A Middle Aged Woman Walks Into a Sex Shop…It’s No Joke.

Posted on August 23, 2013 by Dawn Quyle Landau

Warning: If you are prone to tisk tisk’ing; if you might run into me in the grocery store and wonder; if you are friends with my kids; if you are an in-law or relative; or, if you are one of my kids, please skip this one— in fact, if you are one of my kids (biological, exchange, or “other”), absolutely stop reading now.  Trust me; it will be worse for you than it will for me.

Image: Lovers web site. You get it right? "Packaged..."

Image: Lovers web site. You get it right? “Packaged…”

Every time I drive down The Guide, the main road past our ridiculously lame mall, I pass the store Lovers. It sits perched on a hill, right at a busy traffic light… where those of us stopped— on our way to other, more respectable stores, can’t help but see the giant purple sign, the bold purple tiles on the roof (apparently purple is the color of lust, sex, toys), the provocative window displays and the giant sale signs. For years now it’s winked at me as I try not to look in the windows, or guess what’s inside. “Hey you! Yeah, you, stop acting like a prude… I know you’re curious,” it calls to me, as I try to not let other drivers see my cautious glances; “Just come in for a minute…” I watch the light turn green and continue on to Costco.  I’m not actually a prude, but I was never willing to go public with that fact, by traipsing into Lovers, and risking my neighbors seeing me. Never, until two weeks ago.

Call it a twofer awakening; the first came in finding out I’m not as progressive as I’ve always fancied myself.  I was with a group of women and one of them brought up the subject of vibrators. Needless to say, it was a colorful conversation… but the worst part by far was when it became apparent that I was the only woman there, that didn’t own my own “toy.” Maybe it was my deer in the headlights look; or the fact that I was nodding along, smiling anxiously, but clearly didn’t seem to know what they were talking about; or, maybe these savvier women can spot us less sexually sophisticated chicks, pick us out in the crowd? Either way, all eyes turned my way, and I found myself back-pedaling and making excuses, as the comments flew my way. “What!” “Really? You’re serious?” “You haven’t tried a vibrator?” “Never? Ever?!” “What do you do?” The looks of pity and shock were almost more than I could bear. Geez! You’d think I’d admitted to being a virgin, and that my kids were adopted. I admit it; I felt like a lesser woman for that half hour or so. They all were clearly stunned, and I was embarrassed.

Image: amillionmilesfromnormal.com

Image: amillionmilesfromnormal.com

What can I say? Have I been curious since then… maybe through the years? Of course. But really, are there millions of other women out there who are so familiar with this all important toy, and I’m the only 50 year old sex-toy virgin? Really? I just haven’t seen the need… or, maybe I’m missing some big thing that I should know more about? Honestly, when one of them started talking about clitoral orgasm versus deeper, g-spot orgasm, my eyes glazed over and I’m sure I looked like the totally lost sheep in the flock. Clearly I was, lost, given the direction the conversation had veered and my utter confusion. I know what an orgasm is; I’m not that clueless— but it was all getting so damned complicated!  I quietly rationalized to myself:  Maybe I don’t need a toy to keep things happy in happy land. Laugh away ladies (you know who you are!); maybe I’m just so much more advanced that I don’t need toys? Or, maybe… Oh God, I’ve been missing some giant womanly thing that all these other women know about, and I’m cruising toward later life and will die dried up and not knowing about the real big bang?  What if I am missing out!! I went home distressed, to say the least.

I’ll admit it, that idea of missing out got under my skin; and, I began to wonder about all of this. I looked in the mirror and wondered if others could see that I was lacking this sexual sophistications component. Yeah, it got under my skin, and there I was at the light on The Guide two weeks ago, trying not to look at the Lovers store, when I had the second awakening: I hadn’t been in a sex store. The two issues came crashing into each other, in that moment and I found myself doing a sharp turn onto the side street where Lovers is and pulling into their lot. Let me clarify, lest you be laughing at me more than you already were: I have been in stores that have sex toys, stores that have adult humor, etc. I’m not that prudish clueless pathetic unaware. I’ve seen dildos. I’ve seen porn. I know what’s out there… or, I thought I did.

I pulled into the parking lot at Lovers, and immediately worried that someone might see me going in. Ok, prudish. But, I pulled up my big girl panties and skulked snuck walked confidently hidden by the bushes toward the front door. Maybe I moved a little quicker as I got toward the entrance and realized that anyone at the stop light could see me, but that’s because it was hot outside and I wanted to get in the cool store. That’s all. When I went through those doors, any vestige of prude in me was melted away, and my eyes were seared by the instant sexual deluge of images. If I looked like a deer in the headlights with my savvy lady friends, I must have looked like some truly lost soul, to the two sexual Goddesses that greeted me.

“Can I help you today?” Goddess #1 asked, as I pretended to know my way around and tried to find the toys, without looking as utterly lost as I was. Um, no, thanks. I’m just looking, (Oh shit! Did I just say I was just looking? As in peeping, as in deviant, as in I actually do come here all the time, and I’m just looking this time…), I told her coolly, as I walked the way women are taught to walk in cities… at night… alone: hands in fists at your sides, like you know where you’re going and with a clearly determined look on your face.  No, I’m fine thank you, I added again, as she came out from behind the counter. “Is there anything I can demonstrate for you today?” I stood perfectly still for a moment, trying to figure out what the right answer to that question was… in a sex shop.  (Is there a room where they show you these things? Is there a real demonstration? Shit! Shit! Shit!) No; thanks a lot. I’m just looking at a few things. I’ll let you know if I need any help… I mean, if I can’t find something… Uh...   “No problem, just call me if you need anything.” She smiled and walked to the back of the store, sure I was clueless. I saw Goddess # 2 smile at her.

Image: LookHowFarWe'veCome.org Any guy who wants to put his parts in here, deserves whatever comes of it

Image: LookHowFarWe’veCome.org Any guy who wants to put his parts in here, deserves whatever comes of it

I tried to look totally nonplussed, like a woman who has g-spot orgasms all the time, and comes into sex shops whenever her vibrator needs replacing. They do need replacing, right? You don’t keep one forever, do you? That seems icky. I walked among the items and kept my face neutral. Cock rings, dildos, vibrators that you can wear all day, under your clothes— Um, really? Really! So, you go to the grocery store and you get off in produce, and then calmly proceed to  cereal? Really? There were pillows to make certain positions easier for the man for couples who like that kind of position. There were flavored oils and lubricants— so, all this sexy stuff doesn’t get you lubricated enough? There’s a flavor for this and a flavor for that. You know what “this” and “that” is, ouí?  There are balls to put in you, balls to wear on you, things to clamp on your balls, and all kinds of things to have a ball with.  There are things to put your parts in: mostly men parts, and with really weird faces and plastic faces and fake vaginas or other openings. There are things in all kinds of happy colors, that must be good, because, well, they are so colorful.  Things that bend, things that wiggle, things that send, me into giggles… Oops, a slip into Seuss there.

(Images from internet— What? You thought I’d take pictures? I would have lost the very last vestiges of self respect, that I barely had. Trust me, this is the tip of the iceberg, so to speak.)

Unknown images-1 images-3

images-1

Image: ibtimes.com

Image: ibtimes.com

Fifty Shades of Gray is big in sex stores, I discovered. There was actually a display at Lovers— buy the book, along with your clothes line, hand cuffs, feathers, whips, gags, blind folds and all kinds of other stuff… none of which was gray. There’s probably a gray lubricant, since lubes seem to be very big in sex stores. For the record, I still haven’t read Fifty Shades. Yeah, I’m that out of touch. After my utter humiliation at Costco a few months ago (read here), it has remained tucked under a pile of stuff… It’s not all about the gray though. There were all kinds of apparently sexy garb: maids are still big; nurses (a bit cliché, no?); and more blatantly sexual gear. Just for the record, there’s a lot that women are apparently supposed to wear, not so much for men. I tried to keep moving; not pick anything up, lest it be something I wasn’t prepared to touch (most of it); and, did not ask the two Goddesses for help.

