah. Right. And I’ve got some ocean-front property in Arizona.

Rules for Power Outages

1. The night before, fail to remember the power will be off. Don’t charge your cell phone and definitely don’t make alternative food arrangements.
2. Because you didn’t make alternative food arrangements, open the fridge, but instead of thinking through everything you need so you only have to open it twice (once to retrieve, once to replace), go ahead and open it 3 or 4 more times. Fermented food is good for you!
3. Lastly, remember that while your house runs on gas, the ignition switches are electric, so nearly take your eyebrows, arm hair, and fingerprints off in a blaze of glory when you try to light the gas with a match. (Try being the operative word here. Note: It won’t actually work, so don’t even try it.)

This morning, after my alarm didn’t go off and I slept an hour later than anticipated, I looked Monday straight in the face and said, “Hey, homie. Let’s do this.” *high five* Just as I went to give Monday the highest of fives, it jerked its hand away and I swatted at nothing but air.

Making breakfast, I had 1 egg left. Except the egg had a crack in the bottom and was stuck to the carton, so when I tried to remove it, the shell broke and I had egg all over my hands. No egg for me. Monday laughed at me and then collaborated with Siri.

“Siri, I need directions to the nearest post office.” Siri sent me to a place that was never a post office. “Siri, this isn’t a post office. Where is the nearest post office?” 1.9 miles away? I can do that… Yah, also not a post office. “Siri, isn’t there a Lowe’s around here?” At least she got that one right.

Dry cleaners: check
Lowe’s: check
Post office: check (finally)
Gym: I know how to get there! Huzzah!

Answer: 2 hours.
What is the amount of time it took for me to run 3 errands, Alex?

Apparently in the last few years, riding a bicycle has gotten really hard. When I showed up for spin class, I was told I’ve been riding a bike all wrong. After my instructor adjusted, pulled, tweaked, and duck taped me into (onto?) the bike, I was ready to go. And an hour later, I was ready to get off that crazy contraption. So worth it…

After 60 excruciating minutes of pedaling, totally robbing me of all the happy memories I had of innocently riding my bike in the driveway as a child, all I wanted was a sandwich. There was a Subway nearby, but I don’t want shoe rubber chemicals in my bread, thank you very much, so I asked that bitc sometimes-helpful tool Siri to direct me to the nearest Which Wich. 11 minutes? Not bad. I hope this place exists…

37 profanity-streaked minutes later…

The things I’ll do for food. Oh, and wouldn’t you know I made 3 wrong turns, hit traffic, had my gas light turn on, and found my phone only had 1% battery on the way home. Now that I’m home, 6 hours later, safely tucked into my house, I don’t want to leave. Ever again. Unless someone else is driving.

Human Sacrifice, Dogs and Cats Living Together – Mass Hysteria!

I love Ghostbusters. Such a great movie. Sorry, Zul, you’ve been replaced by wedding planning. I’ll be the first to admit, I can sometimes lean toward the dramatic (I may or may not have told Adam I didn’t want to go to the doctor because they’ll stab me with a needle and pour all of my blood into tubes) but I’m definitely NOT embellishing here. Okay. Maybe a little. But only a little.

10 ways wedding planning is like Ghostbusters:

1. Venkman tells the pretty girl she special and possesses a gift (not really, she’s just pretty and he’s kinda scummy), while doling out electric shocks to the dweeb, who actually gets one right.
   
   Obviously I’m the pretty blonde (duh) and Dr. Venkman is every wedding consultant/salesperson I’ve encountered. Oh, and the dweeb? Yah, that’s my bank account. Watch it again. Yup.
   .
2. Once word gets out you’re getting married, that ridiculous ex-boyfriend who hasn’t left you alone in years goes all Louis Tully on you, pathetically doubling his efforts to get your attention. Hint: It’s never gonna happen, bro. “Goodbye, Louis.” *slams the door in his face*
   
   
3. Egon: “Ray, for your information the interest rate alone for the first five years comes to $95,000.” Don’t ever miss a David’s Bridal Credit Card payment deadline. Ever.
   
   
4. This is totally how it feels to cross something off the ever-growing wedding to-do list. In fact, I think I shouted this very thing when I hired the caterer. Now, if only I had a button to push that would set off lights and sirens… Instead I just open a bottle of wine.
5. You spend months planning to make sure every detail is in place for this one event. There’s only one shot. No mulligans. No try-agains. One wrong move and that unlicensed nuclear accelerator on the bride’s back could go berserk! There’s pulp in the mimosa orange juice?!? Back away from the bride, y’all…
6. Stantz, Spengler, and Venkman have taught me that you don’t have to do the dirty work alone all the time. In the case of wedding planning, these nutty characters are more commonly known as “bridesmaids.” They are the ladies who love you enough to do the crazy things, like fire vendors, have a “come to Jesus” chat with that one guest who’s about to be kicked out, or wear really ugly dresses just because you told them to. Vera is my personal Class 5 Full Roaming Vapor and luckily, I have some fantastic friends to help me reign her in.
   
