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.

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.

The Sunflower State is Friggin’ Awesome

Dear Readers:

Did you know that I’m from Kansas? I mean, technically I’m from Landstuhl, Germany. But, do the first three years of your life really count?
And did you know that I’m in Kansas right now? Be still my beating heart.

Kansas is where I claim to have grown up. My childhood consisted of sunflower fields, cows, tornadoes, coyotes (pronounced ki-yoat) and snakes. And all that was found just in my backyard.

Due to my extreme nostalgia, it’s no small wonder that sunflowers are my favorite flowers-second only to daffodils. I would drag these ginormous yellow and brown beauties into the house, sending my extremely allergic brother to the brink of insanity. Sorry, Pat. I thought you were just being a wuss and trying to get out of work. We didn’t know about allergies back then.

Heck, I didn’t even know about salad dressing back then.

The only thing better than being in Kansas, is being in my hometown of Manhattan, Kansas at Vista. And eating french fries with my parents while the Beatles play on the jukebox. (But, that’s a whole other side story.)

However, I’m not in Manhattan-I’m in Kansas City, which is the fancy part of Kansas. Unlike Manhattan, Kansas City has museums, real shopping, “districts”, and a major league baseball team. As a little kid, I was always intimidated by Kansas City and thought the kids here were cooler than I was.

I bet they even knew about salad dressing.

I joined Biceps on a overnight work gig, so while he is hard at work, I’m going to go see things like this at the Nelson-Atkins Museum.

And things like this. All. By. Myself. I won’t have to hurry up when I want to stay, or linger when I want to move on.

Let’s review the facts about today:
I’m in Kansas
I’m going to a museum-alone!
Biceps is simultaneously making us money
My meals are paid for

The verdict is: Kansas is friggin’ awesome.

Touring is like childbirth

For those of you not familiar with my former lifestyle, I married a man-who at 19-had a band that was signed and touring.

He met me at the ripe old age of 22, threw me over his shoulder and we kept going.

For the first 5 or so years of our marriage, we criss-crossed the U.S., while he bounced around the stage playing bass guitar and singing, I watched from the side-so proud of my husband.

Touring with his band quickly morphed into driving our friend’s tour buses during our downtime, which then morphed into a career for the both of us.
We were able to spend every waking minute with each other and make decent money-only working 4 months out of the year.

And, we got to stay in really cool hotels-for free.

I mean, really cool hotels-like ones with complimentary white robes and house shoes, Starbucks in the lobby and manager’s receptions.

And hotels where Frank Sinatra, Audrey Hepburn and Carey Grant used to stay.

We saw more of the U.S. than I ever thought possible in one lifetime, let alone a couple of years.

Often, in just a few days’ time, we would go from laid back towns with southern sandy beaches…

…to fall weather and the craziness of New York.

We were invited to a real Louisiana crab boil, complete with Zydeco music.

And we ate at historic restaurants with tortillas the size of a spare tire. (Which subsequently, gives you a spare tire.)

We’ve been fortunate enough to experience things in a weekend-all paid for-that most people save up years to do.

And I got to do this all with my best friend at my side.

However, for all of the perks, a touring lifestyle can be unpredictable.

Would the bus break down today, and if so, how much money will we loose?
Can we make it through this traffic/construction/snowstorm and get to the show on time?
Will the other bands on tour like us?
Will we get to eat today, and if so, is it pizza again?
Am I going to get to sleep in a bed tonight/this afternoon?
Will I drive Biceps crazy singing, “Baby went to Amsterdam, She put a little money into travelin’, now it’s so slow, so slow…” too many times when traffic slows down?
Will we crash and die?
Am I going to encounter any other normal human besides Biceps today? (Probably not.)

But, now that we’re away from touring and into a normal routine of life-getting up at the same time, packing Bicep’s lunches, ironing his “Blues”, being at church every Sunday, cooking dinner every night-I miss the unpredictability of the touring lifestyle.

I miss the sunrises every morning, making breakfast sandwiches on the bus, and having someone else wash my towels and my sheets.

I miss the whirring sound of the bus generator, the early morning coffee time and seeing towns empty out after a huge show.

But, then I think about the slumber party stomach from lack of sleep, blinding snowstorms that scare the crap out of me as I’m driving through New York, and the loneliness of having a flipped schedule from other “day dwellers”.

It’s so easy to forget all the bad stuff, the painful stuff-only bringing to mind all the good stuff. I think touring is a bit like childbirth for me.