News Flash: It’s a Hot Flash.

Posted on November 6, 2012 by Dawn Quyle Landau

Warning: Children and men, cover your ears. If you don’t, you may go blind. (Or maybe you’ll learn something and have compassion for some other woman). Prissy butts, you too. Don’t go all gossipy on me later, saying that this was over the line. You were warned.

Damn. Seriously, Damn. It’s three-fifteen AM and I’m writing a blog post. If that strikes you as messed up, it is. When I woke up ? long ago, I figured it was probably close to five AM, and that seemed messed up… but at least within the realm of possibility. I tried following all those experts’ advice, and didn’t look at the clock… at first. But then I had to. I was awake. Three AM? What! Damn. This…well this is just… plain biological. File this under: messed up and TMI. It’s a hot flash.

Harness the energy!
image: thebonearchitect.wordpress.com

For a few weeks now I’ve been feeling off. Last night at dinner, I suddenly felt as if I was blushing, my face on fire. Our kitchen felt 100 degrees and I was all clammy. I think I’m coming down with something. Do I feel feverish? I asked Smart Guy. He dutifully felt my forehead. What fool of a husband would not feel their wife’s forehead, when she leans in and insists? “No, you don’t feel feverish.” I feel clammy. Does my forehead seem clammy? He looked a bit paralyzed. What fool of a husband wouldn’t validate that statement, lest they be called insensitive for not agreeing with clammy. That said, who really wants to feel “clammy?” Poor guy; I’ll give him that. “Yes, you feel a little sweaty.” Trust me, it was not hot in our kitchen. From there, he just looked stumped.

So, as I lay here this morning… burning up… I was sure I had something. Sudden onset fevers, or bouts of clammy, hmmm? Restless and can’t sleep, hmmm? I lay here and rationalized for several minutes. The voice over would sound something like this, say in Diane Keaton’s voice, pretty much one run on sentence:

Baby, I’m on fire!
Image: healthtap.com

Man it’s so hot tonight, even with the window open. (actually, 64 degrees) This Tempurpedic (mattress) is ridiculous! It holds the heat. Sometimes I hate this mattress. Usually I love it though. Go back to sleep… Slow, deep breaths. But I’m hot. Night sweats, doesn’t cancer cause night sweats? It’s because I didn’t post my blog yesterday. I’m dropping the ball, because of this NaNoWriMo thing (National Novel Writing Month). I missed my blog, writing for NNWM (I didn’t actually abbreviate… when I was thinking). Should I post on Tuesday? No, I’ll let this go and not worry about it. I’m not that neurotic.  I doubt anyone will really notice anyway. (For the record, not so- I’ll come back to that). I wonder what time it is? Probably five? Five-thirty? Just breath… try to sleep…. How could people not vote. Really? I mean, besides people who have REAL issues: like they live so remotely and have no transportation, or they can’t read and write… that would be so hard… but they can sign with an X and there are all kinds of people working for both Obama and Romney, and those other candidates, who want to drive them… I bet Gary Johnson doesn’t have people to drive them. No, everyone should vote. Yeah, but there are people out there who really have it hard, and voting is not on their list of worries. But, it probably should be. We live in a place where we can vote, how can you not do it? They should vote. I’d prefer they vote for my guy, but the right thing to say would be, just vote. My mother never voted in her life. I found that out when she was in hospice. It truly shocked me. I can’t imagine not voting. I remember going to my high school gym, my senior year and voting for the first time. I think my friend Valery came too. Wait, did Val come? I think she did. My guy lost, but man I was so proud of myself. I should write a post about the importance of voting. Maybe my humble post will actually encourage one person to go vote. Wait, it’s election day. Anyone who is still thinking they won’t vote, probably didn’t register either. They can’t vote. Whoa! They can’t vote! That sucks. I wonder if Romney and Obama have thought of that. I should be sleeping. Try to sleep. Count slowly. One. Two. Three. Four. I bet Obama is not getting any sleep at all. How could you sleep if you were wondering if all your work, well… worked? Maybe he sleeps for minutes at a time on that bus. Or Airforce One. Is it still Airforce One? I need to look that up. I can’t sleep, and it’s so f’ing hot in here, even without my comforter. Maybe I should just get up and do some writing. I have to be up in an hour or so anyway. Screw this, I want to know what time it is. Three! Is that a three? (I push the button that lights up my clock, three times). Shit! Its three  in the morning and I’m wide awake. Burning up. This sounds familiar. Didn’t (blank) tell me she kept waking up like this? It went on and on and she got no sleep and was getting hot all the time. All sweaty… wait. Hot flashes, she was having hot flashes! Oh my God, I’m having hot flashes. No more babies. I don’t want a baby… Maybe it would be nice. No. It would not. I can’t believe it’s flipping three AM and I can’t sleep and I’m having a hot flash and by the end of the day the election will be over and I’ll stop getting all those emails (Read My Affair With Barack Obama, it’s pretty funny and took a lot effort to write. It deserves your attention) and Romney or Obama will be so bummed out… I just can’t believe they spent one billion dollars on this election a billion dollars could do so much and help so many people I should have people over to eat pizza and watch election results we did that in 2008 and it was so emotional and amazing to watch that election and I got Little Man up to watch it with us and we all told him he was seeing history and how could people not vote when it’s so important and I’m up with hot flashes but now it’s freezing in here hell it’s cold I can’t believe I have hot flashes news flash it’s a hot flash that’s a good title if only I could think of a title for my novel I could publish it why is it so easy to think of three blog titles per week but I can’t think of a title for my blog… I should get up and write that blog post. 

Seriously? I am so done with kids.
Image: sodahead.com

Final notes: I did not think anything in parenthesis, at the time. When I got up and turned on my laptop, which I never have in bed, (but I watched a show on it before bed last night) I saw that my friend Liz had noted on Facebook that I was depriving her of something to read with coffee, by not posting my blog. This is dedicated to Liz. It’s her fault that I’m not sleeping right now and writing a blog at (now) 4 AM. I plan to Google hot flashes, post this blog, try to sleep a little more… or take a nap later… and follow the election results. Not necessarily in that order. If you are up too (hell, it’s 7:15 on the East coast), you can read this with your coffee. Then hit like… because I’m having a hot flash, I just figured it out, and took the time to write a blog about it. You owe me that much. Hell, these are hot flashes, I deserve a Freshly Pressed for blogging about it. If you found a bunch of typos, it’s four in the morning; get over it!

