Twenty-five years. A quarter of a century. A long freaking time. That’s how long Ivy’s father and I have been married. I know—sit with that for a second. I’m officially the kind of person who can say things like, “25 years ago, when we got married…” and it’s not about my cousin’s wedding or some random co-worker’s mistake—it’s me. I’m that old now.

And yes, I picked a good one. The best one, really. Even back when we were baby-faced and trying to figure out how to assemble an computer desk together without killing each other.

All those many, many eons ago, we went to Kaua’i for our honeymoon. Just two young, dumb lovebirds wandering the Garden Isle without a clue, barely able to afford the rental car insurance, let alone actual sunscreen with a decent SPF. (Rookie move. We looked like boiled lobsters after day two.)

Back then, I was an entirely different person. And not just emotionally—like, structurally.

One: I was young.
Two: I was in great shape.
Three: I hadn’t yet fallen head-over-heels in love with photography.
Four: See number one. It really bears repeating.

Now, here we are, 25 years, a mortgage, two kids and approximately 4,972 loads of laundry later—and I am, shall we say, the evolved version of that person. Older. Slightly squishier. Wiser, maybe? (Jury’s out.) Oh, and most importantly: I’ve had one knee officially file for early retirement. So when my sweet husband told me he was taking me back to Kaua’i for our anniversary, I knew my second round on the island was going to look a little… different.

So no crazy hikes. No muddy death trails. No scrambling over boulders while pretending I wasn’t on the verge of tears. This time, I was going to experience Kaua’i through the eyes of a slightly creaky, early-rising, camera-wielding woman who over packs and gets up before the roosters on the island.

And honestly? It. Was. Magical.

See, 25 years ago, I didn’t know how to really see things. I mean, sure, I saw them with my eyeballs, but now? Now I see them with my lens. With intention. With composition. With appreciation for light and shadow and the way the mist wraps around the mountains in the morning like the island’s giving itself a hug. So while the 25-year-old version of me was busy being a new wife and hiking every trail and seeing the ocean for the first time, old me was noticing the glow of sunrise, the little crabs burrowing in the sand and just how much the air felt like the sea.

And yes, I am now the kind of person who gets up at the butt crack of dawn on vacation. I know. Who even am I?

But let me tell you—sitting on a quiet beach, barefoot in the sand, watching the sun pour gold onto the ocean while sipping terrible hotel-room coffee with the same man I’ve loved for a quarter century? It felt like winning the emotional lottery.

We did a boat tour of the Napali Coast—an a new one because 25 years ago our broke butts sat through a time share presentation so we could get free helicopter tickets. (Funny story, the sales guy got so frustrated that we were CLEARLY not buying anything that he cut his presentation short and just handed us the tickets with a "get out of my face" vibe.). There were dolphins! Real ones! And a crew member who asked me if I could swim and I silently thought "before you were born my man."  I also snorkeled for the very first time in my life, which isn't all that surprising since the closest this land-locked girl gets to the Ocean is the Downtown Aquarium.

But friends, snorkel I did. I swam my way into the great blue beyond, face down like a Goofy cartoon character, and peered into a world that looked like Pixar had rendered it just for me. Fishies!!!—just going about their business while I flailed like a muppet above them. It was one of those “I’m really doing this!” moments that made me laugh so hard my snorkel filled with water.  No matter what the age on my drivers license says, I'm not really a grown up friends.

We also visited waterfalls we missed the first time around. Probably because there was no GPS or Pinterest to help us figure out what to do.  And we were smoochie honeymooners...if you know what I mean.  Of course, when I found out that Wailua Falls was in the opening to Fantasy Island, my very best “The Plane boss…the PLANE!”, made more than one appearance.  (Cringe worthy-oh yeah.  Fun-you know it!)

This time, I took actual good photos. I had my gear, my angles, and my fancy photo presets. But I also had a new perspective. Kaua’i was the same in so many ways—the same lush greenery, the same impossibly blue skies, the same wild chickens who run the place like tiny feathered mob bosses—but I had changed.

And honestly? I think this trip was just as good as the first time around.  Different isn’t bad, it’s just different!

Maybe it’s because I wasn’t trying to impress anyone or pretend I wasn’t sunburned or lie about how “totally chill” I was after two days of no sleep. Maybe it’s because my back hurts if I sit too long and I no longer feel the need to prove I’m cool. Maybe it’s because I’ve been married to someone long enough to say “I love you” without needing flowers or perfect dinners or grand gestures.

