The haul from Atlanta to Northern Indiana is about 11 hours. Clifford had to work that day so we we’d be driving overnight arriving around 6AM. We didn’t run into any issues, really. The mountains were relatively clear and we didn’t hit much snow till Indy.

The thing about Northern Indiana is there is a whole lot of nothing. There are fields, and more fields. There are tiny towns spread sporadically throughout, but this is a part of the country built on farmers’ backs. There isn’t late night Chinese delivery (there likely isn’t any Chinese delivery). Pool halls open till 2AM are few and far between. There are no comedy clubs or nightlife along that long lonely road home. Clifford and I were driving through sleepy little towns in America’s Heartland where things like gas stations and restaurants are not open 24 hours a day.

So when at 5AM, technically on Christmas morning, an hour away from what I still truly considered my home, Clifford tells me he has to pee, I smile knowingly and a little annoyed.

Let me explain about the “annoyed” – the final hour of any long road trip … you know what I mean. You’ve been in the car for God only knows how many hours and you are done. It’s fun at first. You pop in your audiobook or plug in your ipod. There’s an energy you have when gearing up for that long drive ahead. You’re pumped to see your family/friends/scenic spot that has given the road trip its purpose. You’ve stopped to eat or stand as needed along the way. Then you’re in the final homestretch where you stop for nothing. Blood clots be damned, you will do whatever you have to do to not stop the vehicle until you’ve reached your final destination.

Me: Can you hold it for like an hour?

Clifford: Uh, no.

Me: Please? I beg of you…

Clifford: No. I seriously have to pee. I’ve had two red bulls and four cokes since our last stop. I have to go now.

I smiled and nodded. “Well that’s unfortunate because there won’t be any place to stop between here and there. Everything’s closed. You’re going to have to pull over on the side of the road.”

This is where Clifford looked at me like I’d grown three heads.

Clifford: There must be somewhere. A gas station. A fast food joint. Anything.

Me: No, I’m afraid not. Nothing is open this time of the night or rather this early in the morning, and if something was typically open, it will be closed for Christmas for sure, I promise you. Things always close for Christmas here.

He looked at me like I was making it all up. The funny thing is, Clifford had been to my house several times before. He knew the drive. He knew the stops, or lack thereof. I didn’t exactly understand what was so hard for him to believe.

Clifford: I can’t just pull over and pee on the side of the road.

Me: Uh, yes, you can.

Clifford: Seriously, I can’t.

Me: People do it all of the time and we haven’t passed another car since Noblesville, so yeah, I’m pretty sure this shouldn’t be a thing. Nobody is on the road right now. Just pull over.

Comprehension had finally dawned that if he had to go that badly, the side of the road was really his only option at that point in time.

Clifford: Well, where do I pull over?

Me: Anywhere.

He grew up in Africa for crying out loud. Why was this such a big deal?

Clifford: I need to at least pull onto a side road or something. I’m not just going to pee on the side of a state road.

Me: Then whatever, just turn onto a road, park the car and do what you’ve got to do.

Clifford saw a side road up ahead. There was a farmhouse on the corner and another house about a quarter of a mile up the road. Everything else was fields covered by snow.

Her turned down the old side road and just as I thought he was about to stop, he started to pull off the road completely, skipping the shoulder and driving directly onto the field.

Me: What are you doing?!!!

Clifford: Pulling over.

Me: Why are you in the field?!!

Clifford: It’s frozen and I didn’t want anyone to notice us parked on the road.

Me: Because a truck with its lights on in a random field on Christmas morning is much more inconspicuous…

He rolled his eyes and was about to get out of his Dodge Ram (with a hemi) when he realized he had another dilemma. We had left Atlanta with about 50 degree temperatures. We were now in Indiana where the truck was registering 18 degrees outside. Clifford only had on his Birkenstocks, sans socks, and no winter coat. Everything else was packed neatly away in the bed of his truck and rather unreachable.

