"Jeep"=Just. Empty. Every. Pocket.

My husband is a die-hard Jeep enthusiast.
As a result my boys are also Jeepers.
Every year they make the annual pilgrimage to Moab for "Easter Safari Weekend."

They live for this weekend.
It is (obviously, hence the name) the same weekend as Easter.

Our school district has never planned Spring Break to coincide with Easter weekend. So lucky me! I get to spend a week with all my kids home, cooped up in the house, while Sam is out in the garage tinkering with his monster Jeep, getting it ready for the NEXT week, when they will all be gone.
Missing school.
For a week.

(Incidentally my two junior high boys are currently getting F's, we will see if they make the work up that they missed. I have my doubts.)

This year, Easter and the Safari encompassed Mikayla's 8th birthday.
Mikayla is a daddy's girl.
So, she insisted upon spending her birthday in MOAB!

(Previously, Safari weekend was "Girl's Weekend" back home. We went to movies, did our fingernails and dropped some serious cash at ROSS.)

I tried to talk her into staying home.
No dice.
I thought about sending her, and her presents, staying home myself, and just calling her on her birthday.
Guilt.
So it forced me to go along with them this year.

I found the easiest route possible.
They were going the entire week.
I would fly into Grand Junction, Colorado the day before her birthday, and would only have to suffer Moab Wednesday night through Saturday morning.
I even had a ride willing to pick me up in Grand Junction.
(About 1.5 hours from Moab)

So Wednesday morning, I packed up and went to the airport.
Checked my bag, and waited for the flight.

Somehow, the flight...the same flight that had 8 seats available when I set out to drive to the airport--filled up.
I didn't make it.
But my bag did.

There was a later flight going out to Grand Junction at 8pm.
It is a 4.5 hour drive to Moab.
It was 11 am.
I decided to drive it.

The road to Moab is a long, lonely road with nothing but sagebrush, occasional tumbleweeds, and hiding policemen.

There was not another car on that road, and I guess I am one of those types who judges how fast I am driving by the fact that I am behind a car, or passing a car.
I was not paying a lick of attention to my speed.
A radar gun was.

I didn't cry.
I was funny! I told him I planned on "flying" to Moab one way or another.
I was nice.
He was nice.
I even offered up an unopened bag of Cadbury Mini-eggs, for the officer to go easy on me.
He didn't reduce the stupid ticket at all.
Let's take a poll...since I can't call on my ticket for a few more days.
How much do YOU think a 91 in a 65 will cost me?

I am still sick to my stomach.

When I dropped into Moab, I realized I was in man-land.
The hills are so steeped with generations of testosterone that even the landscape itself has taken on a certain male likeness.

Can you see that?

The first thing we did there was go to "the arena." The arena is a trade-show, with vendors selling crap.
I figured out why Sam loves Safari weekend so much.
It is a mecca of all things Jeep.

This is what the parking lot looks like:

Jeeps, Rock Crawlers, Monster Trucks, Buggies....and my mini-van.
That apparently goes 91.
Who knew?
Just driving down main street in Moab during the Safari is a sight.
So many off-road vehicles just cruising around...

At the arena, there is an open area outdoors, with vendor booths.

The vendors had to trailer into Moab on semi-trucks.
The arena was surrounded by red rock cliffs.
It really is a cool setting.

Since it was Mikayla's birthday, the vendors were generous with her.
They pulled out special free swag from underneath counters and behind boxes.

She scored a couple of hats, a tee-shirt, a flashlight, and more stickers than she could carry.

She also got a poster signed by some chick, that I guess is famous in the Off-Road community. There was a whole line-up of guys ogling her.
And it wasn't in admiration of her knowledge of drive-lines, if you know what I mean.

This was the only booth that appealed to me:

Those hammocks squished into a tiny bag, but they are weight tested to 1,000 pounds.
Plus, that booth was the only one that wasn't touting greasy metal parts, and the salesmen in that booth had all of their teeth.
(As a side note, independent of my opinion, Sam bought one of those hammocks!)
He still has money.
He isn't saving to pay for a ticket.

There is another part to the arena, it is an indoor vendor booth.
A huge barn/warehouse filled with booths:

More of the same crap from outside.
Greasy metal.
Glassy-eyed, open wallet-ed men wearing hats.
And vehicles with ginormous knobby tires.
Here is Sam and my Dad, whom I lovingly refer to as "Dumb and Dumber."

See how happy they are?!
They want to buy.
They NEED to buy!

I guess that is how I feel when I go to CHA.
(A scrapbooking trade-show.)
Me:
All the deliciously scented fresh ink printed paper.
And thick textured cardstock.
Paper trimmers, and scissors, and chipboard and inkpads...

Sam:
The cloying odor of axel grease.
D-rings and O-rings and transfer cases. (I have no idea what I am typing.)
Seat covers, antenna flags and portable welders.

I think I understand my husband better, having seen the arena.
Different venue.
Same obsessive unexplainable love.

The arena had a restroom.
That appeared to be a bonus.
I figured with all those men, all they needed was some scrub oak, and possibly a gallon jug.
I was really glad I have mastered the art of squatting, however.
The soap by the sink will give you some insight to the state of the restroom.

I did not use the soap.

When we were done at the arena, we split up.
The men went to run a jeep trail.

Me and my girls, and my friend took off to drive to Grand Junction to retrieve my luggage, and also do some shopping.
For non-greasy non-metallic things.