Or maybe, as the kids say, “It just hits different.”

That’s what time does—it changes how we see things. Not always worse, not always better, but different. And sometimes, that difference brings depth. Perspective. And the ability to laugh when your knee gives out in front of a group of German tourists.

So no, I didn’t conquer any wild trails or sleep in or eat my weight in shave ice like the old days (okay, maybe just a little). But I did sit in the quiet. I held hands with my best friend. I took photos I’m proud of. I snorkeled. I limped. I laughed. I watched the sunrise every morning and said, “Thank you.”

Here’s to 25 years of growing older, growing better, and growing into the people who can love an island—and each other—in a whole new way.

So I hope you enjoyed some of the photos from the trip. Maybe they’ll inspire you to explore something old in a new way… preferably with a comfy pair of walking shoes and a waterproof knee brace.

 Oh my gosh, summer is in full swing and I want to soak it all up!  I don't know about you, but I swear that summers fly by faster and faster (like speed of light fast) the older I get.  Which at my advanced age is cray fast.  

This one has been particularly zoomie because Miss Ivy has been in a constant battle with Allergies or a Cold or Allergies+Cold Sinus Hell.  It's made it pretty hard for her to fully enjoy herself.  This girl of mine either needs some allergy shots or to buy stock in Kleenex.  June was not playing nice, but no way am I letting July go flying by like the Road Runner, Meep Meeping at my pathetic Wylie Coyote self.  Nope, this super genius has a plan...

 Enter the Manitou Springs Penny Arcade.  Miss Ivy may have been born in the 2000's but she's a GenX girl at heart. She looooooves old 80's video games and there's no where better than the Manitou Penny Arcade to get your High Score Quest on.  If you haven't ever been, you need to.  It's a vintage gamers paradise tucked into the cutest little town you've ever seen.  Where else can you grab a latte at a cute little cafe and stroll past flower boxes and boutiques before you bust out the big guns to defeat alien invaders?  You probably won't be able to beat Ivy's Q'bert high score or her father's domination of the Joust, Galaga, Mappy and Donkey Kong consoles...but you can try.

As for me, I suck at console video games.  I spent the 80's in libraries, not arcades.  And when I was at Showbiz Pizza, I only played the games where I could win tickets because I love me some plastic toys.  Skeeball-I got you.  Space Invaders is a hard no.  I am so very bad that I'm just the official photographer during these trips.  Which is exactly what I want to do anyway...so I'm a winner too!  This trip included a GoPro for giggles.  The fish eye is bananas and way too fun.  Sometimes a girl has to change things up and play a new way.

You should definitely give Manitou and a new view a try!  Don't play 80's games, there's tons of new games too.  Are you a Skeeball pro like me?  They've got vintage Skeeball machines that are so cool.  Little tiny kiddos who don't play video games?  They've got the most vintage kiddie rides I've ever seen in one place.  Go forth and play my friends and Happy Summer!!!

Friends. Countrymen. Casual readers who stumbled here while Googling "what the heck is Buc-ee’s." Gather 'round.

Let me tell you the tale of our family’s first journey to the mythical land of... a gas station. But not just any gas station. No. This was Buc-ee’s—the much-hyped, larger-than-life, Texas-born roadside colossus that has somehow, impossibly, landed in Northern Colorado.

Now, I’m no dummy. I’ve got Google. I’ve got Instagram. I’ve know people from Texas who treat Buc-ee’s like a sacred temple where you worship at the altar of beaver-branded snacks. So when Ivy and Zander declared that one of our Official Summer Family Activities™ was going to be a pilgrimage to the new-ish Buc-ee’s, I was aware it was going to be big.

But here’s the thing: I was not prepared.

Not even a little bit.

Behold the Beaver Kingdom

We pull off the highway and there it is: a glowing red sign with the famous cartoon beaver, surrounded by what looks like a never-ending sea of gas pumps. I’m talking dozens and dozens, enough to fuel a medium-sized militia or at least everyone in line at a Chick-fil-A drive-thru during lunch rush.

And the cars? Y’ALL. There were more people at this gas station than I’ve seen at some of our local farmers markets. It was like Black Friday, but the doorbuster deals were barbecue sandwiches and logo hoodies. I had to actually circle for parking. At a gas station. My mind? Already wobbling.

