From the Back Seat...

The other day, Sam asked, "what do you think about going out to dinner tonight? Give you a break from cooking...?" I always appreciate those gestures....

Had it been during our first year of marriage, I probably would have accused him of implying my cooking was something other than wonderful. But after four years, the anticipation to impress him with what I cook for every meal is limited to "every now and then" and his delight in being surprised is too.

But seriously, I appreciate that Sam keeps dating me. It's nice to get out of the house every now and then, and he always manages to time it just right.

So....
He handed me my helmet and said, "let's go!"

Oh....he wants to take the bike...

Clicking the strap to the helmet, I straddled the back of the bike, ready to vroom-vroom into the sunset! Romantic? If it is, it's definitely a different kind of romantic than coffee on the front porch, or walking on the beach, or reading next to a fire, or just staring at each other with oogling eyes.

Since we were only going a little ways, I wore my sunglasses for eye-protection. Thankfully, I wasn't the driver. As the "vroom" got louder and the bugs hit harder, I went from wide eyes, to squinty eyes, to slitted eyes, to shut for three seconds and open for one. It felt like my eyelashes were being peeled off.

They actually make specific goggles to prevent all this.

Stubborn as I am, I'll probably stick with my sunglasses and tolerate the wind.

Heat coming up off the pavement already makes it hard to breathe. But have you ever seen the reaction of a baby when you blow in his face? Multiply that by 100, with the extra heat, and I was gasping for air! For a while, it was fun to let my mouth hang open and let the wind catch it--no wonder dogs look so happy hanging their head out the window! But after noticing my reflection through a passing car, I decided to let the dogs have all the fun.

Have you ever been on a horse when it suddenly decides to buck-up? You start to squeeze the horse with your legs to keep from falling off. So with a motorcycle, you never know when there's going to be a slight bump in the road or a sudden "speed up" impusle come over the driver, and so the whole time, your legs are squeezing the bike. Quite the work out.

And it's not a bike if it's not vibrating--I mean, you're practically sitting on the motor. So unless I'm planting my feet into the foot pegs, they're slowly being jolted off into mid-air.

And yet, through the discomfort--like clockwork--when we roll up to a stop light coming side to side with a Cadillac, somehow, I pull it together, put on my "bad" face and act all like, don't you wish you were me! Slowly look at them, give the Elvis snarl--all in just enough time for the light to switch to green--and then comes the final look: yeah, I'm gonna beat you accross this light. 

But by the time we got off the bike, I felt like I'd been beat up. My legs were sore, my eyes were dried out, and even my neck was sore from fighting against the wind.

And somehow, Sam calls all this: therapy. He finds it relaxing--time to clear his head and just riiiiiiiiiiide! What am I doing wrong that I find it strenuous, and exhausting?

Anyway, when we got to the restaurant, I craved nothing more than a burger and fries--and that's just what I got. Scrumptious.

Despite all the strain from the ride, it was so nice to be able to hang on to Sam and be behind him. And being able to wrap my arms around him for extra security--I'm adding that to my list of romantic occasions. 

A Ripe Age

I've always been told I look younger than I am...except for maybe at birth.

Before two weeks ago, I had never been able to purchase alcohol without being carded; whether at a grocery store, liquor store, or in a restaurant. No matter how alcohol savvy I try to act, it seems never enough to forgo the age-check.

Still, while sometimes it's a little embarrassing that I'm the only one in a group of people who gets carded, perhaps it's all about perspective.

So I look young. This will be a good thing a few years down the road.

But finally, at my ripe old age, I walked into the liquor store to purchase a bottle of wine (for those who are interested, "Apothic Red"--very yummy for a red wine). As habit would have it, I was reaching for my I.D. when the lady said, "that'll be $12.44." I paused. No way! I had to wonder why she went straight to the price and not the I.D. She was a new cashier--so it's not like she'd seen me in there before. I looked at what I was wearing: nothing super mature--flip flops, baggy shorts and a t-shirt. Okay, not mature at all. Hmmmm...Did I say something real mature?..Ha! Yeah right! Not able to figure it out, I still had to revel in the moment--internally because I didn't want to give her a reason to be suspicious.

When I got home, I told Sam about the big event. He said, "She probably saw your grey hair."

Of course he was joking--weren't you honey! However, there is some bit of truth to that. I had grey hair when I was 13--a boy at camp told me so--and once again, they've suddenly sprouted another appearance. Although this time, I think they're here to stay. Unless.....