He groaned as he opened the door. I felt the freezing cold air hit my face hard. I was thankful in that moment for my amazing bladder control as I was not envious of what he had to do.

I felt like he was Tom Hanks in A League of Their Own. It was the world’s longest pee as I sat there waiting for my husband to return and finally he did. He was shivering and talking about how cold it was outside. As he revved the engine and placed the truck in drive, ready to head home, the truck wouldn’t move. You could hear the tires spinning, but it wouldn’t move.

Clifford: What’s going on?

Insert A-ha moment here.

Me: The ground isn’t frozen. We’re stuck in the mud.

Clifford: No way. They’ve had snow up here for weeks.

Me: Doesn’t mean the ground is frozen.

We looked at each other. Now, given Clifford’s and my temperaments, this is normally where we play the blame game and argue rather heatedly about being in such a ridiculous predicament. We hadn’t slept in over 36 hours. We’d been on the road for ten hours straight. We both had on sandals and no winter coats.  We were an hour away from home and we were literally stuck in the middle of nowhere in Indiana in 18 degrees, surrounded by snow and ice and no cell service (it was 2005) in the middle of a field…

We started laughing. This was pretty hilarious stuff.

Clifford devised the plan. He thought it was genius. I didn’t, but let’s go with genius for the moment. Clifford did have a shovel in the back of the truck. He would dig us out and we’d be fine. So, he exited the truck in his Birkenstocks, grabbed the shovel and went to the back of the truck to start digging through about six inches of snow and I have no idea how much mud. I was to slide over to the driver’s seat and try to move us forward when he gave me the okay.

He called to me and said I should be good. I hit the gas and all I heard was spinning. No dice. I could hear Clifford out in the cold, frustrated, teeth chattering, as he continued to dig. I sat in the toasty warm truck cab waiting for his directions.

After another ten to fifteen minutes, he told me to try again. Tires were still spinning. We were still stuck.

He came up to the driver’s side window and knocked. I jumped. Then I laughed when I looked at him. He was frozen from head to toe, but oh so cute with that shovel in his hand, trying desperately to save the day. I rolled the window down and he promptly explained to me that he was going to have to push the truck and I was going to have to hit the gas as hard as I could to get back up onto the road AND  I was to keep going until I was on the road 100%.

The road was nothing but ice, which had me a little worried, but out of the field and onto ice seemed to have more potential in that moment.

I kept the window open so I could hear Clifford yell at me to go. I waited anxiously for my cue. Suddenly I heard it, “Go! Go! Go!”

So I floored it and suddenly the truck just took off toward the road. I was gunning that puppy so hard, I was worried I wouldn’t be able to control it once it hit the icy way. I did fish tail a bit, but we were gold! I looked in the rearview to smile at my newlywed husband who had become my hero, but he was nowhere to be seen. I began to panic a little. I should have been able to see him in the mirror. I slowed the truck to a stop, but in the center of the road so we couldn’t possibly get stuck again. I jumped out of the truck calling his name. Where was he? What happened?

Clifford was lying face first in the muddy snow. When he’d pushed the truck and I took off so suddenly, he lost his footing and planted his face deep in the snow.

I laughed. I laughed hard. Hysterically might even be the word to use here. I couldn’t not laugh. Here we were, somewhere near Wabash on an old country road, trenching a farmer’s field in 18 degree weather just so my husband could pee. As he got up from the ground, he was covered in mud and snow from head to toe. He looked at me, then at his clothes, and started laughing, too.

He couldn’t feel his feet or fingers pretty much the rest of the ride to my parents’ house. Whether it was the sleep deprivation or the absolute absurdity of the situation, we kept laughing for the remaining hour of our trip.

I would do that Christmas all over again. That moment was one of the best we have ever shared. I don’t have the words to ever do that scene in a random unfrozen but snow covered field justice. All I can say is that it was absolutely magical and it still makes me smile to this day.

Merry Christmas! I hope your holiday is as eventful as mine was nine years ago today.