"Bass Pro Shop, But With More Jerky"

The minute we stepped inside, Zander looked around, eyes wide, and announced:

“This is like the Bass Pro Shop of gas stations.”

And honestly, he nailed it. There were wall-to-wall people, giant soda fountains, an entire wall of beef jerky, a fudge counter, a brisket carving station (yes, carving—the guy behind the counter had a KNIFE and a MICROPHONE), and—wait for it—an entire clothing store. Not a rack or two of t-shirts. An actual clothing department.

There were swimsuits. There were hats. There were onesies for babies and performance polos for dads and trendy cropped hoodies for teens who want to look cute while reminding everyone they’ve "Been There, Done That, Got the Buc-ee’s Shirt."

And yes, we bought merch. Ivy got a 40 ounce Buc-ee’s tumbler and Stuffed Buc-ee key chain who has become the official mascot of the Summer of '25. Zander was more restrained (because we were buying and I wasn't gonna go nuts) and just got a magnet.  I bought some jerky-because, duh!  We posed for pictures with the mascot.  Ken tried to convince me to get a Buc-ee's swim suit for our upcoming vacation but I drew the line at that, because I'm certain that would have tripped me over from being quirky to certifiably insane.

Brisket Sandwiches & Beaver Chips

Once the shopping frenzy settled (read: I physically pulled my children away from the wall of beaver plushies), we hit the food counters. It was here that I realized: Buc-ee’s is not playing around. The brisket sandwich was hot, smoky, and entirely legit. The Beaver Chips—crunchy house-made potato chips with just enough salt to make you question your life’s sodium intake—were weirdly addictive.

Now, my one complaint is the lack of tables.  I guess some people think the tailgating aspect is charming, but I'm too old and my knees are too bad to be sitting on concrete.  I almost thought about buying a Buc-ee's branded folding chair to ease my pain, but again...I'm not completely cray.

I Took a BUNCH of Pictures

You guys all know that I'm THAT person.. The one who brings her big camera everywhere, snapping pics like we were at the Eiffel Tower. Zander and Ivy posing with the Beaver Statue out front? Click. Ivy and Z holding their Buc-ee’s icees like we'd found treature? Click. Ken with a slightly strange expression with his Beaver Chips? Oh you better believe I clicked.

Final Thoughts: The Buc-ee’s Effect

We were there for over an hour. At a gas station. I don’t even spend that much time at the grocery store, and that place has free samples and stuff I actually need.

And the wildest part? I get it now. The hype, the merch, the reverence. Buc-ee’s is not just a place to fill your tank and maybe grab a bag of Combos. It’s an experience. It’s a roadside rite of passage. It’s the kind of place where you go in expecting a snack and come out with pulled pork, a full wardrobe, and 47 photos of a cartoon beaver.

So if you’ve been hearing whispers about the Colorado Buc-ee’s and are wondering if it’s worth the trip? Trust me, it absolutely is. But here’s a word of warning: don’t go in thinking you’ll just pop in for a soda and leave. That’s how it gets you. That’s the Buc-ee’s way.

Hopefully this post has prepared you more than I was.

But let’s be honest:
It probably won’t.

🐿️💛🛻

Guys. GUYS. I really wish I was a master gardener. You know the kind—someone who knows what hardening off means and isn’t afraid of a little worm poop tea. Every time I visit the Denver Botanic Gardens, I find myself standing in the middle of the bonsai exhibit or the water lilies, just whispering to myself: How do they do it? Are these plants happier than I am? Should I move in here?

But alas, I am not a master gardener. I’m more like a chaotic neutral garden gnome with a Pinterest board and a dream. Historically, the only thing I’ve been able to grow with any consistency is a weed. And I don’t mean The Weed, though…this is Colorado, so the possibility is implied. I mean just like...general, scraggly, apocalyptic-looking weeds. Dandelions have thrived under my care. Clover, too. Which I’m told is good for bees, so I’ll take it as a win.

BUT THIS YEAR. This year, my friends, I’m doing it. I’m becoming one with the soil. I’m taking the till by the horns. (Is that a phrase? No? Let’s pretend.)

Ivy—bless her patient, plant-loving heart—got me the most amazing galvanized raised garden bed. It’s the kind of thing that makes you feel fancy, like maybe you know what you’re doing even when you very much do not. It showed up in the backyard like a shiny silver promise. A promise that this year, we are going to grow vegetables on purpose.