If I was confused in the rest of the store, the vibrator section was totally unsettling. There are a lot of toys out there, in shapes that made my head spin… with heads that spin. This thing that everyone refers to as a rabbit, didnt’ really look like a rabbit, if you ask me. They come in a dizzying assortment of colors; they come smooth or bumpy; they come with multiple speeds, water-proof and not water proof; they come unGodly large and frankly, a little small. But I remained calm. I didn’t ask for help, and I made sure my jaw didn’t visibly drop. I acted like an adult woman who knows what she’s doing, and what size and shape will work… mostly.

Image: someecards.com

Image: someecards.com

Then it occurred to me that a truly sexually sophisticated woman would not hesitate to ask for help, right? Women like us can say things like “Does this provide g-spot stimulations as well as clitoral?” And keep a straight face. We earn the respect of the Sex Goddesses, when they know we know that they know what we all should know. So when I came up to the counter with my selection— Yes, I bought something; no I won’t clarify further— I simply smiled and said,  This looks like a really good product, right?  “Oh yes! You have great taste; this is by far our best seller.”  She said this very matter-of-factly, as if she has these conversations every day (Ok So maybe she does) and because she is a sexual Goddess and is totally comfortable with her lady parts and any other parts she encounters. I basked in her twenty something divine Goddess approval. Well, well… take that judgers. Snap! You elitist sexual connoisseurs! I am apparently a natural at selecting sex toys. No experience needed; I chose the best seller, all on my own— I thought as I handed her my purchase, and sent a silent prayer up to baby Jesus, that we could be done with all further conversation.

And then she opened the box, and I stood there frozen. “We like to make sure these are fully charged for you, and everything works properly,” she explained as she plugged my toy in, something very akin to the Verizon store, when they charge your phone for you. Um, there’s really no need, I stammered said. I can charge it at home in the privacy and hiding place of my choosing. “Oh no! We want to make sure it’s in full working order for you before you leave the store.” Right, of course. Thanks.  She unplugged it after what seemed like far too little time for something to charge and do all the things it promised to do, and held it up for inspection. Shit! Put that thing down! Someone might walk in and see me with that thing! My brain was exploding!  Thanks. Thanks a lot, I said calmly. “Do you want me to show you how it works,” she asked again, as she held it up. Seriously? Really? How on earth do you demonstrate a vibrator? I give. She switched it on and held it toward me, “Here, would you like to feel it?” I tried not to look at the wiggling device; really, I did try to look composed. I adjusted my big girl panties, which were feeling distinctly like Depends, or little girl panties with the days of the week on them, or some variation of the two by that point, and said, No, thank you. I think I can figure it out on my own. I kept myself from screaming: Put the damned thing in that bag, right now!

Image: condomunity.com

Image: condomunity.com

“Can I get you anything else?” I must have looked lost, or whatever it is that all those other women noticed, when she asked, because she picked up some little packets and said, “Lubricant?” No, thanks. She looked at me like I didn’t get it, and admittedly, I was becoming increasingly aware that I don’t get it; haven’t gotten it, and may not ever get it, but I shook my head very confidently: the confidence of a middle-aged woman who just doesn’t need lubricant, I suppose, and waited for her to put my toy in a bag. “It’s just that sometimes lubricant helps,” she added. Ok, I could not take this one more minute. I may be clueless, but I was not willing to discuss flavors or types or anything else about lubricants. And I truly believe she was starting to get a kick out of my efforts to look savvy, when I’m not. She smiled, held my toy up and began to demonstrate how to clean it, and while I may not be savvy about toys, I know what that hand motion looked like, and I know I turned bright red. The gig was up.

Ok, thanks. I appreciate all your help, I told her. I haven’t bought one before, but I do know how to read the instructions, and at this stage, I think I really would prefer to just take it home and figure it out. There was absolutely no point in feigning savvy any longer. The red face was a dead give away, and probably the way I had begun to stutter; we both knew it.  Kind of the way we all inevitably imagine people having sex, the minute they tell you they’re trying to have a baby, she knew that my trying to figure it out at home, would involve certain things, and she just smiled knowingly and put the lube down.  Honestly, I just crossed off two bucket list items today, I tried to regain a thimble full of dignity. I finally bought a toy, and after sitting at the light out there and wondering about this place for years, I can say I’ve been in. The two Goddesses both laughed— no longer that laugh that tells you you’re not in on the joke, and did a fist bump. “Good for you! Would you like a punch card too?” Shit! Do people really get punches for this stuff? “Actually, you earned 7 punches with this purchase and that’s a big savings next time.” I got the punch card. Maybe there’s something beyond the G-spot that I don’t know about either? Now that I’d earned some respect back, I wasn’t asking that, but I do love my punch cards, and I’ve got a discount coming… next time. I hadn’t even looked at the price, and when I did, I put the receipt in my purse like I do this all the time (even if we all knew I didn’t), and took my bag. Thanks. This is great, really, thanks. And for the record, for the price, I should get alimony if this thing doesn’t work. I’ll admit it; I felt really Kool for making the Sex Goddess laugh that hard, as I headed for the door. 

When I walked out, I stood taller and ran a little slower went to my car. I hid tucked the bag under the groceries and drove away, no longer a sex store virgin, or an outsider. I am now a punch card carrying member of the toy club. I know what’s what, and I know where to buy  it.

*    *     *

Dawn Quyle Landau lives in the Pacific Northwest, with her husband, her three children (as they leave and re-enter the nest) and two spoiled dogs, Gracie and Luke. She is an avid traveler, but live in one of the most beautiful places on earth. When she’s not busy watching the colors change over the San Juan islands, she writes three times weekly for her blog, Tales From the Motherland, works on a novel, volunteers for Hospice and an organization fighting childhood sexual abuse, and plans her next adventures. Her work has been published in Bucketlist Publications, SLAP’D (Surviving Life After a Parent Dies (an online support site for teens), Cascadia Weekly, and in the anthology Tangerine Tango, Women Writers Share Slices of Life. Connect with Dawn: Tales From the Motherland, Twitter, Facebook 

Note: I have been trying to figure out how to write about this, and not lose face, for weeks. Not possible. When I saw that Emily and Ashley’s prompt for this week, on the summer blog hop, was Remember the time… you were an outsider, I knew where to plug this in. Trust me, there are so many times I could have written about being an outsider, but this is the most recent time… and it needed writing.

Please check out Tales From the Motherland on Facebook, and hit Like. I’m going for 200; you can make me smile. I’m on Twitter too.

rememberthetime_zps58158eef

Posted in Aging, Awareness, Blog, Blogging, Daily Observations, Education, Honest observations on many things, Humor, Life, Musings | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 55 Comments

12 Minute Memory

Posted on August 15, 2013 by Dawn Quyle Landau

Note: This post is in response to the Word Press Weekly Challenge. The prompt states:

“THE CHALLENGE: I REMEMBER

You’ll need an egg timer or a some sort of stopwatch for this challenge. Set a countdown timer for 10 minutes, choose one of the writing prompts below, and just start writing. Whatever you do, don’t stop for ten minutes. Keep your fingers typing. Write what you remember. It need not be accurate — it’syour memory. Do not judge. You got this.

  • Your earliest memory. Capture every detail. Document the quality of the memory — is it as sharp as HDTV or hazy and ethereal, enveloped in fog? Write for 10 minutes. Go.
  • Your happiest memory. Tell us the story of the happiest memory of your life. What happened? Get it all down, no detail left behind. The clock is ticking — get writing.
  • Your worst memory. Record the pain, the anger, the shame, the terror, the hurt. You’ve got ten minutes to relive it. Keep your fingers typing.
  • Freestyle memory. Write I remember at the top of your post, hit start on the timer, and write about the first memory that comes to mind. Ten minutes. Don’t stop.”

I gave myself 12 minutes on the timer, and started writing. I stopped when the timer chimed, and added these notes, and the Weekly Challenge prompt after. Find other entries here: http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/08/05/writing-challenge-remember/

This is the post, NO edits, no changes, and exactly 12 minutes. Fun challenge, and great way to highlight a very special memory.

