Vintage Drums and Dates

Biceps is the best husband ever. Hands down. Bar none. Don’t argue with me. He’s been that way for the entirety of our almost 13 years of marriage. I married up, and most of my family wouldn’t contradict that point. They know I’m right. With all of that said, Biceps is also a very focused man.

With baby #1 on the way, he has taken to a “nose-to-the-grindstone” mentality with work, school and providing for our family. The man never rests. Except from 11 pm to 5 am. Then–he’s out like a light and no amount of kitty wrestling, house alarms sounding or excessive use of the bathroom by yours truly (thanks Baby G) will wake him.

We’ve been needing a little getaway before Baby G pops out into the world. However, I knew pulling Biceps away from his focus would be difficult.

Enter a craigslist for sale ad for Vintage Ludwig Vistalite Drums in a city just two hours away. As a wife, I just hit the jackpot.

Nothing motivates a musician more than the drums they’ve always dreamed about. Within hours, Biceps had found and secured a night at a Norman Bed and Breakfast.

This beautiful little house was very affordable, it was all ours (no weird interaction with the owners or other guests), and stocked with yummy snacks.

The best part was-they did not decorate with dolls, doilies or victorian pictures. Thank goodness.

If the weather hadn’t been so stinkin’ freezing cold, we would have used the hammock, the hot tub and the fire pit provided. Instead, we looked at it longingly from the safety and heated security of the inside-while eating cookies.

Biceps actually relaxed from his overwhelming schedule and donned a robe and house shoes. He sat for hours looking at old pictures with me and talking about our future with Baby G.

Biceps bought his drums and we got our inexpensive, much-needed getaway. Take note ladies-if you are needing a getaway with your special man-pray that God prompts your hubby to look one more time at craigslist. And then pack a bag.

It’s a smoky morning, natürlich

A dense fog rolled in this morning. Much like rain, a good fog awakens my soul. It reminds me of Germany and baking bread and hot coffee and walking around with coats and mittens on-while hoping this next ancient church might let me use the bathroom.

And due to the fact that I’m a German-born woman, with thick German blood, who married a German, who speaks (broken) German and loves a good Weinerschnitzel, fog is the memory catalyst into my mind bank.

(A memory trampoline, if you will.)

A long walk on the top of an Austrian mountain-in the wrong direction-brought Biceps and I to this gorgeous churchyard. We rewarded ourselves by eating at a local restaurant, enjoying pommes fritas und bier. The fog blanketed the cemetery as we ate, reminding me simultaneously of bad horror movies and the hovering of the Holy Spirit. (Is that possible?)

After hours on a train, in a cab and then on a boat, we made it to Hallstadt, Austria. It was a silent and foggy morning-no motor cars, no tourists and no one awake yet-making us feel as if we were the only two people in this quaint town.

However, once the townspeople woke up, they proved us wrong-hollering out their “Guten Morgens” und “Kaffee?”. But for a moment, it was just us, the cows and the fog.

It may be weird, but fog wraps me up in a cozy blanket and makes me feel protected. What’s your favorite weather change?

And so the week begins. Or does it?

Last week, I kept thinking Wednesday was Saturday, Sunday was Tuesday and so forth and so on. I was-what you would call-jacked up. There was a lot on my plate, on my mind, and on my to-do list. Most of the week, I didn’t feel like myself.

I felt like this.

Wigged out, freaked out and out of my mind. Ever had one of those weeks? So, I did what any normal person would do.

At every stop light, or between each meeting, I went into my happy place-my home away from home-to have what I call, a “Rebekah-day”.

I dreamt about our month long vacation (“vay-k” for you hipsters) to Europe-the lovely places we visited, the foods we ate….the complete lack of responsibility I enjoyed (which drove Biceps nuts).

I dreamt about the mornings where we walked around with coffee in one hand, pastry in the other and got to know another new city. We were surrounded by natives speaking their own languages, creating a cocoon between us and “them”. I felt like we were the only two people in the world-unless of course, I needed a bathroom (which was often) and then I had to interact with aforementioned natives.

I dreamt about staying at “Rose’s Haus” in Austria; after we asked for a refund from the non-air conditioned, communal offered bathroom, cheap hostel we had originally booked our two nights with.

The morning we awoke at Rose’s Haus, I was greeted exuberantly by her husband (the bearded man above), arms ready to receive a hug, who boomed out, “Guten Morgen!”. After hugging, he led us to our breakfast table and told us stories in German. I understood about 45% of it, but that seemed enough for him.

I loved the quietness of the car-free cities. Hallstadt was foot friendly only-save one or two market days when produce trucks wound around the precarious road attached to the side of the mountain and thanked their lucky stars they made it, one more time.

And, then there’s Paris (if you want to get fancy, say- “Pair-wee”). Biceps, Eiffel Tower, carousel, coffee, the Louvre…I was in heaven.

I could escape right now to Salzburg-with the only sounds being the train a mile below and the cow bells in the backyard. The morning was spent watching the mist rise from the mountaintops while enjoying a Nescafe.

Right now, this Monday morning-I’m in Venice in my mind. I can smell the bakery, hear the quartet in the background which is accompanied by the thousands of pigeons warbling and forget that I’m in Tulsa.

Hot, sweaty Tulsa. Wonderful Tulsa, but hot and sweaty nonetheless. And, suddenly it’s not Monday. It’s Rebekah-day.

Sassy Pants Art: Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art

I have been uber bogged down with obligations. (Blech.) Life tends to get in the way of my passions-and one of my passions is this blog/site, while another is observing amazing art.

Enough is enough. Time for some fun-and time to observe life/art in a new way-a sassy way.

Hey, “Eyebrows”. I mean…seriously. Even back then they had scissors and ways to bleach hair. Do something about it.

“A ticked-off cat”. I know this. I feel this. I’ve seen this. Life is art.

Mr. Abs: “Yes, I do Paleo. Yes, I do Crossfit. Yes, I wear coolouts. Yes, I shave my head into a weird pony tail. Why do you ask?”
Me: “Um. No reason at all. You look…awesome?”

Lady on the left: “Don’t pretend you were ‘caught’ in this pose. Get some friggin’ clothes on.”
Lady on the right: “All I could find was this 1200 thread count Egyptian cotton sheet. Geesh. Don’t be such a prude. I’m just as God made me.”

Oh! That’s where I left it! My trusty old, Indiana Jones backpack. I was hankering for my PB & J, my orange and thermos of milk…

That’s all the sass I will expose you to today. And, since I’ve deprived you for almost a week of my sass-I hope you can handle it.

Am I the only one that ever feels this way in an art museum?