There’s just one little hiccup. I live in Colorado. And if you’ve ever tried to grow anything here before Mother’s Day, you’ve probably ended up standing in your yard at 6 AM, weeping over your frost-nipped tomato babies while shaking your fist at the sky. The weather here is an indecisive drama queen. One day it’s 75 degrees and sunny, and the next day it’s snowing sideways and your neighbor’s lawn flamingo is frozen in mid-swoon.

So naturally, I’m starting things indoors. Like any good half-prepared gardener, I went for the tried-and-true method: egg cartons. That’s right. The same cartons that once held my precious Sunday omelets are now nurturing zucchini, string beans, basil, marigolds, and a few mystery seeds that may or may not be viable but were 50% off, so...YOLO.

I sliced open those cartons, filled them with dirt (I mean “seed starting mix” because we’re professionals here), and dropped in my tiny seeds with all the hope and precision of someone who once forgot a cactus needed water and killed it with neglect. And guys—they SPROUTED.

I repeat: THEY SPROUTED.

Little green shoots poking up like shy toddlers at a kindergarten concert, just stretching toward the sun (or, you know, the desk lamp I propped up with a box of old cookbooks). I might have cried a little. I definitely took their picture. I’m not saying I’ve started a baby plant Instagram, but I am saying I’ve considered it. These little leaf blobs are just so darn cute I want to knit them sweaters and give them names like Basil the Brave or Sir Sproutsalot.

Now, I’ve been Googling “how to not kill seedlings indoors” more than I’d like to admit. Did you know seedlings can dampen off? Which sounds like a polite Victorian way to die. (“She dampened off during a particularly trying April...”) Apparently, you can lovingly mist your plant babies every day, sing to them, give them motivational speeches, and they’ll still collapse like Victorian fainting goats if the soil is too wet, too dry, too warm, or too...I don’t know, vibe-checked.

I’m misting, rotating, whispering encouraging affirmations. I moved them into the bathroom for the humidity. I have officially entered my overprotective plant parent era. Ivy walked in on me softly blowing on them “to simulate wind” and didn’t even bat an eye. This is who I am now.

Now, I know this is just the beginning. Once the danger of frost has passed—and by that I mean, once I can go a full two weeks without Colorado pulling a surprise snowstorm—I will bravely relocate my seedlings to their shiny new raised bed home. Will they survive the transplant? Will the squirrels declare war? Will I forget to water them during the first 90-degree day of June and be left sobbing over a shriveled zucchini husk?

Probably. But I will document every moment. You’ll get the full garden update once the freeze risk is gone. I promise. Expect photos, possibly spreadsheets, maybe even a TikTok with dramatic music if I can figure out how to use the app without accidentally filming my own chin.

In the meantime, if any of you are seasoned gardeners and have tips, tricks, or maybe just an extra bag of compost and a firm “You can do this” speech, my DMs are open. Otherwise, wish me and my egg carton sprouts luck. We’re out here doing our best. And hey, worst case scenario—I go back to my old reliable: growing weeds like a champ.

But this year...this year feels different. This year, we’ve got dreams. We’ve got a galvanized bed. And we’ve got zucchini seeds that believe in us.

Well folks, we did it again. Another one of our legendary road trips, the kind that require a decent amount of snacks, an epic roadtrip playlist courtesy of Ivy and her Dad, and the occasional “where is the next bathroom?” moment. This time, the backdrop was none other than Route 66 on the way to Zander's final Varsity Arizona baseball tournament. And by "final," I mean the kid is a senior and this is the last time we’re off on a big trip to watch him play.. But hey, we weren’t just heading to Arizona for the tournament. Nope, we’re a road trip family. Partly because we love it, and partly because it’s way cheaper than flying (have you seen ticket prices these days?). Plus, there’s the added bonus of endless hours in the car to bond… or get on each other's nerves. It’s basically a rite of passage.

So, instead of enduring the packed airports and cramped airplane seats, we loaded up the car, packed a few too many snacks (I mean, what’s a road trip without a full inventory of chips, candy, and the occasional fruit for health's sake?), and set off to make the most of the drive to Arizona.

Our first stop? Winslow, Arizona. Cue the music. “I’m standing on a corner in Winslow, Arizona...” Yeah, I know you sang it in your head, and I’m not apologizing for it. It had to be done. But seriously, it’s a tiny little town with a giant statue commemorating the Eagles’ famous song, “Take It Easy.” As much as I’d like to pretend we took the time to explore the deep cultural history of Winslow, the truth is, we were mainly there to take a cheesy family photo with the statue. Don't judge us. If you ever find yourself there, it’s like a mini pilgrimage for anyone who grew up listening to classic rock. And we did. Like, a lot.

