A Second Car Fight

Biceps and I are realizing quickly that not touring means being at home. Duh. What we are also realizing is that when he needs to go somewhere for work-I can’t always go with him. They sort of frown upon firefighters bringing their wives along-I don’t know why.

That leads me to this point: we think we need a second car. I know-it’s decadent, provocative and immensely American of us. But, this frugal household might just spring for “Four more wheels! Four more wheels! Four more wheels!”.

This is what Biceps wants-not because it’s necessarily cool, but very practical:

B-O-R-I-N-G.

A Prius. I think Rory Gilmore drove a Prius. I think that kid sitting across from me at the coffee shop that smells like Patchouli drives a Prius with his soul patch riding shotgun next to his caramel-no whip-soy latte.

Practical?-Yes. Good gas mileage?-Yes. Boring?-Yes.

This is what I want-a 1964 1/2 Mustang.

I don’t care if it’s candy apple red, avocado green or midnight blue-as long as it’s original. With white Pony Leather interior, 289 D-Code 4v Engine, Automatic Transmission, and factory air-what more could a girl want?

(I hear you in the background saying, “Electric windows/locks, seat heaters, a faab, airbags, murmur, murmur”. Don’t think I don’t.)

When I was 14, I saved up and bought this car-a 1966 Ford Mustang. It was a complete lemon-everything fell apart on it-the transmission, the horn, the brakes. But it was mine, and I loved it.

I would even give up the Mustang to drive a more practical vehicle like this-a 1963 Wagoneer. This gets about 9 mpg’s, so we wouldn’t really drive it-just look at it.

Or this-a 1978 Mercedes wagon. It gets better gas mileage (19 mpg) and it’s still pretty cute.

But really, what we need as a family is something classic, something practical and very affordable. With its 19 mpg’s on the highway-it’s downright economical. And let’s not forget that I’m recycling an old car instead of demanding a new one. And, I’m keeping local small businesses open with my never-ending need for repair parts.

This is just downright embarrassing-with its automatic locks, airbags, great gas mileage and resale value-only a goofball would buy this. Seriously, what am I going to do with Biceps?

Signs, Signs, everywhere are Signs-Palm Springs, CA

When you buy a new car, do you start to notice all the ones that look like yours? Of if you happen to break up with someone, do you suddenly start noticing everyone else that’s holding hands, smooching and in love (and want to punch them)?
When I’m on tour, I get on these kicks of photographing a cool signs which makes me then see more and more signs. But, I’m glad I do-they inspire me. The colors chosen are typically eye-catching. After all, the signs are advertising something and are trying to grab your attention. The color combos, fonts and text placement influence my creative decisions, whether I like it or not.
 

The signage at the Ace Hotel and Swim Club in Palm Springs was weathered but bright. The paint was chipping off the five foot letters in a haphazard-but-we-meant-to sort of way.

These colors together inspired me to have Harold in my bathroom. Yes, yellow and bits of red can coexist without looking campy.

 

Our room number. The wood against the adobe made the sign feel warm, aged and homey. This sign inspired me to make a Cedar Christmas Garland from cross sections of a tree.

 

The color combo on this hotel inspired me to do make Pretty Paper Christmas Trees in a bold red and robin’s egg blue combo for Christmas. Granted this sign is more tangerine and aqua-but it was the beginning of a mind shift for this gal.

 

I loved the sleek black on the rough wood. It reminded me of our leather headboard behind our master bed with barn wood floors.

 

The vintage feeling of this sign always inspires me to use cutesy stars and fonts whenever I can. Cutesy is my middle name, you know:
Rebekah Cutesy Greiman.

I am inspired by signs, what inspires you?

All by myself, don’t wanna be….

Since Thanksgiving, our house has been full of company in one way or another. It started off small, with my mother-in-law coming back with us from our trip up north. I got quite used to seeing her each and every day as we ate lunch together or watched movies while Bicep’s was hard at work.
And then, right before Christmas-my mother-in-law was joined by the remainder of the family.

It was glorious, wonderful, family bliss (after I got over the stress of planning everything-let’s be real).

 

Dinners were loud, desserts were consumed without regard and the dishwasher ran around the clock.

 

Bicep’s family transitioned to the their respective homes shortly after Christmas-and my family transitioned into our home days later.
We visited a winery, ate more desserts, played the DIY Family Board Game that Bicep’s and I created, and drank lots of coffee.

 

We sat around for hours with the fireplace roaring, chatting into the wee hours of the night. Maxwell became so used to Dakota-my parent’s pooch-that snuggling became commonplace between the two.
The house was full of life, noise, and people.

 

And as my parent’s pulled out of the driveway, we waved back and forth until we couldn’t see one another any longer, with tears falling down our cheeks.
While I take down the Christmas ornaments, the tree, the lights, and the decor, I am surrounded-for the first time in a long time-by silence. I box it all up, cart it up to the attic-the whole while-silent.
Thick, lonely silence.
Some of you may dream of such silence. But silence day after day isn’t so fun anymore.

I sweep, mop, scrub toilets, change out the laundry-more silence.
Sure-I can put on music, and I did. But, there’s not a body here to chat with.
And, it’s weird.

I’m not sure what to do other than make light of the situation and sing, “All by myself, don’t wanna be, all by myself…” just like Bridget Jones did.
Which is even weirder when you are belting that tune out into your broom handle and the mailman catches you as he drops off your daily dose of junk mail.
Sorry about that, Mr. Mailman. Just write it off as a weird, lonely housewife.
I’m sure you’ve seen it all before…