Posted in Aging, Awareness, Blog, Blogging, Daily Observations, Election, Humor, Life, Musings, My world, NaNoWriMo, News, Personal change, Women, Women's issues, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 30 Comments

Raising a Feral Child, Surrounded By June Cleavers

Posted on November 2, 2012 by Dawn Quyle Landau

June Cleaver
Image: ourownfairytale.com

I’ll start by telling you who June Cleaver is, because the fact that I used her name is a clue to just how old I am. Too old for parenting properly anymore, apparently, and old enough that when I say “I’m not June Cleaver,” my wolf child looks at me blankly or says “who?” This is vaguely sad to me, as I remember watching Leave It to Beaver every day, and loving it. Along with I Love Lucy, Dick Van Dyke and The Honeymooners, they were classics that I could associate with my own parent’s youth and feel some connection. There is little connection between what my boy watches, and (more commonly) plays and my life, than the man in the moon (another reference that flies over his head). June Cleaver is the perfect mother on Leave It to Beaver, a program that ran from 1957-1963 (ending right about the time I started, literally).  Meals were always on time and tasty; June prepared them with a lovely dress on (she never wore slacks) and a pressed apron. The boys got into trouble, but generally it was innocent stuff that kids today would scoff at.

I’ll be clear. I don’t think June did anything to help make it easier for women who came after her. She existed as a shiny example of what had been, what things had changed from. But, when I was little I thought that was what perfect moms looked like and acted like. I wanted to be her, with her lovely pearls, perfect dinners, calm demeanor and crisp apron… and have a career. Scratch both. I gave up my career when Principessa came along, despite long years of earning my Masters. And far from June Cleaver, I am now raising a feral child… surrounded by a seemingly endless list of modern Junes.  You see, I’m tired of it all and unfortunately for Little Man, he didn’t get out in time.

When Mom was Mommy, and she cooked.

For years I did the June thing. I’ve written about it before (Don’t Call Me Martha), but basically I did all of the things that Marthas and Junes do: great meals, carpooling constantly, finding clubs/lessons/experiences for my kids and getting them there, PTSA, class parent, etc. You get the picture.  It was years of doing those things, and doing them well. But in the end, PTSA led to PTSD and I slowly stepped back from that edge. Too many holes to step in and too many balls to keep in the air. For me. My superhero cape got frayed and my knees are bad.

Luckily for Principessa and Middle Man, I kept it up until they were both off to college and headed off in the world. They might argue that I was losing my mojo before they left, but they haven’t seen anything! In the case of Middle Man I still managed to bake cookies and send a Halloween care package last week, so one might argue that I’m still jumping through those hoops for my older kids. Hard to justify the cost of sending candy corn to Israel, for Principessa, but I bought it.

Little Man however is being raised in the wild.  With one child at home, and Smart Guy not always home, it’s tortellini… night after night. Making big meals seems so time consuming these days. For what? Dishes to do after? Little Man does the dishes too, but he’s got a point: it isn’t fair that his siblings shared walking the dogs and doing the dishes, while he’s on his own in this wasteland. So I help. Which leads me back to whether I want to make all that effort on some nights… ok, many nights lately. If I cook a large package of tortellini, it lasts for days. I don’t eat it, but Little Man loves it. Until he doesn’t.

Starting last weekend, it was a crazy week. Halloween parties, fund raisers, dinner meetings, all seemed packed into one week. So I made tortellini. I tossed it with red sauce and made a salad… the first night. After that, it’s what Little Man heated up when I said: Um, how about left overs? He heated them up several nights in a row. When I finally asked what he’d had for dinner (note: that is how checked out I was, asking what he had for dinner) and he answered “the tortellini,” I froze. Oh my God! We’re raising a feral child! I cried.  He laughed, but it isn’t really funny. Well, maybe a little. But there was a crack of reality that hit me hard.

Tortellinin, it’s what’s for dinner.

See, I’m just tired. Old and tired. I’ve been making dinners for a very long time. I would argue that I started making dinner for my own siblings, long before I had my own children to feed. Back then I really thought I could be June Cleaver for my brother and sister, help my single mother out. I started very young. So, in fairness (to me) I was already a little tired of this gig when I started it for real.  I didn’t realize that at the time, but it began to sink in over the years.  Today, the words “What’s for dinner” truly send icy cold prickles up my spine. I’ve done a lot of laundry; I’m sick of it.  Driving is so 2008. Dishes make my eyes roll back in my head. The grocery store no longer holds the appeal it once did. I could care less that our local market has spiffied up and carries all kinds of cool stuff, or that we finally have a Trader Joes. It’s all the way across town (15 minutes).  Those things used to light my fire. Now I just want to get in and out of the store as fast as possible, and go as few times as is absolutely necessary. One package of tortellini lasts a long time.

For Halloween this year, I had no interest in carving a pumpkin. Decorations- Why?  No little kids in this house. But Little Man said: “We need to get our pumpkin!” Damn. Really?  Admittedly, I felt guilty. I ran out and bought the pumpkin, but then I wasn’t really thrilled when he wasn’t in the mood to carve it. I used to scoop it out, get it all ready for my kids. That was his job this year. I managed to pull together a tiny bit of June and carve with him. We had fun, but he realized half way through that he isn’t that into jack-o-lanterns anymore either. I bought candy, but hell: a girl’s got to eat, so that was a given.  I did make my annual mummy dogs (crescent rolls wrapped ala mummy around hot dogs). Don’t judge; it’s once a year, and I always serve apple or carrots. But we didn’t trick or treat, and we didn’t go to the Thriller Dancers/Thrillingham. I’ve brought Little Man and his friends for three years now. This year, I wasn’t up for standing in the weather and listening to Michael Jackson (besides, I could watch it on video the next day). See, it’s that bad. Who isn’t in the mood for listening to Michael Jackson? He and his friends watched Aliens and I was grateful to be off duty… again.

I did all of it for my older kids. They got lots of me driving to the good neighborhoods for trick or treating. There were delicious dinners every night. We sat down together. Every. Night.  When Smart Guy was still training, I made dinners and drove them to the hospital, so that we could all eat together. Every. Night. I drove and I drove. I baked and I baked. There were fresh cookies and nice meals all of the time. There were lessons and after school activities. And then I got old and tired of it. Now when I bake cookies, I hide half the batch for myself. For poor Little Man, burn out hit me before he left the house. This leaves him foraging for food, home alone much more than his siblings ever were, and doing an unfair portion of the chores. He’s my feral boy. Cute and non-complaining, he doesn’t really point a finger.

Litter mates, Luke and Gracie.
They don’t cook, either.