Clifford hates my traditions. All of them. Every time I mention one, I get flack and pushback and whining and groaning … He eventually caves, even though he still doesn’t want to be involved. And isn’t that really all we want, ladies? We just want them to want to be involved. But I digress.

I want to share about the grand tradition of Christmas Tree hunting. Every year since we’ve been married, we travel about an hour to a tree farm somewhere in North Georgia. You can read about last year’s experience at the tree farm here.

We go the Sunday before Thanksgiving to beat the rush and have the best pick. This year with work, and family obligations, I didn’t think we’d be able to do it. And I knew Clifford would be searching for any excuse to not get the tree. Work and family obligations are pretty sound excuses. Then I saw there would be a small window of opportunity … if the stars aligned just right, we could get our tree on that Sunday just as tradition dictated. Till I saw there was 100% chance of rain. Oh, he is so not going to get the tree now …

Sunday morning arrives. Clifford is eating his breakfast, and I’m sending some emails when he says, “So what? We aren’t getting the tree today then?”

I swear I heard music playing in some far off place and saw light emanating from behind his head. My husband, Mr. Anti-Social-Tradition-Hater himself, was putting it out there … he wanted to get the tree.

“Really?” I asked with doe-eyed surprise. Hope and expectation began filling my hardened little heart. “It’s raining. I didn’t think you’d want to go.”

“We don’t have to go. I thought it was tradition or something. When it comes to traditions, rain, sleet, snow, whatever, right?”

OMG. This was not happening. He was in. And it was kind of his idea. Seriously? Seriously.

I immediately sprang to my feet, ran upstairs to put on weather appropriate attire, threw on my rain jacket, grabbed an umbrella and was ready to go. The rain was at least down to a drizzle. This was our window and our moment to have our Christmas tradition upheld.

We hopped in his truck and headed out. Like I said, the Kinsey Family Farm is about an hour away. We laughed and joked in the car, which is one of my favorite things about doing stuff like this together. As we turned onto the highway, the rain started coming down a little harder. And then a little harder. And then it became a total monsoon all the way to the farm. We had to be the only people in all of Atlanta driving an hour to a tree farm just to cut down a tree that day – it was that bad.

We pulled into the farm and were the only ones there. Clifford and I were pumped. There’s just something about being the only ones braving tropical storm conditions just to cut down a tree. It gets your juices going. The staff couldn’t even believe what we were about to do. We’d driven an hour for this moment. It was going to be had.

It was so muddy, the tractor that drives people to the area for cutting couldn’t take us.

Too muddy. Must walk. Must walk far …

We were forced to walk all of the way across the farm to get to the trees that were ready to be taken home. We grabbed a saw and hit the road – laughing at probably one of the most ridiculous experiences we were about to share. I mean, who does this?

The long and muddy road … (so much muddier and nastier than it appears in these pics, by the way)

Clifford: “You brought an umbrella, right?”

Me: “Yep. Have it right here.”

Clifford: “You holding the umbrella over you doesn’t help me.”

Me: “Then you should have had me bring two.”

We hiked over a ¼ mile to the available trees. Clifford was completely soaked by the time we arrived.  I kept pausing to take pictures and document our muddy wet journey – with my umbrella overhead, of course.

Me: “This is an adventure!!! I miss our adventures, Clifford. Why don’t we go on more adventures?”

Clifford: “Because in our adventures, I always end up with the short end of the stick.” – he eyed my umbrella.

We finally arrived and Clifford looked at me, rain dripping off his hood, “Let’s do this.”

So we began our hunt for the Geiselmayr Christmas Tree of 2014. This is no easy feat, mind you. My dad taught me to be picky. Not too bushy, not too thin, no holes, straight top, straight trunk … Rarely could one just stumble upon the perfect tree in a few minutes flat.

As we made our way up and down the mini mudslides, checking out each tree in our path, there came the BOOM. A crash of thunder, and a flash of lightning like five feet from us. Clifford and I looked at each other. Then we laughed. There we were, standing in puddles of water, surrounded by trees while holding lightning rods a metal saw and an umbrella next to our bodies. This wasn’t exactly a genius plan, I’ll admit, but we were having a ball.