7. “That’s a big Twinkie.” Really? A 35-foot long, 600 pound Twinkie is “big”? Thank you, Captain Obvious! This is how I feel every time someone reminds me how close we are to the wedding. “18 days? Wow, that’s soon! Do you have everything ready?” NO, AND THANKS FOR REMINDING ME, WINSTON!
   
   
8. Sometimes you’re in a cheering, adoring crowd and the street just cracks and swallows you up, but you have to be strong because people are counting on you; pull yourself out of the massive hole you just fell into and remind them (and yourself), “It’s okay. We can handle it.” This very thing happened to me when I realized the wedding everyone else wanted was going to cost $123,456.78, except I didn’t fall into a hole in the street. I just sat down on the floor and cried. Totally the same. Then I blew stuff up.
   
   
9. There are so many stories about brides and grooms not getting to eat at their wedding. Let this serve as a warning: If Adam and I don’t get delicious brisket and jalapeño-creamed corn, if we are deprived of smoked sausage and glorious macaroni and cheese, if my husband and I don’t get a piece of cake the size of a plate, the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man will be as harmless as the Pillsbury Doughboy compared to the fit I will throw.
   
   
10. Leave it to the Ghostbusters to remind us the sign of a successful night: surrounded by destruction, covered in marshmallow, pulling friends out of the rubble, emerging to the sounds of citizens going wild because they’ve been saved from Gozer the Traveler. If the day after, we’re not all having this experience, clearly something has gone wrong. “I feel like the floor of a taxicab.” << I’m going to have shirts made!
    

Jingle Bells, Batman Smells

Oh, wait. That’s me. I’m the smelly one. The elliptical and I went 10 rounds this morning.

As you can see, after 8 miles, the dang piece of machinery beat me. Jerk. I will say, though, 8 miles in 45 minutes ain’t too shabby! Hey, if there’s one thing Jillian Michaels taught me, it’s “Don’t phone it in at the gym!”

I’d like to think Jillian and I would be friends, but then I remember I don’t like crying in public. I think I’ll just stick to her being trapped inside my TV for now.

As for the pizza, wings, pasta, wine, cake, AND Thanksgiving feast I indulged in last week, well, I think I made some progress. I am going to fit into that dress in 19 days, even if I have to squeeze myself into some Spanx.

Spanx. I can’t decide if the idea for Spanx came from a man who wanted all women to look like Kate Upton or a woman who was sick of working out and not getting anywhere. Obviously the CEO is a woman, but the original notion that it’s totally worth it for women to pour themselves into a shape that is not their own. If it was a guy, that’s just cruel. I’d like to see that dude wiggle his way into a spandex straight jacket that takes 2 inches off your thighs (where does it go??) and then peel himself out without dislocating a shoulder.

If it was a chick, the whole “Tighter! My thighs still touch!” thing might do well with some counseling. The closest I’ve ever been to that was a babushka seamstress who fitted me for a corseted bridesmaid dress. I magically shrunk two sizes that day, and then nearly passed out around the time the rings were exchanged. THAT wasn’t embarrassing or anything…

“Live the dream”?! Really? Feeling like your insides are going to implode is living the dream? Ribs? We don’t need to stinkin’ ribs! And, for real, y’all, where does it go? This can’t be healthy.

I also love how all the models totally need Spanx. Yah, they need Spanx like Bill Gates needs a dollar.

And they look so happy!

Left Model: This Pooch-Be-Gone is such a great idea! Hold on, what’s a “pooch”? That sounds awful.

Middle Model: I wish my butt looked this good all the time. Oh, wait, it does! Hahaha

Right Model: You, too, can shed those 3 stubborn pounds with this Spanx Tummy Tucker! And by “Tummy Tucker” we mean, “You didn’t really need your liver, did you?”

And now they have Spanx for men?! Um, no.

Okay, another day at the gym it is. And wine kale. Yah, that one. Lots of kale.

 

Here Comes the Bride(zilla)

Howdy, from chilly Fort Worth! I flew in Saturday night, did bridal pictures all day Sunday, and spent the better part of the day working, ya know, at my actual job and, because I wasn’t overwhelmed enough, I went to Hobby Lobby looking for silk flowers.