However, most of his peers are the oldest in their family. Their moms are not tired… yet. So, Little Man is still surrounded by friends who have Junes and Marthas at home, while his mother is one click short of wine at noon and dinner out every night. I’m not doing either, lest you really judge. There is a modicum of parenting left in me. But mostly I just think: next time don’t put the red sauce on the tortellini. Then, I can add pesto or red sauce, or plain butter, and make it look like three unique dinners. If I play my cards right, he’ll think that Luke and Gracie really are watching out for him, when we’re out and there’s no other siblings around. If we invite friends here, he won’t see that other homes have mothers that aren’t fizzled out. I’m semi-retired, not June.

As I head into the next phase of my life, the things that made me Mom for so many years just don’t hold the same appeal. I want to be writing. I don’t really love cooking anymore. That’s not entirely fair to Little Man, but life ain’t fair.  He doesn’t get my archaic references and he is good enough to not call me on my BS. He eats tortellini and is happy that I pick him up after school. He’s adjusting to life in the wild. Recently he had some friends over and I was commenting on various characters. He reminds me of Eddie Haskell!  I told him. “Who?”

** Are you still a Martha or June? Do you know who June is? Or, are your kids still little and you’re in the midst of it? Share a comment. If this post made you laugh, or cry, or just feel hungry, please hit Like. For the record, I am doing NaNoWriMo this month. Yesterday I wrote (officially) 4,371 words. I wonder if I can add the 1,584 from this post to my NNWM total today?  Have a good weekend people!

Along these lines, also read: What We Don’t Tell You In Our Blog: Peru, The Outtakes.

Posted in Aging, Awareness, Blog, Blogging, Daily Observations, Honest observations on many things, Humor, Life, Mothers, Musings, My world, NaNoWriMo, Parenting, Personal change, Teens, Women, Women's issues, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , | 24 Comments

Looky, Looky: An Excerpt From My Booky!

Posted on October 31, 2012 by Dawn Quyle Landau

This is what I feel like right now…
Image: latimesblogs.latimes.com

Man, this took some effort! Meagan over at Hot Pink Underwear tagged me last week in a “game” called the Look Challenge. The game is for bloggers who are also writers, and is a way to let others sneak a peek at your work. I’m embarrassed that it’s taken this long to get my act together and do it. That said, it seems that when I post non-blog focused writing, the interest drops a bit anyway. I posted a story this week, (A Scary Tale) A Solitary Woman, and it got about half the hits I usually get. Not intriguing enough? Readers seem to want regular blog writing versus the literary/fiction/writing stuff? Who knows. But this challenge is fun, so I’m in!

Here’s how it works: Search your manuscript for the word “look” and copy the surrounding paragraphs into a post to let other bloggers read. Then you tag five blogger/writers to invite them to the challenge.

The game became a lot more challenging for me, when I did a search of my novel for the word  “look” and found way too many of them! Instead of picking a few paragraphs, I found myself spiraling down the editing hole. Days of looking at repetitive words and making corrections. All for the good, but man what an eye opener! The editing process never ends I fear… Until you publish, and then find the things you still might have changed. Thanks Meagan for getting me back to what needs to be done. That said, I finally picked a few paragraphs from my novel, despite the side trip. Read it and share your thoughts.  I’ve included the opening paragraph of the novel to set it up. The next part, the Look Challenge, is just a page after that in the manuscript.  This is from chapter one:

Continue reading →

Posted in Blog, Blogging, getting published, My world, NaNoWriMo, Tales From the Motherland, Writing | Tagged , , , , , | 26 Comments

A Scary Tale.

Posted on October 29, 2012 by Dawn Quyle Landau

In my writing group last week, we were asked to write a story about the things that scare us, with the idea that it was close to Halloween. It was wonderful to read the completely diverse and wonderful stories that came out of that exercise. No one wrote about vampires, masked serial killers, or creepy crawlies. We all seemed to gravitate toward the truth this year.  This is my story. It pretty much covers most of the things that scare me, with the exception of bad things happening to my kids. Can’t write that. If you pay attention, you should be able to pick out all the fears that keep me up some nights.

A Solitary Woman

The woman stirred her coffee and gazed out the window at her garden. The fall colors were peaking and she realized that she was behind on some of her projects.

“I should have cut back those irises weeks ago,” she said to no one.

Her dog glanced in her direction, making sure she wasn’t looking to him for company. He understood that if she looked his way and said things in a certain voice, he was expected to come over for a pat, his tail wagging benevolently, when she spoke. When she spoke to the window, he simply remained on his bed.

“Frankly, I can’t believe it’s the end of October already,” she continued. “I’m not sure where the weeks went! Right, Roosh, old boy?”

That was the cue- her gaze moving to the dog and her voice shifting up a couple of octaves. The black lab mix got to his feet, tail wagging – thump, thump, thump- and came over to nuzzle her hand. Rushdie, named for the famous Indian writer, was ten years old and growing white around his muzzle. The woman called him Roosh for short, and had raised him from a pup. Roosh had long stopped digging in her garden, chewing on shoes and other household items, and had become a perfect companion. He walked with her each morning and evening, slept on a fleece bed beside hers and came whenever she spoke to him. Otherwise, he remained in his designated spot, a large plaid dog bed in the corner of the kitchen. They understood each other; it was a good fit. Single since her divorce many years before, Roosh had become her partner, in many ways.

“What a sweet boy you are,” she murmured, as she stroked his soft coat. Roosh rested his head on her chair and watched a bird at the feeder. He no longer chased birds or squirrels, but he still liked to watch them. “All these birds are about to fly off, hmm?” She watched the small chickadee for a second and then turned back to her flowerbeds.

“Tomorrow we should really get out there and put this garden to rest for winter,” she continued, rising to take her empty cup to the sink.  The ceramic hit with a loud clank, startling her.

“Talking to myself again! Jesus.” Her voice faded off as she headed to her office. Her slippers made a soft swoosh on the hard wood floors and Roosh lay back down to nap.

The woman pushed a heavy box to the side as she entered her tiny, crowded office. She’d been looking for something the day before, and had forgotten to put it back in the corner where it lived. The mail from the day before lay across the keyboard and her library books sat in a pile beside the mail. The woman glanced around the room and felt the quick, sharp rush of panic that she often felt when she took a moment to look at the… “Mess!” she said aloud. “I really need to clean this mess.” Instead she pushed the books and mail to the side and sat down at her computer.

For the next three hours she typed. Her fingers danced across the keys, alive and fluid. The story she worked on flowed onto the screen, and she only paused to make simple corrections in punctuation or adjectives. She knew the plot- the twists and turns of the story had been running through her mind for months. Now she need only type it.

This story will be a book, she thought as she closed her eyes at night. Most nights, as she slipped beneath the covers, having done the dishes and watched an hour of television, her thoughts landed on the book. When she wasn’t thinking of the story, she played with the pitch, fine tuning the wording and thinking of ways to catch the publisher’s eye. Words, written words, were what she excelled at and as she typed her story each day, she imagined what it would be like to see this story become a book.