Challenge:

The Delta, pretty much as "I remember" it. Image: www.snugharbor.com

The Delta, pretty much as “I remember” it.
Image: http://www.snugharbor.com

The memory is still so clear to me, yet the fractured pieces come back in hazy images and abbreviated flashbacks. My younger brother, sister and I were living with my father and great-grandmother, for a brief time, while my parents tried to figure out what they would do with their marriage. My brother and I shared a bed, while my sister slept in ha crib nearby. Our bed was pushed up against a window that looked out on Nini’s fantastic yard and garden— a place where we created magical worlds by day, and where a mocking bird sang to us by night.

I suppose it should have been an unhappy time, and maybe it was; but, all I remember is joy—the feeling of being loved and incredible things happening, seemingly every day. My father, was Peter Pan to my great-grandmother’s strong, but loving discipline. He brought play time and silliness, she brought wonderful meals, clean plates and hands, and a generous hugs. I felt surrounded by all the things a child needs most, despite the turmoil that was certainly brewing outside that cocoon… as my parents hashed out custody and terms.

I remember that my father liked to watch the high speed boat races on the Delta, and would take us there on hot summer afternoons, that dragged into warm steamy nights. I remember riding our bikes there, for what seemed like a hundred miles. I was eight at the time, and have no idea how far it really was, but the ride involved crossing several busy intersections, and leaving the city behind— until we were out in the country, surrounded by the vast farmland and corporate fields of Del Monte, in the San Joaquin Valley. I remember that both my brother and whined about the distance; we begged to stop and go back. Our legs burned and our arms hurt, and dad just urged us on.

I remember that we stopped beside a field and my father snatched a small watermelon straight from the vines and smashed it open on the hot road. None of us cared that the juice dripped all over our clothes and down our small faces and hands. Dad laughed, and we thought he was a hero for finding the perfect snack to make the ride worthwhile. It was probably the sweetest mellon I ever ate.

Later, we reached the races and were thrilled by the loud engines and excitement of the crowd. Boats shooting across the water like space ships on water. We cheered and yelled and I remember feeling so special to get to see such an exciting event. Dad knew one of the boat owners and my brother and I got to sit in the boat for only a moment and pretend we were Evil Kneivel. What a moment in an eight year old’s life.

I remember the sun setting over the Delta and the beautiful pink sky, the sound of insects and the crowds beginning to break up. The day is seared liked that sunset in my mind. Dad found a friend to take us back in his pick up, and he threw our bikes in the back, loaded us back there as well, and held us tight as we drove back toward home. I watched as the water, and then the fields, and eventually the day all vanished into memory. But when it comes back, it is still as clear and brilliant and pink and juicy and magical as it was that day— but all the more meaningful because it is what I have left, of my father.

Note: These memories are precious gems; my father was killed when I was ten.

Also: While I wrote this for Weekly Challenge, I am sharing it on Emily and Ashley’s Blog Hop. They’ve had a grand summer thing going. Check out other posts on either of their sites.

rememberthetime_zps58158eef

Posted in Awareness, Blog, Blogging, Death of parent, how blogs work, Life, Musings, My world, Nature, Tales From the Motherland, Wonderful Things, Writing | Tagged , , , , , | 17 Comments

Dear Kids,

Posted on August 13, 2013 by Dawn Quyle Landau

You’ve been on my mind a lot lately. In fact, it seems you are on my mind all the time, given that one of the three of you, or all three at once, pop into my thoughts at least once each day. Admittedly, once would be a slow day. This past week, the first time ever that you are all away for an extended amount of time — each in a different country, to be specific— dad and I did all kinds of things that we would have done with you, if you were here. And you popped into my mind, over and over each day. It was so strange to not have you there, and yet, dad and I got a brief glimpse of what it will be like when we will soon be home without any of you here.

Principessa would love this place, I found myself thinking. Or, Middle Man would be so tempted to jump over that log, and see if he could balance on that rock. He’s so daring. When we went kayaking and there were seals swimming around us, I knew that Little Man would be so excited. You all would love the hikes, through old growth woods; you’d appreciate the eagles, seals and beaver we saw; you would love jumping in the cold, salty water with us, and swimming out to the giant rock. I’m so glad you’re people who love to be in the wilderness. I always think of you there. A given song on the radio; a food ordered at a restaurant; the view of the water through the forest; the meteors as we watched the Persieds two different nights, from the waters edge (remember all the nights we slept on our deck, oohing and ahhing as the “shooting stars” sped past us? There’s a satellite, one of you always said)… so many things made me think of each of you. Every day.

And that thought really got in my head. I have been a mother now for four years less than I was without you, but you three are such a part of me, that I can’t imagine me, without you anymore. Of course, I have my own identity, and I don’t see myself as only a mother (believe it or not); but, being your mother touches every part of who I am now. I tried to imagine a day when one of you wont enter my thoughts, let alone all three of you, and I couldn’t envision it. Thoughts of you are like breaths I take, effortless and natural. Your faces are in my head, and I see you when I do the things that are part of any given day. And I smile. Or think. Or wonder. Or miss.

I wonder how you are, and what you are doing. I wonder if you are glancing up at the sky, as I am— even though I know that each of you is looking at a night sky, when I look at the sun, and sun when I study the stars. I wonder if you are happy with your lives, and excited for the many adventures ahead of you? I think about the things we’ve done together, and the things I still want to do. I think about the ways I fell short as a mother, and the ways I shined. Both come to mind a lot lately, as each of you sets out in the world and my time to parent you has become more limited. I miss the times when we went to amazing places together; the time you surprised me, blind folded me, and took me to Deception Pass for Mother’s Day (one of my favorite places); skiing, camping, and hiking together; the dinners, and pancakes, and movies with popcorn. I still think of the day each of you was born, with crystal clarity, and a spontaneity that catches me off guard sometimes. I smile, and catch my breath, at the passing of time. I miss each of you. Who you were, who you are now. I miss you.

So this week I was really thinking about how much I think of you all, and what that says about me, about us as a family, about being a mother. I don’t imagine that you think of me nearly as much, but I’m ok with that. I didn’t think about my mother either. I didn’t even wonder if my Mom was thinking about me, most of the time. Nor did I imagine that some day I would think as much about any one, as I do about you guys. Maybe when you’ve each been gone long enough I’ll have gaps in my thoughts. Maybe a day might go by, and my thoughts wont land on one of you, and the next day I’ll find myself thinking “Oh, I wonder how Principessa, or Middle Man, or Little Man is.”  Maybe.

But today, I wanted each of you to know that I love you. I miss you. I’m thinking of you.

Love,  Mom

Note: This post is part of The Daily Post; the prompt is: An Open Letter. Check out others here, at The Daily Post.

I remember this day. When you were little and school was pretty much the only place you went without me.

I remember this day. When you were little and school was pretty much the only place you went without me.

Posted in Aging, Awareness, Blog, Blogging, Daily Observations, Life, Mothers, Musings, My world, Parenting, Personal change, Tales From the Motherland, Teenagers, Women, Women's issues, Writing | 27 Comments

I Want My MTV…

Posted on August 10, 2013 by Dawn Quyle Landau

MTV debuted the year I graduated from high school, and just weeks before I started college. It was a revelation, in the life of this music junky. My peers and I had been blessed with the brilliance of Saturday Night Live, which colored our high school years with crazy antics of John Belushi, Larainne Newman, Chevy Chase, Dan Akroyd, Gilda Radner, Garrett Morris and Jane Curtin. We were forever quoting Samurai, Wild and Crazy Guys (with the help of Steve Martin), Coneheads, etc. The brilliant comedy and memorable skits were weekend fodder and were replayed for our days in class.