Music Therapy 101

So, I went into my first piano lesson session with guns blazing! I was ready to take the bull by the horns and learn something.

And I had it all figured out. I decided that, right off the bat, if I told my instructor what my problems are, she could give the solution at the beginning of the 8 weeks, avoiding any future delays because of the problems. However, I left feeling like it was a therapy session bearing little musical fruit.

"Tell me about yourself and your history with music," she said.

I took probably three minutes to explain.
And then another ten minutes was spent telling her what I felt my problems were and my excuses for them: I'm sure I have a lack of self discipline: I just don't practice. But that's because I get so frustrated and overwhelmed. And I can't seem to read the notes fluently. So of course, I can't play them either. And because I anticipate certain notes, I guess at them. Instead of reading the note, I look to see if the note is higher or lower and by how many--so I'm not really reading the note...just counting. I've been writing out the notes, but I think that's cheating because I'm no longer reading the note itself, rather the letter I've marked it to be.

And in another ten minutes, I summed up what I wanted out of these lessons: I want to read music effortlessly. And I want to play what I read just as easily. I want to be able to process all those different notes at once--and with both hands. I'd like to be able to transpose a piece of music...and while we're at it, I want to sing while I play.

With seven minutes left in our session, I stared at her waiting for some life-altering revelation--something that would magically solve my frustrations at the piano and transform this dull pumpkin into that piano-playing genius I envisioned.

Instead, she said, "I think we can accomplish some of that."

I really don't know what I was expecting....but for sure, something with a little more "hoo-rah!" than that. So with the remaining time we had, she placed my fingers on the keys, beginning with middle C, counted the number for each finger, played three notes, and proceeded to issue my first assignment: "Practice page 6 and read page 7."

That's it?

"So, where do you see me in 8 weeks?" I asked. Yes, I felt funny asking the question. But, after throwing all my issues out there--and although optimistic--I wanted to be realistic about it! I mean, if there's no hope for me here, just tell me now!

"Well, it depends on how fast you learn, and how much you practice. We'll just have to give it some  time to see."

She's making me work for it!

But she did offer a few encouraging words, and before anything could damper them, I was on my merry way. And when I got home, I practiced. And practiced. And practiced.

The noise I was making wasn't sounding like much, which was frustrating and a little discouraging at times, but day after day, the more I practice, the more I solidify the notes and key strokes into my brain. 

For my second lesson, I decided not to open my mouth--only to breathe a little--because I wanted to learn as much as I could.

It's amazing how much you can learn when you just BE QUIET. So instead of laying my brain on the table and dissecting it with her, this time I just asked questions, picking her brain a little.

I've only had two lessons so far, with only one and a half weeks of practice under my belt. But I can already feel the benefits of practice. Amazing to think, all these years, all I needed was guidance.

Eureka!

It's my new little helper. Miss Eureka. She's not the latest thing on the shelf, for sure. Still, a new toy makes cleaning a little more exciting and enjoyable. Once we pieced her all together, I gave her a test run. I told Sam, "I think she's self-propelled!" He laughed. Don't be silly, I saw him thinking. So he took her for a spin. He looked at me, eyes wide: "I think she is self-propelled!" All she needs now is auto-pilot.

Mr. Hoover hadn't quite petered out yet, but he's getting there. Instead of throwing him, out, we've decided to render his services for our basement cleaning where Sam and I spent a good part of the day, Sunday, cleaning, laying carpet, and rearranging the gym. We had new carpet put in the upstairs of the house, and so we used a good piece of the old carpet for the gym. You can see Mr. Hoover is nicely settled back there.

It's hard to notice in a picture, but the new carpet upstairs has made a world of difference!

Other random things:

Malcolm and Ingrid's birdlets (thanks for that one, Mom!) left home. So did Wilfred and Patsy's. Dorris and Clyde's have yet to hatch. I can't wait till they're gone! I know that sounds cruel, but seriously, I can't seem to water the fern without flooding the nest. I've been practicing different angles of watering every day so that when the eggs hatch, I don't end up drowning them. *Gulp*

I finally got around to painting our no-longer-faded window boxes. I also replanted them with begonias.

 Sam created a rock base for the flower pot at the end of our drive.

Another of Sam's visions: white petunias to match our purple ones.

And finally, I had a good reminder this week that I have a LOT of help on my side in this life's journey. Everyone has their trials. But when you're suddenly having a great week, do you ever wonder why? I just had to stop and think about it....