Each morning, as soon as she stretched in her narrow bed, her thoughts returned to the story she was working on.  Though she sometimes had lunch with friends, or took a walk with Roosh on a sunny day, her thoughts were rarely far from the story. Regardless of other things she did, each day she sat and typed with a dedication and focus that she gave to little else. Hours melted and she often found the shadows growing and her stomach growling, before she remembered that she hadn’t eaten lunch… or breakfast? Then, she would take Roosh out to the yard to do his business and start making a simple dinner. Cooking for one involved little effort or consideration. She’d grown tired of thinking of things to make long ago.

The piles, the messes, the things that had filled her small house over time, were a byproduct of her commitment to the writing. When I’m done with the book, I’ll clean it all up and put it all back together. And so she had stopped making an effort to recycle old paint samples, or the piles of magazines that she intended to read, but never got to. She left the files of papers- from her divorce, her mother’s care so long ago, the children’s records (though they now had records for their own children), crammed in the two black metal file cabinets that she had inherited after the divorce. Her ex-husband had insisted that they shred or discard things, but she had held onto the important papers. “The kids may need some of this one day,” she had argued. Now she kept them, in case.

She regularly dusted the china in her small corner cabinet. Her husband had hated the stuff, but she kept it ready, for the day she might have friends over.  When she got around to clearing the table, she could seat six comfortably, and she imagined inviting a few of the friends she was still close with, and their spouses, over and using the finer dishes. Then she’d cook again.  She vacuumed the small areas of clear floor at least once a week. She’d always hated dirty floors. “There’s a difference between clutter and dirt,” she’d told her children when they were young.  Her bathroom and kitchen sinks, her toilet, were always clean.

She tried to ignore the stack of read and unread books in her bedroom; and avoided her closet whenever possible. She only opened the creaky door (Where did I put that WD40?) to occasionally grab fresh clothes that hadn’t been left in the laundry basket, neatly folded.  When she did open the closet, she reasoned that she would make an effort, soon, to donate the clothes that sat in a pile there, falling over with the slightest provocation. The winter clothes had worked their way to the bottom, under the summer things she’d added as the weather cooled. It had become a replicating cycle that had produced a pile that never made it to Salvation Army, and had taken over her entire closet floor. She stacked her shoes on top of her sweaters, on the narrow shelf in the closet, no place else for them.

As she typed, another day passed, and the story took form on the page.  Roosh wandered into the office and peaked past the door at her. The woman sensed him watching her expectantly, and then noticed the time.

“Six thirty! Poor boy. I’m sure you need to go?” He wagged his tail, his amber eyes watching her move awkwardly around the items on the floor, toward him.

As she noticed the box again, she stopped and debated whether to put it away now or wait until after she’d taken the dog out. “Just a minute Roosh,”- thump thump, thump. “Let me get this out of the way.”

She folded the four edges under carefully, to reseal it, and she glanced at the top of the box, noting the label. It had yellowed with age and the tape had begun to peal back. The words: Stories, for publication were written boldly, her handwriting once confident.  She swallowed and put the box back in the corner.

“Come on, Roosh, let’s take care of business.”

 

What scares you? Is it scary shadows or the real stuff? Are you putting things off until another time, and what’s in the way? Share your thought

 

Posted in Honest observations on many things | 8 Comments

My Secret Affair With Barack Obama… Sorry Michelle

Posted on October 26, 2012 by Dawn Quyle Landau

I loved the way he looked at me.
Image: thatgirlsa.com

I have done my best to keep this private, especially given the crazy media frenzy around President Obama. However, with the election so close, I thought it was time to be honest with you all. I have been involved in an ongoing, sustained relationship with Barack Obama since early 2012. To some degree, it began in late fall 2011, but initially it was only friendly.

During that time, Barack (he let’s me call him that) contacted me more times than is appropriate. I admit to responding, but I was swept up in the sparkle of it all. I have carried the burden of keeping this secret until now, to spare both Barack and Michelle any embarrassment. However, I believe it is time for the truth to be told.

I am sharing some of the hundreds (yes, hundreds) of emails that I have received from Barack and his friends. At first, I knew better and deleted all of our communications. I’ve read stories of what happened to the Kennedys, Johnson, Clinton, and the John Edward’s debacle was raging as the letters piled up. I’m no fool. Frankly, Barack seems to be like nearly every President before him in this department. Who didn’t have a little side action, when it comes to Presidents? (Don’t even tell me Eisenhower… you may like Ike, but so did his secretary Kay Summersby!) It just goes with the House I think.  Over time, I began to save his letters, just in case… something happened to me. Now, I feel it is only right to bring them out in public.

Despite everything, I stand by my man. I believe in him, even if I’m nursing a broken

Yep, you guessed it: this was our secret point. It’s directed at me.
Image: billslater.com

heart. I know we will both go on… Me with my blog, him with the country. I certainly hope he gets to go on. Otherwise, this might all prove too much even for Barack. I believe that bringing it all out in the open, can only help. Honesty is best. I’m doing this as much for Barack, as to clear my conscience. In the end, I suppose I also owe an apology to Michelle. She is a good woman. A woman I could support… I did her wrong, and I’m sorry. I hope this cleans the slate.

Dawn —                                                             May 22, 2012On June 4th, President Clinton and I are getting together in New York — and I’m inviting you, too.If you’re in, chip in $75 or whatever you can today, and you’ll be automatically entered for a chance to join us.Bill and I have spent a good amount of time together these past few years, and we always have plenty to talk about.On June 4th, we want you to be part of the conversation — and whoever you choose to bring with you.So what do you say?

Pitch in $75 or whatever you can to fly out to New York next month and meet us — airfare and accommodations covered.
Thanks,
Barack

Dear Barack,

You know I’d love to join you and Bill in New York, but June is so busy for us. The exchange students are getting ready to return home (How The U.N Dissolved…), my kids are returning from college  and there is just so much going on. I’m sure you remember that I’m also training for Machu Picchu in late June. My schedule really is so full!

It is so cute how you throw in those “suggestions for donations.” Makes this look so legit.  How generous of you to suggest I bring a friend. I must ask: you are aren’t suggesting I “bring a friend” for Bill? I’m not sure how I would feel about involving anyone else.  You know I’d love to say yes, but alas I have to pass… this time.