Theinspirationroom.com

Theinspirationroom.com

Personally, I think I grew up in an amazing time. So many break-through venues started as I was figuring things out in my own life, and heading out into the bigger world. If SNL gave wing to my dry, sarcastic sense of humor, MTV fed my music-driven soul. It heralded an age when music took visual form and there was a video, a movie of sorts, to make the music that much more intense. I was riveted that first day, and the debut still stands out as epic in my young life. My friends and I stayed up late, having been partying at a friend’s, and watched the amazing first footage as the iconic space walk was revamped to include an MTV flag. That image would be the hallmark of MTV for ages, and how I will always remember the show. Honestly, I would have to look up what the first songs were; I was transfixed and the the concept was far sharper than the actual music. (First video ever played on MTV… probably true, Video Killed the Radio)

There’s no denying it, if one looks back at those old videos, or tries to compare them to today’s slick, technologically savvy productions, they are laughable. Often, when I pull up an old video, that I thought was brilliant then, I’m left stumped, disappointed. But at the time, oh how glorious it all was! There was music, and videos (videos!) 24/7 with no commercials. The mere idea of music non-stop was incredible! The idea of videos was absolutely huge. Today it’s a given, but in 1981 music videos were an electric jolt, a realization of how we imagined our favorite artists to be. Seeing them swagger or chase the girl in the song, or just sing to the camera, was huge. Now, some of those videos make me laugh, too. The wild hair, the outfits, the drama laden singing and primping before the camera seems hokey. In 1981 it was edgy, sexy, and super kool. (When I wasn’t dancing to this, I was watching it:)

That fall, at college, MTV was a newborn and I was a freshman. I attended a (then) small all girls college in Cambridge, MA and I felt like the world was my oyster. My home town, barely an hour away, felt like it was on the other side of the world. Boston was my playground and I had 200 other colleges and universities from which to find friends. But at night, you could often find the other girls from the small house I lived in, and I, up watching MTV. We were getting to know the VJays, who packaged our music and became early celebrities in an arena that would one day be huge. Martha Quinn rocked our world: super cool, but nice, and out there doing what we all wanted to do: Work for MTV. We were mesmerized as videos got better and better and the videos themselves became an integral part of new hits. (Check out these earlyVJays:)

As I finished college, MTV was well into it’s own groove: the videos were sharp and edgy. No longer low budget home-shot videos of lip sinc’ing, music videos were huge productions. It was a big fat let down when commercials were added, as the idea of “commercial free music” had been a main hook at the start. For a while, it was ok, given that the videos just got better and better, and there were still relatively few ads. The VJays worked to make it all interesting;  it seemed a small price to pay to still see new music on a steady basis. For many years, when I was home, if my TV was on, it was tuned to MTV. (Regardless of whether you liked her, Madonna rocked MTV, with some of her first videos:)

Of course, becoming a parent was the beginning of the end of my MTV days. My kids’ early years included music videos and lots of the music I liked, but it was inevitable that Sesame Street, Disney, Barney, and the likes would change our viewing. MTV was changing too, and not in ways that interested me. I didn’t have time for Real World and it’s cast of loopy characters. I was busy breast feeding, and going to mommy and me classes. I was wrangling toddlers in Chicago and toting my groceries in my faithful stroller. What did I care what some 20-somethings were doing, or not doing, somewhere else? My life was less video and more Baby Beluga and Little Mermaid.  When I watched it was only for the music. When it was mommy’s turn for TV, I listened and watched MTV, often as I tried to make exciting dinners and occasionally block out “mommy, mommy, mommy.” (Though not a teen, I was an early Nirvana fan:)

Today, I could barely tell you what MTV is all about. Trashy New Jersey brats have replaced the scene I loved. Videos that make me blush (and that’s not easy) or that just don’t hold my attention are what I find on the rare occasion that I tune in. Admittedly, I can barely recall tuning in in recent years. For me, MTV lost is sparkle a very long time ago. But then, isn’t that the age old way of the world? We age and watch the new guard stake it’s place, and wistfully say how it’s all gone to the dogs… And it’s hard not to fall into that trap, I’m seeing more and more. Somehow, it seems like those years when MTV and I were younger, were simpler, sweeter times. Perhaps not as slick, or as fabulously packaged, but there was magic in the simplicity. It was all about the music, and not about the image. We tuned in to finally see what our favorite artists looked like, not to see where they lived, who was making it in a “real” world, or eventually, who was boinking who in Jersey. We walked around saying “I want my MTV,” and it was about the music. (Then and now. Similar song, but I would argue that the current one/Flo Rider with Kesha, rides the tails of the original/Dear or Alive… glossier and slicker, but not as fun:)

What do you remember about MTV?  Were you around at the start, or did you join the party later? Name some favorites. Share your thoughts in the comment section.

You may also like: http://voices.yahoo.com/way-back-first-ten-music-videos-air-on-5690926.html?cat=33

Or:  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/MTV

This post is part of a blog hop, sponsored by Emily at the Waiting and Ashley at Zebra Garden. I missed the deadline this week, but wifi is not always a given. The general theme of the hop is “Remember the Time,” and they add an new bit each week. Check out other posts on either site.

rememberthetime_zps58158eef

Posted in Aging, Awareness, Blog, Blogging, Daily Observations, Honest observations on many things | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 21 Comments

The U.N. Expands, and Fractures My Heart… Again.

Posted on August 6, 2013 by Dawn Quyle Landau
wnd.com

wnd.com

Note to new readers:  Our family took in two foreign exchange students from August 2011 until June 2012. Denmark is a 17 yr (now 18) old girl. China is a 16 yr (now 17) old boy. The U.S. is our 15 yr old (almost 17) son (AKA: Little Man). Israel, when home, is our 22 yr (23 now) old daughter (AKA: Principessa), and Canada our 19 (21 now) yr old son (AKA: Middle Man). I am The Secretary General. Smart Guy is Dad. Together, we are the U.N.: a home where laughs come daily, chaos reigns and borders fall easily, as we live like a real family.  Know that no foreigners were hurt in the making of this blog post or in the incidents cited. All parties were aware that their comments were being noted, and pictures were used with permission, and assistance in editing for privacy. That said…

The UN just before it disbanded

The UN just before it disbanded

It’s been a while since I’ve shared any news of the U.N., but there have been developments just the same.  My last posts were about the dismantling of the U.N. in May 2012 (For some funny, clever insight into the U.N. in its final stages, read here, here, and here), but we have all been in contact via email, Facebook and skype.  It has not been easy. I have missed Denmark and China so much.  Denmark is great at arranging Skype dates and sending me notes on FB or email— being in touch. China, has been a bit less available, in classic China style. Given Chinese regulations over Facebook, it’s not a big surprise. China’s tendency to swear at China the country, probably didn’t help his cause, in accessing the Faceboo, which, for the record, is not easily available in China. Given some of his posts, we wondered if he’d been taken out and publicly caned for some of his postings… but, he appears to be fine, and will be attending the University of Washington this fall!  “Ma, I wanted to move home” he wrote, when explaining why he chose UW over the other U.S. colleges that accepted him.

China, ever the enigma

China, ever the enigma

While Denmark has been super responsive about staying in touch, China’s intermittent responses to emails and FB have been frustrating over time. He often takes weeks to respond to a message, and has not been available to Skype in the year since he left. For all I know, his kool hair cut and stylish ways have completely reverted to the slightly nerdish look he arrived with. Denmark spent virtually an entire year planning a visit to see us this summer, complete with her family. Endless emails and updates, to the Secretary General, who generally works best with “winging it,” “free falling,” and “last minute plans,” were daunting at times; but, then, when her arrival was pending, everything was set and arranged.  China, in typical style, sent an email about 6 weeks ago, announcing that he’d bought tickets to Bellingham, and would be arriving the very day that my father in law and partner are arriving, and the week that the U.N. expands and bursts at the seems. “I am bringing a friend. You will like him, he is very nice. We will be there for 4 days and I think we will have a lot of fun,” China informed me by email.  China-Secretary General communication remains tangled.

In addition to Denmark and China, the U.N. is expanding in ways that cause sleepless nights and moments of huge excited anticipation. Updates:  The U.S. has departed on his first solo journey, to Germany. He is visiting a good friend, who will be living with us from late August until the end of this school year, when both U.S. and Germany will graduate. So Germany will officially be joining the U.N. in late August, and the U.S. now has close German ties. Given that Israel has made it official and is remaining in Israel (currently awaiting immigration status), the Secretary General has had to work on better relations with the country, and make more efforts to travel to the region. Israel will be returning for two weeks to the U.N. Assembly in the near future, and will bring another Israeli.  Canada was in Beijing and exploring China from late January until late May, and has been doing an internship in Taiwan since then. In between, Canada travelled in Cambodia, Vietnam, Laos and Thailand. Consequently, Canada returns to the U.N. August 24th, with expanded relations throughout Asia. And Germany will arrive to remain in residence, in the final week of August.  Bringing the U.N. to six formal Nation Members, and extensive ties around the globe.