To prevent me from becoming a total bridezilla, I’ve adopted the mantra “Pick your battles.” See, here’s the thing: most of the time, I just don’t care. Honestly, I don’t. This wedding is about a public declaration of love, fidelity, and faith. It’s not about flowers or invitations or music or cake. Just give me a good deal so everyone else can be entertained and leave me alone.

Photography, Hair, & Makeup
“Hi, my name is Ashley. I don’t want my hair all the way up and I don’t know what shade of lipstick I’d prefer. That’s your job. You’re the professional and I trust the people who recommended you. As long as you make me look pretty, we’ll get along just fine.”

These professionals actually liked having creative license to make me beautiful and they did a fantastic job of it.

Battle: Avoided

Invitations & RSVP Cards
“If me texting you details and your texting me your RSVP isn’t going to work, you’re not invited to the wedding.”

I have no interest in spending hundreds of dollars on invitations, envelopes, stamps, and ink for what will ultimately be thrown away, either by the recipient or me. Honestly, I’ve only met two people in my life who have kept every single wedding invitation they’ve ever received: my sweet, late Aunt Dorothy who kept them neatly in a keepsake book and a former Geology professor who has a PhD in Hoarding and Geochemistry.

Battle: Non-existent
(Now the guest list on the other hand, that is a battle that I’m still deciding whether I’ll fight it or not. I know, I know, time is ticking.)

Flowers
“I’d like white flowers, nothing too big and heavy, tied together with a pretty ivory ribbon. I like roses and hydrangeas, but I saw this awesome picture of a winter bouquet and saved it so you could see what I’d like. Here’s the aforementioned picture. Can you do this? You can? Great!”

Yah, she lied. What we picked up on Sunday looked nothing like the picture I showed her. Except the white hydrangeas. She didn’t even get the white roses right.

Me: Um, those aren’t white roses.
Florist: Yes, they’re white. The natural colors vary, giving some more of an ivory color.
Me: Ivory is fine, but those roses are not even ivory. They look like the “white” curtains hanging in a smoking room at a Motel 6 in Winslow, Arizona that was last renovated in 1977.
Florist: [looked like I just slapped her]
Me: Yah, I won’t be ordering more flowers from you if this is your definition of “white.” Thanks, though. [big smile]

Battle: Not the end of the world, but I’ll be finding an alternative solution for wedding day flowers.

Helpful tip from me to all future brides:

Take a percentage of the wedding budget and allocate it for therapy. Seriously, you’re going to need it. Whether it’s actual counseling, a massage, or 3 martinis because it’s Tuesday, it will be the best, easiest money you spend on this event.

Here’s how I’d suggest deciding how much to save for the Sanity Fund:

• 5% – You have one Vera in your life who will give you grief over just about anything
• 8% – That Vera happens to be your future Mother-In-Law
• 10% – That Vera is your mother
• 12% – You have two Veras in your life who don’t know each other, so they can’t scheme
• 18% – You have two Veras in your life who will talk about you and conspire behind your back
• 20% – This is the point in time where I suggest you elope because that much of almost any budget will likely buy a couple of airline tickets to anywhere else other than where you are right now.

I Don’t Know What To Do With My Hands

Imagine you’re put in a slingshot: It has a comfy seat, the people around you are nice, and you’re ready to go really far, really fast. Total adrenaline rush, right? Yes! And then you realize you’ve been hurling through the air for 15 months…headed directly at a brick wall.

I feel ya, bro. So here are some takeaways from the Campaign Life you should be aware of in case, ya know, you ever think about jumping into elections:

1. Your body will forget how to sleep. 4-5 consecutive hours, max. You will find a point beyond exhaustion and you still won’t be able to sleep. I’m a week out and I’m still struggling. 5 hours still feels normal and anything longer than that doesn’t leave me any more refreshed – it sucks because, honestly, all I want to do is sleep.

2. When it’s all over, you will be an emotional wreck. Without a constant focus, you’re free to wander all over the emotional spectrum. Tuesday night I was a deadpan zombie, Wednesday I couldn’t shake anxiety because I constantly felt like I was forgetting something (there was nothing to remember), and Thursday I had a total breakdown because I paid $32 at a local beauty school for a disaster of a hairdo that was totally fixable. Seriously. Also, see #1. The struggle is real.