Dawn

Dawn —                                                       May 29, 2012Today is the last day the campaign is taking names for the chance to join President Obama and me in New York next week.I hope you take us up on this. I’d love to meet you.If you’re planning on it, make sure you enter before the midnight deadline.See you soon,
Bill Clinton

Dear Bill,                                                                                           May 29, 2012

I hope I can call you that. I am a bit surprised that Barack gave you my private email address, but I understand that you two are very close friends. I’m touched that he told you about me. I thought this was all under the radar, if you know what I mean… I’m not implying that you had any problems with radar, but you and Barack do seem to have different codes. I hope I’m not being too forward, but given the fact that Barack wants me to meet you, I felt I could be direct, or mostly direct, if we are all to be friends.

Thank you so much for reaching out. I’m sure we will meet another time.

Dawn

———————————————————————————————————

Dawn —

I take deadlines seriously.

I’m writing to remind you that you’re facing one tomorrow: your last chance to join President Obama, the First Lady, and me for dinner at Sarah Jessica Parker’s home in New York on June 14th.

After dinner, you and a guest of your choosing could join the President and First Lady at a private concert from Mariah Carey.

There’s simply no excuse to let this slip.

I don’t do this sort of thing often — get involved with politics, that is.

But I’m doing everything I can to support President Obama this summer and fall because it’s important that we all do.

Nights in New York like this one are a happy side benefit.

I hope to see you there.

Anna Wintour

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Ms. Wintour,

I couldn’t possibly call you Anna. I was utterly shaken to hear from you and Sarah on the same day! Two style Goddesses of your calibre is a lot to take in, let alone on the same day! First, I am honored that you would include me in such an incredible evening. Would that I could. Unfortunately, I could not possibly put together an outfit that I would feel good in, in such elite company. I know Sarah isn’t really Carey Bradshaw, but it’s hard not to worry. Who can keep up with that?  Further, I will be very direct here Ms. Wintour, you scare the begeesus out of me! I saw The September Issue. It was brilliant! I loved it, but I am pretty sure that I could not handle an entire dinner with you. The two of you together is just too, too much. You’re right, “fashion does make (me) nervous,” but particularly when faced with you and Sarah in one room.

I am confused as to why Barack has been so open in sharing my information with so many of you, but I can only assume that he wants me to meet all of his friends and supporters. That said, I think I’m a behind the scenes girl… if you get my meaning?  I just wanted to add, that I personally thought all of those long dresses this summer were awful. I hope you’ll think a bit more creatively next year.

Dawn

Dawn —                                                        June 11, 2012We’re organizing another dinner with folks like you, and I hope you’ll take me up on the offer.Pitch in $75 or whatever you can today to be automatically entered to join me.These dinners mean something more than just a meal among friends.They represent the kind of politics we believe in. It’s a simple but powerful idea: Everyone should have a seat at the table, no matter where you come from or how much you can afford to give.The other side has special-interest allies lining up to tear us down.

I’ve got you.

Thanks for all you’ve done to support the campaign so far. These dinners are a small way for me to show my appreciation, so I’m saving you a seat.

Chip in what you can today and you’ll be automatically entered to be there.

Thanks, for everything.
Barack

Dear Barack,                                                                                      June 11,2012

I can’t begin to tell you how I felt when I saw the message “Meet me for dinner” in the subject line of your email. It’s been so hard, just watching you on TV and trying to pretend to others that you’re just the President… when you mean so much more to me. I must say, you do have a lot of dinners! I know we all have to eat, but I’d prefer it was more private, to be honest.

Yes, you do indeed have me! From now on, that should be our song: I’ve got you babe! It’s so sweet and it kind of reminds me of what we have.  Again, you’re so clever to use terms like “support the campaign,” etc to make things look right. Don’t worry, I haven’t told a soul about us. Sadly, as I mentioned in my last letter, June is just impossible.  I also worry that it would just be too much for us to be seen together. Too much is at stake.  You know you have my vote. Wink, wink.

Dawn

Dawn —                                                     June 17, 2012I grew up in the White House. I remember as a small child visiting my father in the Oval Office while he worked.But really, we could have been growing up in any American home. We were just children, happy to see our dad — even if he was stepping out of a helicopter that had landed on our front lawn.That’s why, on Father’s Day, I’m thinking of Michelle Obama and the girls, and the time they’ll get to spend with the President as a family.I can appreciate how long the days can be — and how wonderful it feels to know that, no matter how full your father’s plate is, you’re the best part of his day and the most important part of his life.So I’m joining Michelle and others all around the country to wish the President a happy Father’s Day.

As you acknowledge a special father figure in your own life, I hope you’ll join me by adding your name to tell Barack how much he means to all of us.

Thanks, and happy Father’s Day to every dad out there.
Caroline

P.S. — I love this video of Michelle talking about Barack as a father — take a second for this today.

Dear Caroline,                                                                                              June 17, 2012

I really don’t know what to say. I’ve been an admirer of yours for years. You’ve always handled things with such style and grace, no matter what the situation. We all know that you’ve had more than your fair share of hard moments and yes, you certainly have personal experience with the Presidency and all that surrounds it. However, I can’t help but take this letter as a bit of a threat. If I’m wrong, please accept my apologies. I’m not really sure how you got my contact information, but I find it “interesting” that you have chosen to write to me now, asking me to join you and Michelle (Really? Not very subtle there C.) to say happy Father’s Day to Barack. You do not need to remind me that he is married to Michelle. I am well aware of it, and have struggled with this for as long as Barack and I have been writing. She’s a wonderful woman. Someone I look up to, in fact. I’ve got to give it to you Caroline, including that video is sharp. It does make me feel bad. But, Barack and I have something special and I won’t be bullied. I would prefer if you don’t contact me again, though I only wish you the very best.

Sincerely, Dawn

———————————————————————————————————

Dawn —                                                                                             June 26, 2012

I will be the first president in modern history to be outspent in his re-election campaign, if things continue as they have so far.

I’m not just talking about the super PACs and anonymous outside groups — I’m talking about the Romney campaign itself. Those outside groups just add even more to the underlying problem.

The Romney campaign raises more than we do, and the math isn’t hard to understand: Through the primaries, we raised almost three-quarters of our money from donors giving less than $1,000, while Mitt Romney’s campaign raised more than three-quarters of its money from individuals giving $1,000 or more.

And, again, that’s not including the massive outside spending by super PACs and front groups funneling up to an additional billion dollars into ads trashing me, you, and everything we believe in.

We can be outspent and still win — but we can’t be outspent 10 to 1 and still win.

More than 2.2 million Americans have already chipped in for us, and I’m so grateful for it. As we face this week’s fundraising deadline, will you make a donation of $75 or more today?

Every donation you make today automatically enters you to join Michelle and me for one of the last grassroots dinners of this campaign — today is your last chance to get your name in.

These dinners represent how we do things differently. My opponent spent this past weekend at a secretive retreat for the biggest donors to both his campaign and the super PACs that support him.