Denmark (2nd from L) and her family on Mt. Baker

Denmark (2nd from L) and her family on Mt. Baker

The Secretary General, at the time of this post, is facing emotional upheaval, as Denmark prepares to Copenhagen. Having had her and her family here, off and on for several weeks (while they traveled all over the western U.S.), has renewed a deep connection and fondness for her wonderful smile, quick wit, humor and lovely voice. The days together were filled with deep warmth and love, and a newly forged and special connection to her parents and sister. Leaving her in Vancouver two days ago, for her flight back, was very difficult. Driving away was painful. Another goodbye, another adjustment to her absence. It is challenging on so many levels.

The job of Secretary General to an Assembly of countries so varied and dynamic is not easy. Brilliant minds, enormous passions, wide ranging personalities— individual nations with diverse and expansive motivations and approaches are not easy to wrangle and work with. As Secretary General, I am left to watch, often silently, as these countries make their impact on the world. In an age when there is often too much thought and too little heart, my heart is fractured and torn regularly. It should be stronger by now, but that is easier said than done.

To allow Israel to seek independent status requires enormous flexibility and the ability to put aside personal desires. Oh to have that small country stay nearby would be so sweet, but she is now rooted in the Middle East and has wide spanning visions and endless passion to share there. Israel is working on helping refugees in Syria, and the world needs more hearts like hers. (Read her work here, in the Jerusalem Post and Reuters). To see Denmark and China join the Assembly for one magical year and then see them go, and come and go again, is wonderful and challenging all at the same time. Germany is bound to bring new changes, challenges and joys to the Assembly as well. We may be eating a lot more schnitzel come fall. My boy, Canada, is doing such big things, that my brain hurts trying to keep up. That moment when you realize that your little countries have become bigger and smarter than you, makes a Secretary General’s head spin.

Neutral territory for these former national adversaries.

Neutral territory for these former national adversaries.

The Assembly will be in full session for one glorious week in August. Afterwards, it will be great to have China the region again, able to join us on some weekends and interact more regularly with the US and Germany, as well as Israel and Canada when they’re here. The nations are are all on good terms and expanding their horizons. Even Labrador and Mexico/Germany (Chiweenie) have found neutral ground, having surrendered the fight for the gray thing, they both covet.  The world is a smaller place, with the help of Skype, Facebook, email, and now University. Nations have developed and grown in ways that make a Secretary General proud and happy… but the process is a tricky road. We are brought together, and we say goodbye; over and over again. And this heart fractures… then heals.

Posted in Aging, Awareness, Blogging, Can't sleep, Daily Observations, Foreign exchange students, Honest observations on many things, Humor, Israel, Life, Musings, My world, Parenting, Summer, Tales From the Motherland, The U.N., Wonderful Things, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 18 Comments

I haven’t done the weekly photo challenge before, but each week as I look through others’ work, I think: I should do one too. When I saw Foreshadow, I new immediately which photo I would use.

IMG_0764Right after my daughter’s graduation from college, in May 2012, we helped her load up four years worth of memories and belongings, and watched her drive away. She was determined to drive cross country (from Massachusetts to Washington state) on her own, her little car packed to the gills. As we were taking the final boxes down. I came up to her room and found her looking out across the campus she loved so much, and saying a silent goodbye. I quietly snapped this photo…

I knew as I watched her, in that quiet moment, that this was a foreshadow of many more goodbyes. She is a traveller, a child of the world, a woman with big dreams and deep passions. Four months later, she left for Israel to study for a year, and where she would decide to settle. She is currently in the process of immigrating to Israel; and, now when she is home, it is only to visit. Her home is there. I knew as I watched her, that she was saying goodbye to her world here, and I was beginning the difficult process of saying goodbye to her.

Posted on August 3, 2013 by Dawn Quyle Landau | 25 Comments

Sometimes The Stars Align; And You Get Very Lucky…

Posted on July 29, 2013 by Dawn Quyle Landau

I consider myself a lucky person, in ways that really don’t involve pure luck. Those of you who have read this blog for a while, or consistently, know that I have traveled a lot, and done some very cool things. I live in an incredibly gorgeous place, surrounded by pretty unique and wonderful people. My husband is successful, my kids are truly inspiring, and my dogs are adorable. And for the record, I don’t brag like that very often, but it’s easy to see why I opened with I’m a lucky person.

But, none of that is really pure luck. All of it, every single detail, took a lot of time, hard work and commitment. None of it just came in one lucky stroke, or the draw of a magic ticket. And I get it: lots of people work really hard, and are very committed, and put in the time, and don’t get to do or have some of the things I’ve been fortunate to do and have. I would argue that that it’s still not luck. There were years and years of not doing those things, hoping that our life would work out and the sacrifices would “pay off.” They did; and, I’ve been very grateful for the life we have.

Image: amazingplacesonplaneteearth.com

Image: amazingplacesonplaneteearth.com

However, in the past two weeks I have felt very, very lucky. The kind of serendipitous luck that really feels like you wished upon the right star. Like there’s a four leaf clover stuck to your shoe… Not quite two weeks ago, I found out that I won two tickets to Fiji, from Bucket List Publications and Fiji Airways. Let me say here, it was not one of those contests where your name is randomly drawn from a batch of thousands. The contest was based on effort. If you watched for postings from BLP on the topic of Fiji, you could Like the post, and comment on it. Each of those efforts counted as an entry. You could do that once per posting. You could Tweet the #tag lines: #BulaFijiAirways and #Bucketlistpublications once per day, for another entry, and post on your Facebook page (I have two: my personal one, and one for this blog) and that was another entry. Each of those things could be done once daily, and would count as separate entries. Then there was the Memory Game. Set up by Fiji Air and BLP, it involved flipping over cards to make matches. There were 24 cards, I believe. I should know that fact hard, because I think I played that game a thousand times in the 10 days of the contest.

So here’s the ticket; early on, I figured out two things: That Lesley Carter, the Queen of BLP had posted many pieces about Fiji when she first took her trip there. The contest said that you comment and like “Any” post on Fiji. It didn’t say “Any new post.” While I had read them all when they came out, I went back and made sure I’d commented on every single one, and hit like, leaving my calling card and tag lines. Bingo! Many entries, because Lesley loved Fiji and posted a lot about it. Second, and I think the thing that tipped the contest in my favor: the rules did not say you could play the game once a day. So, I wrote in and asked that question- privately. I did not post the question, and show my cards. I’m lucky and smart. And when I heard back that I could play as many times as I wanted, each would be an entry, I played that game until I went blind… until my fingers were numb… until Little Man and Smart Guy openly mocked me and thought I’d gone round the bend. If we were watching TV, I was playing the Memory Game. If I was waiting for something (dentist, appts, etc) I was playing the Memory Game. The last 24 hours of the contest, I played that game… a lot!

Image: usdivetravel.com

Image: usdivetravel.com

Again, this was not a random drawing; it was based solely on entries. The person with the most entries, was the winner. I could see my competition. There were some other very committed players. There were lots of people who were Tweeting, and posting on FB; and, I assumed, playing the Memory Game too… but each day, I told myself that I would do more than any one else. And I did. And I got lucky too… I saw the contest, amidst all the other things in my In-box; I had some time to keep playing; and others didn’t figure out the same things and do more. That was lucky, because I did a lot: I pushed and pushed, but I know others did too. I was lucky that no one else put all of those things together and pushed more than me. And I am lucky to be going to Fiji! No date decided; I haven’t gotten all the details yet; but, I did win 2 tickets to Fiji, with Bucket List Publications— thanks, to the dynamic Lesley Carter, who excites me with every post and Fiji Airways, who gave the tickets away.

