Miles: 708 
Gallons: 22.42
Hours: 12.3, including all stops and construction traffic
Hours of mediocre-to-bad radio stations: 12.3, or at least whenever I checked in on them
Cindy Morgan albums bought in the early 1990s, sung through a-capella-karaoke-style by me: 2, in their entirety, lyrics accuracy rating about 78%. Be glad you were not in my car.
 
Ounces of coffee, in the body: roughly 40
Ounces of coffee, on the body: approximately 5. In three separate unfortunate incidents. Including the final one where the coffee splashed inexplicably up out of the small drinking-hole, through the millimeter-gap between cheek and sunglasses, and into my eye. SERIOUSLY. How do these things happen?
Ounces of water, in the body: I lost count, but I don’t believe in dehydrated driving.
Ounces of water, sky-to-windshield: barely any. It was a gorgeous day for a trip.
Rest stops: four total. See “ounces.”
(restroom for one-armed women? Not sure.)
Rest stops, MacDonalds, decorated with large framed prints of Camelot-themed scenes, with a burgundy wallpaper border imprinted with the entirety of Tennyson’s Lady of Shallot all the way around the restaurant: one. And I sincerely hope that only one exists in the world, too. It was just too weird. 
Degrees, Fahrenheit, outside, average: I’m guessing about 72, tops. Did I mention it was a gorgeous day for a trip?
Brilliant red-and-gold sumac shrubs sighted: Way too wonderful many to count.
Hours to remember the name “sumac”: 6.5 – my brain kept suggesting “sycamore” and then telling itself to shut up, stupid, that wasn’t right at all.
Hawks: 3; one actually catching some kind of small prey not a yard off the shoulder of the highway
Wild turkeys: Maybe 14? Not sure.
Bible verses misquoted: 1; and I promise that in context, "Oh, that I had the wings of a buzzard!" was really not ludicrous at all. You should have seen where it was flying.
Sightings of the town name “Muddlety”: 5, each inducing a small giggle-fit.
Beautiful items NOT BOUGHT at the Fiesta-ware outlet: whimper.
Times I broke the 10th Commandment (specifically, coveting my neighbor’s house): Well, let’s just say that if Presbyterians prescribed penance, I’d be due for some major mortification of the flesh. Those isolated rooftops peeking through tiny clearings on the sides of mountains overlooking hidden valleys will get you. If you like that sort of thing. Apparently, I have a weakness.
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