I’ve got other responsibilities I’m attending to.

Donate today to stand for our kind of politics:  https://donate.barackobama.com/June-Deadline

Thank you,
Barack

———————————————————————————————————-

Dear Barack,                                                                                                June 27, 2012

I needed a little time to respond.  I have been a little hurt since receiving Caroline’s letter. You must see that it was a thinly veiled threat. I believe Michelle knows about us. I can see from the tone of this new letter from you, that it must be all business for now. I understand, but it hurts a little. I recognize the secret message “I’ve got other responsibilities I’m attending to,” and appreciate your effort to let me know that you can’t really risk being caught. Oh, if only I’d come to dinner in June. It was foolish, I’m sorry.  I do hope your Father’s day was wonderful. I felt it would be foolish to sign the card however. We spent the day with Smart Guy and Little Man. I thought of you, but it’s important that we not risk your re-election. I’ve got things I’m attending to as well, but you’re never far from my thoughts.

Dawn

Dawn —                                                   August 4, 2012Today is Barack’s 51st birthday, and the girls and I are pulling together his birthday card.Last call for names: Want to sign it?Clicking on the link below will add your name to Barack’s card automatically:http://my.barackobama.com/Baracks-BirthdayThis election’s only going to get tougher, so I know it would mean a lot to Barack to know he has your support on his birthday.

Thanks,

Michelle

Dear Michelle,                                                                          August 4, 2012

I hope we can be frank here. I’m sure Caroline gave you my address; as I doubt Barack would’ve done it.  I get it. He’s your man. Fine, if that helps you sleep at night, you go on telling yourself that. How very clever of you to send me this note, asking me to sign your birthday card to him. As if I wouldn’t have sent one on my own? Really Michelle? The link is a very nice touch. I don’t need a link to say happy birthday to Barack! He knows I wish him a happy birthday. I think you know that too. Ironically, my husband’s birthday is August 4th as well. Our husbands were born on the very same day, and share the name Barry. They may use more dignified names in public, but we both know what they like to be called in private. Don’t we Michelle?

I need to get back to my husband’s birthday celebration. I will pretend that you didn’t send this.

Dawn

——————————————————————————————————–

Dear Barack                                                                                      August 4, 2012

Happy Birthday Mr. President!  I’m singing it in a Marilyn voice. I know it’s a bit cliché and over-done, but I thought it might make you laugh. I thought you should know that Michelle sent me a letter. She asked me to sign a birthday card for you. Yeah, I know. I’m sorry but I had to write back to her. I think I was pretty direct, but I did not say anything that she can really use…  I hope your day is very special.

Dawn

Dawn —                                              September 4, 2012Tonight I’ll take the stage in Charlotte to talk about why my husband — and our president — is the right man for the job.Twenty-three years ago, I fell in love with Barack because of his passion, sense of purpose, and his determination to make life better for other people. It’s just who he is — and it’s who he continues to be every day in the White House.And for these next two months, we’ve got to give it everything we’ve got so that we have the chance to finish what we started.Already this week, folks have chipped in more than 120,000 grassroots donations to help build this organization. That’s just incredible — thank you for being one of them.So let’s see how many people we can get to chip in by the end of this convention. Please consider showing your support again with a donation of $40 today
Thanks,
Michelle

Dear Michelle,

I’ve got to give it to you. You are tenacious! I will also say, for the record, that you kicked butt out there tonight. Yes, I did watch. How could I not? The pink dress was perfect, your confidence and integrity came through. If we weren’t in this “situation” we might be friends. Despite it all, I do admire you. That said, I’d prefer if we not play this game anymore. It really would be best if you don’t contact me. It’s just too much.

Dawn

Dawn —As we’re organizing the last dinner with supporters on my last campaign, our kind of politics is running up against a very cynical calculation:That a few billionaires writing $10 million checks are enough to overpower the voices of millions of Americans.That’s why I want to meet you for dinner.Donate $40 or whatever you can to our people-powered campaign, and be automatically entered to join me — hotel and airfare covered for you and a guest.Overnight, we aren’t going to change the rules that allow outside groups to spend hundreds of millions of dollars attacking me on the airwaves.So we have to stay on the case every day.

Last week we learned that more than 1.1 million donors in August alone — out of more than 3 million people like you supporting this effort — had outraised Mitt Romney and the Republicans for the first time since April.

If we keep doing this our way, I guarantee you there’ll be no stopping us.

Donate $40 or whatever you can today and you’ll be automatically entered to be at the table.

Thanks,
Barack

Oh Barack!                                                                                        September 20, 2012

You can’t believe what a relief it is to finally hear from you again… on a more personal level. Of course I’d love to have dinner with you. You know I would. After the last few months, I was getting a little worried that pressure from Michelle, Caroline, even Bill, frankly, had made you doubt our feelings.  You’re right, if we keep on “doing this our way, there will be no stopping us.” That, is such a sweet touch Barack. You know it made me smile, because you know me so well! I’m really excited. I think I’ll need to buy a new dress to look extra beautiful for you.

Dawn

Dawn —I usually don’t email you — but I have an amazing invitation I have to share.Jay and I will be meeting up with President Obama for an evening in NYC sometime soon. And we want you to be there!Until midnight tonight, if you pitch in $40 or whatever you can, you’ll be automatically entered to be flown out to join us.I’ve had the honor of meeting President Obama and the First Lady a few times — and believe me — it’s an opportunity you don’t want to miss.Don’t worry about the airfare and hotel, it’s taken care of. And you can bring a guest.But the countdown is on — this opportunity ends at midnight.

Can’t wait to meet you!
Love,
Beyoncé

Dear Beyonce,                                                                              September 13, 2012

Well, that sure is an understatement: No, you do not email me very often. In fact, when I emailed you way back, as a fan, I heard nothing from you. It’s not that I’m holding a grudge, but I find it odd that you contact me now. Who gave you my email? Really? Caroline? She really should mind her own business. I like her a lot, but this doesn’t concern her. Michelle? Let’s be honest here: I know how she feels, but it is so high school to start calling friends to get involved. Barack and I can handle this on our own. We have been very discreet and it seems to me that telling all of you is only risking this whole thing blowing up, publicly. I know he’s your husband, but really, we all know that Jay-Z (as I call him) likes to talk. He’s got to bust a rhyme somehow and it’s just a matter of time before Barack and Dawn start showing up on the charts. Dawn rhymes with so many other things… You know,  it’s a slippery slope girlfriend.  Please ask “Jay” to keep this on the down low (or whatever new catchy phrase he uses).  I will not be joining you, needless to say, as much as I love New York City in the fall.  Just too many people and too many snoops.  Please do not email me again, unless I contact your fan club.  Thanks.