From there, the luck just built. I signed up for the Pacific North West Writers Conference, despite my ongoing trepidations about publishing. While I knew I could only attend the first half, I was hopeful that maybe I’d make some contacts and learn some cool things at the many courses being offered. However, I didn’t really work on pitches, organize myself, or look into hotels. I didn’t know that they were full. Totally full. Ands so, I drove down there Wednesday night— totally last minute—figuring that I’d be there to line up for pitch sessions, bright and early on Thursday. Sessions started on Friday, but sign up started at 8am on Thursday. I moseyed down, stopping at Nordstroms to make some returns and check out a sale, and then headed to the airport. The conference was at a major hotel there. It was late; I was tired; and, one by one, every hotel was full. Smart Guy called: “did you get a hotel?”  Yes, I lied. “Where will you be staying?” Uh, at the Comfort in South of the city. I knew he’d think I was nuts (again) if I was winging this. I was. Who knows if there’s a Comfort Inn south of Seattle, but they’re everywhere, and I was certain he wouldn’t be checking.

One by one I pulled into hotels and they were all full. “We are fully booked, and I believe every hotel for 30 miles north or south is, as well,” I was told, as I walked out of one. No problem! I chirped; panicking, but “never let them see you sweat.” I had just decided that I would sleep in the car garage at SEATAC, use my bottled water to brush my teeth, ignore any late night needs to pee, and pay only $25 for the overnight spot…. when I pulled into a Clarion hotel, across from the parking garage. By any chance, do you have a room for tonight? Frankly, each time I said it, I thought of Mary. Yeah, that Mary. The guy at the desk, looked at me, tired and told me “No, we’re fully booked.” No problem, I chirped, prepared to sleep in my car, when (cue the music: Daft Punk, Get Lucky) the woman at the other end of the desk said: “Did you really come to the airport with no reservation?” I nodded, pathetically, but chirpy smile in place. “Well, you are one lucky person, because that was a cancellation, and I have a queen, non-smoking room—” (for half the price of the room I’d found on line for the next night). I was so relieved, I said: I’m feeling lucky! I just won 2 tickets to Fiji too! The man looked at me, and said: ” You should buy a lottery ticket! Here are your keys.”

So I had a room that was half the price of the room I’d be moving to the next night, with free parking. I felt pretty damned lucky indeed. When I woke up the next morning and saw that I was directly across the street from the convention, and a block from The Holiday Inn, where I was going to be moving to for the next night… I felt triple lucky, and left my car parked for free at Clarion. Lucky girl… with some smarts. I stashed my luggage in my car and dashed over to the Writer’s Conference, hoping to get a good pitch session, as I would only be there for one day of pitches.

I was anxious to make sure I got in there quickly, but had let it go so long I really didn’t know who was who and which people I wanted to meet, so the first half hour was an endless anxiety tsunami. I did some very quick reading on Editor and Agent bios and signed up for session A, the first of the conference, on the next day. When they handed me my Session A admittance card, I held it up and said: This is my lottery card! But honestly, I felt blind, anxious, topsy turvy— a deer in the headlights. I’ve been struggling for ages, like unreal ages, to pick a title for my novel. I choose blog titles weekly, but I could not come up with a book title. I chose one the day I left for the conference. Having just chosen it, it was really hard to imagine how to pitch the novel. I’d written a pitch, and worked hard on perfecting it on paper, months before… but I had never said it out loud. During the day, I attended wonderful sessions on publishing: traditional versus self— that’s where it’s all headed: say traditional publishers and self-publishing sites. And my thoughts raced as I tried to figure out what I’d say at my pitch session. We met the agents, we met some editors. My thoughts raced some more. I met other authors and compared notes. My thoughts amped up further.

I got lucky and had the opportunity to pitch, in the hallway, to a major New York agent. She was incredible! A brilliant speaker and so generous to sit and listen to a long line of wannabe authors. I was stoked; and, I totally blew it. Blew. It! I could barely remember my name, let alone the pitch. She didn’t like my “hook;” she didn’t get what the main character’s motivation was; she had my head spinning in seconds, firing questions my way! “Why should we care about Maya?” (the main character) The question, so direct and reasonable; but, as I tried to respond, I began to speak in tongues; I stuttered; I could not think of an intelligent thing to say. Umm, I don’t know. Even as I said it: I don’t know why you should care about my character, I wanted to puke. The stupidest thing I could say to an agent: If I don’t know why you should care, why would any reader care, let alone an agent? It’s as simple as that, and I know it. Utter fail. Blew it.  The agent, remained cool and kind. She listened, she gave solid advice, she was still encouraging, and thoughtful, but I knew I’d just blown my first pitch.

It got under my skin, and all my planning began to unravel. I began to question the entire pitch I’d written ages ago; I struggled with what to rewrite, where to go with it; I questioned and doubted everything— the novel itself. I hardly slept that night, and I walked around all day in a dither.  I began to throw myself and my work under a bus… sure that my luck had run up and my skill wasn’t enough. I tried a new pitch on some other writers and started to get a new sense of what to say, but every time I tried to say it without reading it, I fell apart. I got more and more nervous, afraid I’d blow it with every other agent and editor.

When the time came, I got in line with dozens of other writers, many of whom told me they’d been practicing for weeks (eek!).  I waited for the doors to open— all of us like cattle in a pen, for the 90 minute pitch session at 2pm. There were about 75 other writers, possibly more; 17 Agents and 5 Editors to choose from inside the room, and 4 minutes per pitch—with a loud buzzer and “bouncers” to make you move on when your time was up). Think musical chairs, but at each new chair you have to be tell someone why they should make your dreams come true. I ran my new pitch through my head over and over, panicking each time I tripped up. And then, it was time: the buzzer rang and I stepped up to my first Agent. I shook her hand; I introduced myself, with a brief mention of the ensuing chaos around us; looked her in the eye and said my pitch. She asked a few enthusiastic questions, told me she was “Very interested, and very intrigued by my story,” and then she handed me her card and asked me to sent her the first three chapters. Aside from wetting my pants, I simply smiled and said a professional Thank you, and the buzzer rang. I tried not to skip, or hoot, as I walked away.

It was a like a giant game of chess. How many people in each line? Multiply that times 4, to figure out if I’d get through the line, and make sure that I could get to the agents and editors that I was most interested in. I scrambled, I trotted back and forth. I counted and recounted. I scooted from one line to another. The agent I most wanted to speak with had a huge line the entire time, but when they announced that the final 2 rounds were up, I grabbed a very well known agent who was free, and eyed the line I most wanted. Maybe confused, maybe tired, the last person stepped out of that line, just as the buzzer rang, and I darted over and took their place. “Nice,” the bouncer, encouraged, “that was a lucky move.” I got to speak to that very desirable agent and she was very enthusiastic about my work. In fact, later in the day, she pointed me out in the audience while giving her talk, and commented that my pitch was really well done.

Image: vimeo.com

Image: vimeo.com

When the final buzzer rang, and the agent handed my her card, “excited to read (my) work,” Ahh! Deep sigh of relief.  Final Tally?  I spoke to 2 editors and 7 agents, and walked away with 9 invitations to submit my work: 5 of them “very excited,” 3 from top houses, and 2 requests for the entire manuscript. I got one other request for three chapters from a top tier editor in the hallway. Each of the agents and editors asked me about whether I had a blog, and I felt so good telling them that I’m part of a very supportive and passionate community of writers. This is home, and I felt so appreciative of all the good things that have come from writing on Word Press. I had 9 business cards in my pocket, each with notes and invitations to try and get my novel published. I practically skipped home! I forgot all about Fiji for two days, and when it came back to me I grinned until it hurt. Next round is where rejections are bound to come, but for now: I’m feeling might lucky; committed, and determined. It’s a mean combination!

*     *    *

Make me smile; HELP ME REACH MY GOAL:  I’d love to see my Tales From the Motherland Facebook page reach 500 likes in 2014. Have you stopped by to spread some fairy dust? Follow me on Twitter, it’s where I try to be brief.  Most importantly, if you like a post I’ve written, hit Like and leave a comment. I love to hear what readers think. Click Follow; you’ll get each new post delivered by email, with no spam.  Vinaka! If you see ads on this page, please let me know. They shouldn’t be there.  © 2014  Please note, that all content and images on this site are copyrighted to Dawn Quyle Landau and Tales From the Motherland, unless specifically noted otherwise. If you want to share my work, please give proper credit. Plagiarism sucks.