After a quick "we're here, let's take a picture and eat some ice cream" moment, we continued our journey down the Route 66 highway. But wait, there’s more! (Isn’t there always?) Next up, Twin Arrows Trading Post. Well, singular Twin Arrow now, thanks to some seriously wild winds. The second arrow? Yeah, it's more of a suggestion at this point. Still, we had to stop and gawk at what was left of the old place. I know, I know—it’s one of those roadside attractions you see online and wonder if it's worth it. But hey, when you're on Route 66, you stop at these weird landmarks because, well, when else will you get to see a giant arrow that’s been partially blown away? Exactly.

We took a few photos (because, hello? Photographer here!) and headed off to the tournament. That was not fun, so I wont go into detail. Poor Z caught a nasty cold and his team…well, let’s just say they’re not winning many games these days.

Zander’s team wasn’t scheduled to play until 7PM so we got permission to take him to the Grand Canyon. Because what would a road trip be without seeing something so jaw-droppingly beautiful that it almost makes you forget how many hours you’ve spent in the car? For those who haven’t been, let me tell you: it’s the real deal. I could have wandered around photographing it for days. You stand there, gazing into the abyss, and all of a sudden, you feel very, very small. Like, “Wow, I could fall into this thing and nobody would even notice” small. It’s humbling. And a little terrifying. But mostly awe-inspiring.

Zander said it was one of the highlights of the trip (way better than being sick and watching his team blow it again) and we took tons of photos (a few of which scared me more than just a little) just so we could have some evidence that we made it to one of the Seven Natural Wonders of the World.

After yet another loss, we grabbed Z and made tracks to Sloane Park to watch our beloved Cubbies! You know, a real baseball team who can really play? No big cameras allowed, but be assured we had more fun than was reasonable and we wont discuss just how much we spent at the team store on merchandise. Seriously…leave that one alone.

Off to Flagstaff, AZ and the Galaxy Café. Yes, this was strategically planned to coincide with the need for milkshakes. I’m talking thick, glorious milkshakes that can be considered a meal, not just a beverage. You know the ones that come with a hefty amount of whipped cream and a sprinkles on top, and they make you wonder, “Can I have this for breakfast tomorrow?” The answer was, of course, was a no because we left super early the next morning…but a girl can dream.

And just when we thought the trip couldn’t get any better, we arrived at the Wigwam Motel in Holbrook, Arizona. Now, before you start imagining some old-fashioned charm with, you know, cozy little wigwams with dreamcatchers and maybe a peaceful nature soundtrack playing, let me clarify: this place is a quirky, vintage, throwback to a time when road trips were an American pastime and the gas stations sold maps with promises of amazing roadside attractions. The wigwams are concrete, not exactly “cozy” per se, but they’re certainly something you won’t forget. I mean, where else can you sleep in a giant concrete teepee? Ivy totally wants to go back and stay.

Next up: the dinosaurs. Ah yes, Holbrook also boasts some seriously weird roadside dinosaurs. We're talking giant, 25-foot-tall fiberglass beasts, casually hanging out on the side of the road. We didn’t just drive past; we stopped, got out, and spent way too much time posing by these over-the-top sculptures. I like to think that the dinosaurs enjoyed the attention, but honestly, it felt like we were the ones who were getting judged. It's a good thing nobody else was around, or we would’ve never been allowed back into polite society.

One final stop!  No way were we going to pass up the Jackrabbit Trading Post!  It was closed (because...Sunday) but the Cars movie lovers that we are, we NEEDED a picture with that epic sign.  Ivy and her dad were more than happy to jump on the big jackrabbit for a quick, "We're such tourists!" photo.

So, take it from me: if you’re looking for a budget-friendly, slightly absurd adventure, get yourself on Route 66 and embrace the weirdness. Who knows, you might just find yourself standing on a corner in Winslow, Arizona, singing with the Eagles, and realizing that the road trip, not the destination, is half the fun. Enjoy the photos, and maybe we’ll inspire you to take your own crazy road trip. Just don’t forget the milkshakes. Or the dinosaurs. Or the wigwams. Seriously. Don’t miss out.

Until next time, folks—safe travels, weird stops, and a lot of snacks.