house of the rising sun

In response to Friday Reflections bonus prompt: What did I enjoy this week? Check out Reflections from a Redhead, and reflections from me for more about this wonderful blog link up...

This much I know is true...

When I can't get my writing brain going, photos or art speak for me:

Seeing the rising sun immediately brought music to mind:

Sometimes, words aren't necessary.

...life is good. -cat
i am @jonesbabie on twitter

sex, drugs, and rock & roll

#Friday Reflection prompt: Reflect on how it's important to make the most out of life.

Several weeks ago Wretch noticed the Steve Miller Band was going to be performing  in concert  in Tuscaloosa, Alabama in June. I told her to book three tickets and we would drag Stevie Wonder along to it. We'd missed the Magic City Art Connection and Corks and Chefs on April 26 because SW decided to break his pacemaker that weekend. We gave away three tickets so that Wretch and I could spend the weekend watching SW lie in a hospital bed in ICU waiting for a new ticker on Monday.

At the end of May, after a couple months of testing and retesting with mammograms, ultrasound and needle biopsy, I got the verdict. Breast cancer, caught early, and was told the recommendation. Surgery (lumpectomy), radiation, and oral medication for a few years. Not a problem. I was ready.

Then it hit me.

The concert I had waited patiently for was in a couple weeks.

Oh hell no, I thought to myself. I am not missing this concert, or dodging elbows with a boob that is in a sling. I talked to the surgeon, and although my oldest daughter wasn't keen on it (neither was middle sister when she found out later on), Wretch understood where my brain and heart were. With the music. The surgeon assured us I that I would not drop dead if I put my surgery off for 3 weeks.

So I did.

Sunday my ass was sitting in a pool of sweat in a plastic stadium seat heated to oven temps by the 90F setting sun at the Tuscaloosa Amphitheater. I sipped a glass of red wine in a plastic cup, groped SW a bit, and enjoyed some of the best music from the 70's played by a couple of great bands, now old farts like me. (Steve Miller is 71.)

And damn, they can still play.

Some things just get better with age.

...rockin the good life... ~cath
i am @jonesbabie on twitter

mystic memories

I was busy the other night cleaning out some old files, rearranging my rec room so it would be less of a wreck.  The room serves as my computer room, art room, exercise room (read: mostly unused treadmill in a corner), and office.  I had scored a wonderful filing cabinet with deep drawers at work last week, and was busy emptying some of the baskets and boxes I had filled with my things.

I was listening to music, and just humming along.  Then I found some things from my dad's memorial, back in 2000.  Funny, I thought the memorial was on August 17.  For years that date has been fixed in my mind.  It was August 18.  How odd, I thought.

I was musing about that when Into the Mystic by Van Morrison started to play.  And I remembered a night, almost 7 years ago, when I was staying with Jen after the twins were born.  The twins weren't sleeping, and at 2 AM, we each had a baby in our arms in the living room, and this song was one of the songs we danced to.  As I remembered, I could feel it as though I was there again.

I found the memories swirling in my head as I listened to the music.  Wishing Dad could have seen his four great-grandchildren.  Wishing they could have known him.  I see him in them sometimes, the nuances that go almost undetected.  I see him.  And smile.

Ah, the memories.  Life is sweet...

 

...life is good.~cathfind me @jonesbabie on Twitter

he said, she said

I started this exercise and diet routine to make myself into a healthier person.  Somewhere along the way, it turned into a competition.  Not only is it a competition, but we have involved Tessie the Terrible Treadmill, who's getting the worst of it.

Every morning, Stevie Wonder climbs on the treadmill, opens the blinds on the window, and kicks the treadmill into a steady speed.  For thirty minutes he gazes out the window, and his brain goes into another dimension.

My routine is a bit more complicated.  I am a fussier athlete.  In order to get on the treadmill I require:

1. girly shoes (with pink accents)
2. music (not just any music, but rock music)
3. new spandex exercise capris with rhinestones on them
4. a timer (I don't want to spend one more second than I have to on Tessie)
5. a sweatband to match my spandex exercise tights (a girl can't have too much bling)

So every morning, while I prepare, Stevie Wonder climbs on, does his thirty minutes in silence, and climbs off a healthier person, basted in his own juices.

Then I get on, scan my music and decide which songs to play in which order.  It makes a big difference, because if I start out with the fastest song (like the one I shared here) I won't last more than 30 seconds.

Next, I adjust the speed on the treadmill to the slowest possible slug-crawling-speed and start.  When I started I lasted 3 minutes.  And that is stretching it.  I wasn't icky sweaty, but I did sport a nice glow.

This morning I climbed on.  I am too bored to just walk, so I kind of dance around on the treadmill, as I gaze out the window.  This morning as I danced gracefully around the treadmill, I decided to kick the speed up a notch. I was feeling great, and thought I was ready for the next level of competition.

As I twirled my hands around and rocked out on the treadmill, I got my left hand caught in the ear bud cord on my iPhone, and accidentally jerked it off and sent it flying off behind me on the treadmill.  I panicked, afraid I had destroyed the iPhone, and turned around to look behind me to make sure it survived the fall.  I forgot I was still moving on the treadmill...but Tessie didn't.  She promptly threw my ass off the back of the treadmill, and I landed on top of my precious iPhone.

I grabbed the iPhone, dusted the bunnies off my butt (they tend to hide under the treadmill), and climbed back on like a determined bull rider.

Ten minutes and two songs later, I climbed off.  OK, so I counted the three minutes it took me to pick myself up off the floor as part of that time.  I figure as long as I was moving, time was clicking.  I was so proud I hollered out my time to Stevie Wonder.

Steve came into the room, climbed on Tessie silently, and did 35 minutes.

I hate him.


~cath
Twitter @jonesbabie