3. That massive to-do list that’s been piling up for well over a year is waiting for you, and you know it. You’ll put it off for a couple of days, then try to tackle it with vigor only to be worn out and frustrated in approximately 30 minutes. Energy, motivation, and focus will not be your friends for a while. Work in small increments & reward yourself for accomplishments. I recommend cookies.

In order to get my emotions and stress levels in check (and to counteract the cookies), I decided to join a gym. Get some endorphins going, amp up the metabolism, wear my body out so it physically has to rest. What could go wrong?

Tune in tomorrow for that gem of a story…

In the meantime, here’s an awesome cole slaw recipe Adam and I enjoyed over the weekend!

Sweet & Spicy Cole Slaw
(Not everyone likes that mayo crap)

• 1/2 head white cabbage, shredded
• 1 medium bell pepper, cut into matchsticks
• 1 large honeycrisp apple, cut into matchsticks
• 4 green onions, sliced
• 1/4 c red wine vinegar
• 1/4 c extra virgin olive oil
• 3 tablespoons water
• 3 tablespoons honey
• 1/2 teaspoon garam masala
• 1/4 teaspoon cayenne
• Salt and pepper

In a small bowl, whisk the oil, vinegar, garam masala, and cayenne together. Pour it over the cabbage, pepper, apples, and onions, which I’m assuming you put in a large bowl. Add some salt and pepper, then toss it again. In a small saucepan over medium-low heat, stir the honey and water together until it bubbles. You’ll see the bubbles go from pinhead sized to pencil eraser sized in a few minutes. Keep stirring; once the bubbles are big and the color is a nice amber, pour the hot mixture directly over the other ingredients. Not only will the heat will help break down the cabbage a little bit, but it will also help the peppers and apples absorb that yummy dressing.

Toss it all to combine, then taste it – what does it need? Nothing but time? Good! Let it sit for 30 minutes or so on the counter or overnight in the fridge. You’ll have a bit of excess liquid, so drain it off and keep it on the side for people who like extra dressing, or for that side salad you’re going to take for lunch tomorrow.

Remember, this is your cole slaw, so do whatever you want! Don’t have a bell pepper, but you have carrots? Go for it. Don’t like cayenne? Take it out. Think apple cider vinegar would be good instead of red wine vinegar? Done. Throw in some poppy seeds and get real cray. I just made this up based on what was in my kitchen. We served it up with some hot Italian sausage links and cold beers, but it’d go with just about anything. Happy eating!

It’s Only A Day Away!

If you think I’m not prancing around my house in a hoodie, shorts, and slippers singing “Tomorrow! Tomorrow! Elections tomorrow! It’s only a day awaaaaaaaaay!” at full volume, you’d be sadly mistaken. This is happening.

Welcome to the plight of the campaign worker.

Early voting is finished and tomorrow is the Big Day, so that means 3 things:

1. My to-do list is finite
2. Only one more 3:30am alarm
3. Operation: Campaign Recovery is underway!

For the last 15 months my to-do list has been like a gremlin that was thrown into a swimming pool and became 3,247 gremlins, all of which were fed after midnight. Every. Day. Since joining the campaign, I’ve never not had a legal pad, a big white board, and the back of an envelope filled with tasks, deadlines, notes, and reminders. To have 8 more items left is an unbelievable feeling.

Confession: I’m a morning person. In fact, there were even a couple of mornings when I actually enjoyed sitting at my kitchen table with a hot cup of coffee at 3:30 in the morning. It is so quiet that I can hear the waves on the beach, just like it was right outside by the mailbox, not around the corner and down the hill. But, let’s be real honest, y’all, 3:30am gets real old real quick. Why 3:30am? Because that’s 5:30am Central, and we start at 6:30am.

If I were going to bed around 8, then it might be more tolerable, but that’s nowhere near a reality in Campaign Land. Bed at 11, up at 3:30 – it’s enough to make this morning person have an episode.

Lastly, Operation: Campaign Recovery. Yes, it’s a thing. This is my attempt to detox, rest, and get back in shape. On the campaign trail, one is often limited to crappy, processed convenient, cheap food, inordinate amounts of caffeine, little sleep, even less exercise, and gargantuan levels of stress. It’s the price we pay to influence politics, leadership, and public policy. To us, it’s worth it. Seeing as how I have a dress to fit into in 48 DAYS, I’ve gotta get my keister in gear, and quick.

The first step is coming down from the caffeine fix I’ve been living in for months on end. This will be facilitated by sleeping. A lot. Like, all day Wednesday. And juice. My Omega juicer is ready to go with my all-time favorite: kale-pineapple-jalapeño. Green, sweet, with a hint of spicy. So good.