Posted in Adventure, Blog, Blogging, Honest observations on many things, Humor, Life, Musings, My world, Tales From the Motherland, Wonderful Things, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 39 Comments

It wasn’t a total shot in the dark. Meagan at Hot Pink Underwear and I actually met at a writing course nearly two years ago. It was very brief, but we got along in the short time we met. We exchanged Facebook info and went our separate ways. Honestly, I figured we probably wouldn’t see each other again.

Then, Meagan started a blog and asked me a couple of questions about it. I liked her writing and began following her posts, barely remembering the woman I’d met, versus the writer I was reading. She read many of my posts. We each commented and in those comments, we began to get to know each other a little bit, as these things go.

She lives about 3 hours from me, and I was  so envious of the writing groups she participates in. So partly in jest, I told her I’d love to come down and write with them some time; she agreed, but we never set a date. Back and forth we went: comments, invitations, praise back and forth, invitations, writing ideas and encouragement, more invitations. And then two weeks ago, finally, we agreed on a date; and, I made plans to drive down to meet Meagan in person. I admit, I saw it as meeting her— as our brief meeting before, hardly seemed real. We’d only spent such a short time together, I didn’t remember much about her. I remembered her writing.

I love a good road trip, so this seemed a win-win opportunity.  I loaded my car with road trip snacks, entered the address in the navigation and headed to Olympia, late on a Thursday. There was traffic; I ate too many cherries; I wolfed down my dinner in a parking lot; I arrived as it was getting dark. It hit me as I was getting ready to pull into their driveway, that I had agreed to go stay with Meagan and her family, having not really met them, and not knowing what to expect. I knew Meagan from her writing; I knew that we felt similarly about a number of things; but, I wasn’t really sure if we’d get along, and I’d enjoy being there. I admit, I paused… for a second, before pulling up the driveway.

Meet Kiki

Meet Kiki

And there she was, welcoming me as I pulled up. There was her husband, greeting me as if I was an old friend of Meagan’s, stopping in to say hi, rather than a stranger. There were big cosy chairs, and artwork that their daughter, O, had done. Family photos, and her writing corner/office… I took it all in, comparing it to the person I’d imagined. We sat up talking, getting comfortable with each other. It was easy: I liked the way she thought about things, and enjoyed sharing ideas and getting to know her. Their cat, Kiki, followed me around, unaware of my allergies. She was so adorable, it was impossible to resist her sweet insistence. I was planning to be there from Thursday night until Saturday morning, and we discussed the options for how to spend our time. When she suggested we go out for a while, to meet some of her friends, I said yes… and wondered what I’d gotten into.

I’m old. Older than Meagan, by nearly a decade. Going out after 10pm is a shock to my system, so I hesitated; but, I was up for adventure. We picked up a friend and headed to an amazing bar in downtown Olympia, called The Brotherhood. Wow! Portraits of JFK and RFK all over one wall, velvet paintings of bull fighters on another. Aerialists perform in the back on occasion, and everything about the place was cool and eclectic. Young people en masse made a scene and were the scene— turning 21 now involves signs around your neck, and falling flat on your ass, in a very short dress. I’m not judging. Drinks were so much cheaper than I’ve grown accustomed to in my middle-aged world, that it was hard to resist.  I didn’t.  As tired as I was, the adventure of being in such an interesting place, with other writers, and things to talk about— I felt energized and awake.  Another writer friend joined us and we all laughed and hung out. We got home late, but I was energized, and went to bed under comfy quilts and surrounded by artsy posters of the National Census. The house was away from the city, surrounded by trees and calming night music, so I opened my window and fell asleep to cooling air and sweet sounds. (Welcome to The Brotherhood: It’s cool inside and out!)

IMG_2676 IMG_2678 IMG_2674

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Farmer's Market and amazing taquitos

Farmer’s Market and amazing taquitos

The next morning, I woke up to Kiki scratching at the door and the sound of chickens clucking outside. Another bright sunny day, and I was excited to go hang out some more, and do some writing. We headed downtown and made our way to the amazing Olympia Farmer’s Market for a late breakfast, early lunch. I had the yummiest Mexican food I’ve tasted since Tuscon. For me, food is key, so the visit was only getting better by the hour! From there we met a friend from the night before at a nearby cafe and wrote, until we had to go pick up Meagan’s daughter and attend her camp Family Night.

More fun and adventure ensued. Meagan’s charming daughter, O, had pizza on the brain and so we took her to her favorite place, where she got to make her own pizza and we got to enjoy O’s creative mind, and witty conversation. The fair was more fun, hundreds of families celebrating a summer night with their kids. We watched O. ride the flying swings, and the go-carts, we all did the zip line and whooped our way across the gap.  Now this was a blogger meeting worthy of recording! Let’s both write a post about this, I suggested. (O. made a heart shaped pizza, and we were Zippy girlzz)

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That night four of us returned to The Brotherhood, and we wrote. I would not have imagined that I could sit and write in a crowded bar— and on a Friday night, The Brotherhood was packed, and write we did. I wrote the post The Sleepover, and Meagan worked on her manuscript. We laughed at the characters who staggered by and to our table, and we watched the booze fed hits and misses going down all around us. But we wrote. And I felt so inspired and excited, and so grateful to have made the trip. (Writer Girlzz at The Brotherhood)

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Can you say "Breakfast?"

Can you say “Breakfast?”

Saturday morning, I woke up to breakfast being cooked, chickens in the yard and Kiki at my door. While Meagan and her husband made breakfast, O gave me a tour of the yard. She introduced me to each chicken by name, and explained how they were all individuals. “But they’ve spent so much time with the rooster, they act more like roosters than hens.” Such an inquisitive, bright girl, she explained why some eggs’ shells are thinner, and why the chickens need certain foods. She showed me the old shed and explained her theories about the names carved in the cement floor. Oh the things she had to tell me. What a delight.

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And so I got on the road, after breakfast. I was in the mood for more adventure, and so I didn’t head home. I headed along the Hood Canal instead and out to see the lavender fields, which were all in full boom for the impending lavender festival. I stopped where I wanted, to see the beautiful vistas and just enjoy my adventure. Some of the fun ran thin when I couldn’t find a place to sleep; every “Vacancy” was a lie. I ended up in a yucky little place in Port Angeles, but the next day drove on to my favorite place: Port Townsend, to see my aunt and Uncle. My uncle made delicious crab melts, which we ate looking out at Mt Baker and the Straight. From the ferry home, I could see my aunt signal me with a mirror— something she always did for my kids as well, and I felt the same warm fuzzy I always feel with them. Deception Pass on the way home, and the beautiful fields of Skagit Valley, made my re-entry sweet.

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Connecting with Meagan was a real treat. The person I imagined from her writing, was all that and more. I have little doubt that we will do it again, at my place or hers. When I started writing this blog two years ago, I never imagined that I would “meet” and connect with so many wonderful people. I saw it as a writing outlet, a place to build a “platform,” for getting published, and an opportunity to challenge myself to write more. It’s been so much more gratifying than I envisioned, so much richer. I have made friends and hope to meet more. I can imagine all kinds of meet and greets, now that the ice has been broken with Meagan and Mike. Who knows if I’ll publish that novel? But I’m a blogger, and I’m proud of it.

Now run over to Meagan’s blog and check out her post. It should be up by Monday evening. We are both posting about our visit, so let’s see what She Said.

An aside, but related to blogging:  Just before I left to meet Meagan, Lesley at Bucket List Publications, announced a contest to win 2 airline tickets to Fiji, through Fiji Airways. The contest was sponsored by FA and Bucket List, and involved: tweeting, commenting on posts, liking posts, Facebooking (yes, a verb) and playing a Memory Game about Fiji. Some of these things you could only do once a day, but the game you could do as often as you wanted. I read the rules very carefully, and I went after that prize. I’ve wanted to go to Fiji since I was a kid. I played the Memory Game until my fingers were numb, and I was literally seeing double. And on Friday afternoon, I WON 2 AIRLINE TICKETS TO FIJI. Yes, I am yelling. I have not been able to say that in a normal volume, since I won! Not sure how this will play out yet, as I don’t know the specific dates, etc. I do know that I’m going to Fiji, and you can be sure I’ll blog about it!