Dawn

Dawn —                                                         October 3, 2012In just a little while, I’ll go on stage to meet Mitt Romney in the first presidential debate here in Denver.I couldn’t be prouder to represent you out there.Dawn, it’s because of you that affordable health care is within reach for millions more Americans. It’s because of you that we’ve seen 30 straight months of job growth and middle-class families have seen their taxes cut.Together, we’ve done a lot — but there is so much more to do to keep this country moving forward. That only happens if we win this election.Before tonight’s debate, will you chip in $40 to help finish this campaign strong?

Can’t wait to see what you do tonight.Barack

Oh Barack,                                                                                                  October 3, 2012

You have no idea how happy I am right now! I was beginning to think we could not go on like this. There are just too many people involved now, and you know I want to see you do well in November. For you to put it all on the line and give me credit for affordable health care, job growth and tax cuts, means more than any dinner in New York, or flowers. This is so sweet of you! I hope Michelle doesn’t feel badly, as I know she’s worked hard too… Getting kids to exercise is important; I’ll give her that. And she does seem to be a sharp cookie all around. If things were different, I’d root for the two of you. But then you go and write this sweet, sweet letter and I’m all mushy again. I think I’m going to go re-play some of the last debate on CNN, just to see that smile again. You kicked it Barack. I was so proud… to be your “friend.”

Dawn

Dawn —                                                    October 22, 2012Tonight is Barack’s last debate in his last election.It’s also the last major milestone of this campaign before Election Day.This is it — and your support in these final days means everything.Can you chip in $40 right now?I know Barack is ready to get out there tonight and fight for supporters like you who have built this campaign the right way — from the ground up.As soon as he leaves the stage, I know he’ll be thinking about tomorrow, and all the work we need to do to win in these last two weeks.

If you’re with him now and you’re ready to dig deep until the end, chip in $40 and let Barack know before tonight’s debate:

https://donate.barackobama.com/Last-Debate

If we’re going to win this, it’ll be because of you. Barack and I can’t thank you enough.

Michelle

Dear Michelle,                                                                                    October 22, 2012

I don’t really know what to say at this point. It is so gracious of you to give me credit for Barack’s re-election, come November. I know that none of us can see the future, but I hope above all else that he does indeed win this election. It’s never been about politics between Barack and I. I’m sorry to say it that way, but I believe you know what’s been going on here. He trusts me. He turns to me before each debate, before each big push in a district, when he needs some “support.” We’ve always been able to read between the lines, Barack and I. It’s that much more hurtful that you would include the “chip in $40” line in your correspondence to me. No doubt, you’ve come to realize that this has always been one of our secret codes?

I’m sorry if all of this has hurt you Michelle. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I have tremendous respect for you. You’re an amazing woman. But Barack and I never intended for this to happen. We didn’t want anyone to get hurt. He started writing to me and it just developed into a closer relationship, as time went by. It has nothing to do with the election. Admittedly, the nearly daily onslaught of messages from the people that surround Barack (Hello Joe, really! Stop contacting me!) has been difficult to ignore at times. I feel it was a mistake on Barack’s part to give my address to so many people he works with.  I’ve thought that maybe this is all just too much. I live a simple life and I’m not used to all of this crazy attention from celebrities, political giants, YOU.

I need to reflect on things quietly for a while. Do not take this as any kind of promise that I am giving Barack up. I simply need time to think. The pressure is just too great.

Dawn

————————————————————————————————–

Dear Barack,

It pains me to write this, but it must be done. I can not be your “friend” any more. Please do not write to me beyond this letter. It has just gotten too complicated. One minute you’re telling me that the economy, health care, all of the things you’ve worked so hard for are all due to me… all because of me… What girl wouldn’t have her head turned by such passionate things? Yet, the fact that you have shared our relationship with so many others has just gotten to be too much. Frankly, Joe emails me far too often for comfort. I know he’s your right hand man, but perhaps you shouldn’t have told him about us. I don’t know what Michelle knows, exactly, but she’s a smart cookie. I think she suspects everything. It’s just too much! She emails me, she reminds me all the time that you are her husband… the reminder to say happy Father’s Day was just the start in a seemingly never ending cycle of suggestive threats and reminders that you are hers.

I told you from the beginning. I am an easy going girl. I like things simple and uncomplicated. You know how I feel about you; we’ll always have that. But, I think we need to end this. You need to focus on the election, and I need to focus on voting. I wouldn’t leave you without that… my vote. So, please try to go on. Michelle is wonderful and I know she can make you happy. I need to move on and try to forget about these months we’ve shared. Please respect my wishes and do not contact me again.

Love, Dawn

————————————————————————————————-

Dawn —                                                                     October 25, 2012

I don’t want to lose this election.

Not because of what losing would mean for me — Michelle and I will be fine no matter what happens.

But because of what it would mean for our country and middle-class families.

This race is very close.

I’m not willing to watch the progress you and I worked so hard to achieve be undone.

Don’t wait. Donate $40 today.

I believe in you. If you stick with me, and if we fight harder than ever for the next two weeks, I truly believe we can’t lose.

Thank you,
Barack

P.S. — I don’t know what Election Night will hold, but I’d like you to be a part of the event here in Chicago.
———————————————————————————————————
Dear Barack,                                                                          October 26, 2012

I spent a sleepless night thinking about you, thinking about us. I can’t do this anymore.  The message in your subject line “Stick with me,” practically breaks my heart. You know I don’t want to walk away, but I must. You believe in me. Oh, how that just adds salt to this wound! I believe in you as well. You must know this! But, it’s just too big for either of us. There are too many people who know, too many people involved now. Caroline Kennedy should have been warning enough, but Beyonce, Jay-Z (you know she told him), Bill… he’s amazing, but he can’t be trusted with this kind of thing. He always slips up.

We will always have these letters. Any time you are missing me, just read them and you will know that I am beside you, rooting for you and believing in you. We can’t fight harder the next two weeks, that battle is yours to fight now without me by your side. I will be fighting here, and will hold you close in my thoughts. But you must go forth and do this alone. Please be strong, if I ever meant anything to you. I know Michelle will be there for you, and that brings me some comfort. This is our last letter Barack. Please accept this, and let me go.