The second step of this is getting back into a workout routine. I started this on Friday, actually, by registering to be a Social Runner in the Credit Union Cherry Blossom 10 Mile Run. Then, yesterday, I laced up my shoes and hit the pavement. Oy to the vey, y’all – I need some work!

The third step is allowing myself to relax. I’m like one of Pavlov’s dogs: every time my email or text tone dings, I drop what I’m doing to rush to the device to take care of business. Yesterday Adam asked me if we could please change my text tone after the campaign because the frequency with which it goes off even has him on edge. Hundreds of texts and emails a week. I’m trading email, Twitter, texting, Facebook, and conference calls for yoga, journaling, sitting on the beach, crocheting, and reading books with paper pages.

Campaigns teach you to be patient, persistent, and disciplined. You find out how dedicated you really are to your principles. It’s not easy and, a good chunk of the time, it’s not all that much fun, but it matters. It’s something that, for whatever reason, is in the blood of some people. A lot of us swear “never again” only to be suckered in 6 months later to help the newest champion of our cause. But, for now, it’s time to rest, recover, and PLAN A WEDDING!

Let’s do this!

Friday. I’ll start Friday.

Where We’re Going We Don’t Need Roads

Ain’t she purdy? Friday night my soon-to-be husband and I went to the local Jeep dealership in search of a new vehicle. We thought we’d found what we wanted online, so they went looking for that particular Jeep; we were left to our own devices, wandering the lot. They took FOR-EV-VER to find it. By the time they did it was too late; we had already fallen in automotive love with another model.

5 Signs You’re Sadly A Grown Up A Responsible Adult:

1. You actually consider carseats: Anchors, how wide the door opens, and distance from the driver’s seat to the back bench
2. Safety ratings really mean something: The stars on the window sticker aren’t enough because we’re talking research, reviews, videos, testimonies, and recalls
3. Financing is more than a monthly payment: Money going to this payment is money not going into the “Retirement/Savings/General Budget/Vacation Fund/Ash Loves Boots Collection Plate Babies Cost Money” plan for FIVE YEARS – is it worth it? No, really. Is it?
4. Floor mats are a thing: Do you really want to be vacuuming crushed Cheerios out of that? How easily can a spoiled milk stench be removed?
5. Backseat comfort: Can we have another couple in the back riding comfortably? Will our babies need a helmet, not because their heads aren’t round, but because they’re jostled on the way to Gymboree?

I’ve had a lot of cars, y’all, and I have never once considered the backseat, other passengers, sacrificial financing, or babies. As a woman, I’m told I’m supposed to care about cup-holders or whatever. Uh, okay (?) – can I retrieve a dropped binky? What if my child plays hockey? Have you seen how big those equipment bags are?!

What has happened to me? Where did this grown up come from? Heaven help me, I don’t want to be nagging or lame or boring or *gasp* weird!

But every chapter beginning means one has to end and this, y’all, isn’t just a chapter. It’s an era. The Era of Minnie the Mini.

This little ice blue nugget was the fastest girl in town. Literally. It’s amazing I didn’t get more speeding tickets, and the one I did get was for a 45 in a 35, so it’s not like it was anything too daring. Her name was Minnie and I loved her. Even though she’s a car, I’m pretty sure she felt the same.

Minnie and I made it through two state-wide campaigns, 5 moves, 5 states, and 43,200 miles together over 36 months. (Yes, I moved 5 times in 36 months… I really do believe the Lord has prepared me to be this Marine’s wife.) The interior cabin lights faded from red to purple to blue to green to yellow back to red, giving her passengers official membership into “The Hot Tub Club.” Even when I hit a pothole the size of a microwave and blew out the front right tire, Minnie was a trooper and wouldn’t let us stop in front of the seedy XXX store, but trudged up the hill to a well-lit grocery store parking lot.

Adam and I gave consideration to financing the balloon payment at the end of the lease, but if we’re going to be paying that much money, it’d better be toward something that will be returning dividends in two years. In two years, we’d likely have to move into another car and I’d like to see anyone other than Stretch Armstrong strap a carseat in a Mini Cooper S.

It’s a new season in life, one that will be filled with new lessons and experiences, high adventure, love, and change. The last time I went through that kind of season, I was in high school and college; wouldn’t you know, at that time I also drove a Jeep. Full. Circle. I survived a turn on the merry-go-round that is life! Yay for me! Now I’m fully equipped for whatever life throws at me: mud, rocks, sand, snow, sport (whatever that is), and mountains. Jeep Trailhawk 4 x 4, y’all.