Thanks for joining for the ride. Share your thoughts in the Comment section. Hit Like, if you liked this post. Duh. I mean, please…

Posted on July 22, 2013 by Dawn Quyle Landau | 19 Comments

Orange Peel in an Original Mind

Posted on July 21, 2013 by Dawn Quyle Landau

This is one of the most empowering, beautifully put posts about body image that I’ve read. Worth sharing!

Posted in Honest observations on many things | 2 Comments

Radio Free… Remember When?

Posted on July 19, 2013 by Dawn Quyle Landau

Note: This post in my third contribution to the blog hop: Remember That Time… (this week:) The Radio.  Emily and Ashley are hosting this summer ho down, check out the other posts at the bottom of any of their posts.

I can’t remember a time when music didn’t drive me. I was singing along to popular songs, from the time I could speak. My mother and father both loved music, and I remember that they often had a radio on. Hence, my love affair with music started with the music they loved too, and eventually became my own: Petula Clark; The Mamas and the Papas; Simon and Garfunkle; Neil Diamond, The Jackson 5 (Oh how I loved little Michael!); Peter, Paul and Mary; Johnny Cash; John Denver; The Monkeys… and the list goes on, and on, and on.  Despite the pop slant to the list above, my interests were fairly varied, from the start. I loved Pop, Folk, Rock, Jazz, and almost anything else that was played for me. As a young girl, I would often get together with my friends and we would compare our 45 records. For the longest time Johnny Cash was my all time favorite. The man could do no wrong, in my young mind. I think I had most of his singles at one point, and could sing along to every one… even if I had no real idea, what the lyrics meant.

Original iPod. It still plays!

Original iPod. It still plays!

In my tweens, my tastes definitely fell hard toward pop, more than any other genre. I listened to Casey Kasem’s countdown each week, and felt personally slighted if my favorites didn’t score well on the list.  From a young age my friends, siblings, and I put on “shows” for my family and neighbors, well past an age when it was cute. When Grease came out, I was already in high school, but my brother and I learned every song and performed them for anyone who would watch and listen… whether they wanted to or not. Those who have known me for a long time, will tell you that I’ve always sung along to the radio (still do); I’ve always had a song in my head; I’ve collected musical technology: record player, radio, boom box, Walk Man, iPod (I still have the very first one, with dials that actually turn), and the various next “generations” of each one. If it played music, it was worth saving my babysitting money, my waitressing tips, or the money we eventually had in our account, to have the best sound. When I look at a car today, I’m almost as interested in the sound system as I am in the mileage.

Every kid knew what this was, back in the day... image: mobiljusa.com

Every kid knew what this was, back in the day…
image: mobiljusa.com

Before I had anything slick or cool, I had the classic turn table that most kids my age had. It played 45s, which required the iconic little yellow adapters, as well as full size LPs. To this day, we still have a nice turn table, and approximately 300+ albums, that my husband and I  collected throughout the 70s, 80s and 90s. Since switching to CDs (something I did very reluctantly and much later than others), the albums have been lovingly stored in boxes. We still take them out from time to time, to dance around with our kids… to some of the “coolest music ever made.” Generally, they agree.

However, I truly fell in love with music, and my ability to hold it— own it, when my father sent me what was the coolest radio ever, at the time. I got it somewhere around 1971, as a birthday present. It was bright orange, round, with shiny silver dials, and required a small 9-volt battery. We took turns daring each other to stick our tongues to the end of the battery, to see if we needed a new one… and watch each other cringe at the small shock, a bonus to its overall magic. That small radio brought music right into my hands. It meant that I didn’t need my mother’s permission, or need to be in her car. It sat in my room, beside my bed, and the music coming out of it was “my precious.”

The year my father was killed (1973), John Denver’s Leaving on a Jet Plane was my song. It mirrored my sense of loss, having been far from him when he died. Remembering how we’d gotten on a plane and left him, that song brought it all back so sharp and tender. I somehow imagined that John Denver knew all about what I was going through, and that song was written for me. My radio was that much more important after the loss, as I felt it was something that my Dad had chosen especially for me. It tied me to him in a way that seemed critical, as I grieved my enormous loss. I slept with it; I took it to sleep- overs; I listened to it every day.

The radio went everywhere with me, for years and years. It was small and had pretty good sound, by the standards of the 1970s and AM radio stations. The really popular music was always on AM, when I was a young girl living on the south shore of Boston. I would hold that radio near my head at night, so my mother wouldn’t hear it and tell me to go to sleep. I would call in and request sappy songs from my favorite shows, and wait to hear them played. One summer, I had a huge crush on a cousin and Neil Diamond’s Shilo by Neil Diamond was on the radio all the time. I called in one day, dreaming of our future, and the DJ played it for me. When I hear it now, it just reminds me of the innocent angst I felt that summer, and how handsome mu cousin was at the time. He died in a plane crash, five years ago. He was 43.

Only a skeleton remains, but is oh so dear.

Only a skeleton remains, but is oh so dear.

As I got older, my little radio eventually lost its allure for listening to music, and simply became a tie to my Dad.  Today, it’s skeleton sits in my office, something sacred from my Dad, that I can’t let go of. When he was much younger, unaware of its importance, Middle Man took it and decided to play with the electronics— some ill fated effort to make something else. I have no idea where the innards, the electronics, or the shiny dials, went. Today, there is only a shell— a reminder of so many days and nights, listening to that radio and the music I loved so much, and missing my father.

From my radio, I moved on to a turn table with a built in stereo and cassette player— the latest magical musical machine, to play my maturing list of favorites: Fleetwood Mac (first album I have owned on my own, my aunt bought it for me); Pablo Cruise (first album I ever bought for myself); The Doobie Brothers (first concert I ever went to); Journey; the edgy sounds of The Talking Heads… as they burst onto the scene, utterly outside my small town’s norm.  The fact that David Byrnes yelped out words in French, made it that much more attractive, to my 16 year old brain. I had that stereo all the way through college. It was the best I could afford, and I loved it.

In college, my radio— my stereo was my prize possession. Away from my small town, the small views, and my family, I ripped off my preppy clothes and called myself punk. I wore head bands across my forehead, flat boots, belts with metal points, a dozen black rubber bands around my wrist, and more makeup. Looking back, it was almost funny… but then, the Go-Gos were everything I wanted to be. I wanted to dress like them; I emulated their ballsy approach; I played their album often and loud, singing at the top of my voice. No doubt, I drove some dorm/house mates crazy.

I found my way to others: Talking Heads; The Police; Billy Idol (so sexy!); The Violent Femmes (amazing!); Peter Gabriel; the B-52s; Depeche Mode; Blancmange; The Cure; and on, and on, and on. My radio was always on, and when I fell in love with a song, or an artist, I bought the album and played a hole in it. In 1983 I called in to my favorite Boston station, WFNX, and won the single Under The Milkyway Tonight, by identifying the group, The Church. I thought I’d won big, and played it to death.

I followed my future husband on his radio show, Breakfast of Champions, on the MIT station, WMBR.  I called in and requested Blue Monday every week, but he never played it… until his last day on air. “This is for a friend, who’s called in every week. My final show, final request.” I was in my college science class at the time, Walk Man radio pressed to my ear (behind a stack of books), and let out a loud yelp.  The song still sends a jolt through me.

When I was young, my radio was my friend. It went places with me. It kept me safe at night. It made me feel connected to people I loved, music that was sacred; it was an integral part of my life.  As times have changed and the way we listen to music has changed, I’ve let go of my radio. I listen in the car, always, but I don’t keep one in the house. I don’t take it to bed, or listen waiting to hear my favorite song called out. But each time I turn it on in my car, I unconsciously go back. I feel that same connectedness, that same magic. The magic is in the music… but the music still lives in the radio. I go there and I fly away.

To listen to some really great music (and ok, that’s in the ear of the beholder), hit the links/names of groups in this post. Takes me back…  Share your thoughts in the comment section. Check out the Tales From the Motherland Facebook page, and hit like. It’s a nice thing to do.

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Posted in Aging, Awareness, Blog, Death of parent, Honest observations on many things, Life, Music, Musings, My world, Tales From the Motherland, Teenagers, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | 22 Comments