We finally agreed on a tree.

The one.

Usually I hold it while he cuts it so when it falls, it doesn’t actually fall. Clifford got on the ground to prepare to saw away. I told him to hold up as I pulled out my iphone to take more pictures, documenting our grand adventure. The next thing I know the tree is hurtling to the ground. Clifford looks at me rather alarmed and with a furrowed brow.

Clifford: “What the hell? I thought you were holding the tree?

Me: “I thought you were pausing so I could take pictures of you about to cut the tree. Didn’t think you were actually cutting the tree.”

Pausing to cut the tree – except not really pausing. Actually cutting the tree.

He rolled his eyes and dragged the tree through the mini forest to the tree stand.

Dragging the tree to the stand.

And we hiked back up the hill towards the barn.

My hero.

Couldn’t feel my fingers, there was more thunder and lightning, was totally soaked from head to toe, BUT this was one of the best tree hunting trips we’d ever had.

Idiots.

They had to drive a truck out to get the tree for us and offered us free hot chocolate for being such troopers. Troopers? Nah. It was just a tradition.

What traditions do you have this time of year? Anything that’s a total “can’t miss”? I’d love to know! Share it in the comments section below.

My big sis gave me one of the best gifts one could receive: the game of RISK. Who could imagine a better way to spend six hours of their day? A game of strategy, venture, and chance? Sieges, allies, and DICE? (because dice make everything cooler)

Best game ever! What could go wrong?

So it began. The selection process is vitally important. We carefully chose our territories one infantry at a time. Who you’re next to is who you will be fighting first, and fortifying those borders is your top priority. After staking our claims, we were ready to begin conquering countries in the pursuit of world domination.

Now my parents raised extremely competitive children. This means that not only did we have, by today’s standards, a rather unhealthy need to win at everything, but it also meant that, as siblings, if we needed to join forces with one to take out another, we would connive as required and do so with a smile.

First game – we allied against my big sis. ONE – because it’s funny to watch her face slowly flood with anger and TWO – because it was really fun to watch her face slowly flood with anger. Eventually big sister’s last line of defense was destroyed. Though everyone else was still alive in the game, she demanded we stop and start anew. And this time NO allies. We quit. We start again, this time with the promise that there would be no conspiring with another player. (I know, I know)

We were ready to begin the second game and looking at the map, the only countries we former allies were bordering were big sister’s and our mom’s. PURE COINCIDENCE, mind you. My mom, being a sweet lady, and our mom, meant no one wanted to attack her. Which also meant that the RECENTLY ESTRANGED ALLIES all had the same course of action- we had to attack my older sister. AGAIN. This did not end well.

Halfway through the game I decided to make a big play. For this one I was bringing out the big guns. A cannon or two led the charge because in my mind, I wasn’t going into battle, I was about to rain down a hellfire that could annihilate an empire … against my older sister.

The cannon that would take over the world … or so I thought.

She lost. She lost big. Then, she lost it completely. As her troops bowed to my superior forces, big sis shot out of her seat, slammed her fists on the table while screaming, “Libby! You’re such a F@!#ing B!@#$!!!” (capitalized because I think it was more of a title she was bestowing upon me as opposed to some random expletives she was just throwing my way). And of course I turn to our mom and said, “Mother! Did you hear what she just said?!!!” My mother swiftly responded, “Alright! That’s enough! This game is no longer allowed to be played in this household! We’re done.”

And so Risk spent a whopping 48 hours at my parents’ house before being exiled indefinitely. I never thought a family fun night would end in the tragic banning of my favorite game (a little too Fahrenheit 451 if you ask me) Oh, and did I mention we were in our twenties?  Yeah …

Bottom line is that playing a ruthless game of Risk is NEVER a take-back, no matter how dastardly things may end. It’s worth it, man. And it’s the only way to play.