Dawn

——————————————————————————————————-

I’ll always love him in a simple shirt, sleeves rolled up and ready to work.
Image: bellenews.com

And so I’ve ended it. For the good of the country really. Barack had a point: I can already take credit for health care reform, the growing economy (look where we were when he started! When he didn’t have me, as a friend), job growth… and who knows what else I can take credit for? But in the end, this country needs Barack more than I do. Michelle needs him. So I’m stepping aside.  I will always have these letters to look at and remember…

If you like the posts on Tales From the Motherland, please subscribe to this blog. The link is in the upper right hand corner of this post.  Then, check out Tales From the Motherland on Facebook and hit Like. I’d love to hit 400 likes there this year, and I appreciate the support.  I’m on Twitter; Follow me and be dazzled by my mostly lame witty and clever Tweets. If I don’t follow you back, send me a tweet reminder and I will. I often miss the cues, when new people join. I’m older, and slower that way.

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Posted in Activist, Blog, Blogging, Daily Observations, Honest observations on many things, Humor, Life, Musings, My world, News, Sarcasm, Tales From the Motherland, Women, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 10 Comments

The Middle: This Is A Test, This Is Only a (dildo) Test…

Posted on October 23, 2012 by Dawn Quyle Landau

Warning: Adult content. This is not even for all adults. If the title scared you, run now!

This post is a test. Please ignore any words that seem out of (Breasts) character. This is only a test. Call me a big baby, but I’ve been stewing about my stats lately. I should be celebrating the fact that my subscriber number has gone up almost daily for a while now. I should be proudly bragging that two of my posts are featured in the new book Tangerine Tango, Women Writers Share Slices of Life. It’s a wonderful little (I do mean small) book that features 10 bloggers, sharing posts about life, humor, religion… life.  I’m proud to be a part of it, and extremely excited that all profits from sales on Amazon.com will be donated to the Huntington’s Disease Society of America (HDSA). For those of you who have followed me for a while, you know that my mother died of Huntington’s December 31, 2011. The disease has had and will continue to have a huge impact on my life. I’m grateful to Lisa Winkler (Cyclingrandma), the woman who put this book together, for choosing HDSA to support. I should be focused on my novel (finally edited) and starting to figure out the next step, toward publication.  I just signed up for NaNoWriMo, and for those of you who are sane enough to skip it don’t know what it is, it’s pure masochism- according to multiple sources. Writers sign up to produce 50,000 words, theoretically a novel, in 30 days: November 1-30.  I’m excited for the challenge. (Sex)

That’s right baby! We shall see…
image: highsnobiety.com

These are all great things.  I should be dwelling on that and not stewing about this: dropping stats. I’ve brooded and moaned and maybe stamped my feet, but the reality is that my numbers have gone down. The daily hits that is. Hits are the numbers that represent people visiting your blog. Visiting people, not necessarily reading your blog. If they subscribe to you and (More Sex) happen to open the email link that comes each time you post, and then say, “Eh, not interested today,” you still get a hit. If they hit a link that takes them to your post, that’s a hit. If they click on photos in your post those are all hits. If you have a lot of photos in a given post, and ten people open your blog post and also click on the photos, you may think you’ve had a decent day… when only 10 people actually visited your blog. See where I’m going here? The lower number of hits that I’ve had recently, are actually even lower!

Sorry Disney. How could I pass?
Image: memegenerator.com

It’s been suggested that I write shorter posts. It’s been suggested that I put provocative (Dildos) content. Sex, scandal, provocative topics bring hits apparently. True, I get no less than 4 hits per day just for my post Call Me Prissy Butt… Ironically, it’s a post I wrote a year ago+ about the over-sexualization of young girls and the trend toward ridiculous skimpy thong underwear. It’s this middle aged woman’s rant, really. But I get a tickle me Elmo kind of giggle each day, when I see that at leasst 4 fools sleeze bags guys (I doubt these are women) have checked in to see something about Butts, but get a lecture on oggling butts instead. Clearly, the word Butt brings in hits. I prefer to have real readers, who come for the content, but maybe some hits come for the butt or the 50 Shades and stay for other reasons. (More dildos)

So this has been a test. The issue of stats and how to build readership and interest is complicated. There’s luck (Freshly Pressed); there’s quality and content; and there is (Sex) (Breasts) (Penises) me plugging along and working to keep readers coming back. Will all of these subliminal words, that I’ve carefully hidden in this post, lead to more hits? Will my stats go up? This is only a test.

Tell me what you think. Are you a blogger too? Which of your posts send your stats up? Do you write to see the numbers go up, or do you write what you believe in…or is it a mix? Do those numbers distract you… push your buttons? Share your thoughts. Take a minute when you’re through and hit Like. Oh how my fragile heart will sing!

Posted in Awareness, Blog, Blogging, Daily Observations, Death of parent, Education, Freshly Pressed, getting published, Honest observations on many things, how blogs work, Humor, Huntington's Disease, Life, Musings, My world, News, Sarcasm, Tales From the Motherland, Women, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 21 Comments

Conceptual Baby.

Posted on October 22, 2012 by Dawn Quyle Landau

Art has the power to do a lot of things. The right piece whispers, or yells, a message to society, while another hangs quietly on a wall. A single piece can move different people in different ways: one person’s masterpiece is another’s piece of junk. The world may agree that a certain Van Gogh will sell for $250 million (a record), but that does not mean everyone who sees that particular vase of sunflowers will like it.

Emily Carr
Image: Glenbow.org

This past weekend we went to Vancouver to get away. It’s one of my favorite cities, anywhere. Surrounded by mountains and water, culturally diverse, fabulous food and entertainment and great museums, it has everything I want in a city. This weekend we got to visit one of Vancouver’s best museums: The Vancouver Art Gallery. Aside from a spectacular and ever changing exhibit of Emily Carr works (an artist I love), the museum features an incredible variety of changing exhibits. This past weekend only two floors were open, as the Gallery prepares for two new installations on the first and second floor. We got to enjoy Emily Carr and the Theater of Transcendence exhibit on the third floor, and an exhibition of Conceptual Art in Canada from 1965-1980, on the second floor. It was in one of these galleries that I had a moment of deep reflection and impact.

A simple piece by Robert Fones, La Table Ronde, consists of black and white snap shots of a single, small round table over the course of several weeks in 1972.  The photos, small prints, are lined up in order to show the viewer the passage of time on the table’s surface. Cups of coffee are put down and then disappear again, food, papers and a typewriter clutter the surface and are eventually cleared, with the passage of time. There’s a cat that moves in and out of some shots, not others. The clean surface becomes very messy and cluttered and then clears again over time. It is a simple photographic diary of a few weeks, that Mr. Fones thought to record and call art.

Rober Fones: La Table Ronde

I was drawn to this piece, more than the others, almost immediately. At first I couldn’t put my finger on what compelled me, as I studied each frame carefully looking for a clue. It all felt so familiar to me. I know many people who had had a similar bowl of nuts and a metal nutcracker on their coffee tables, in the 70s. Smoking was much more prevalent then, or at least in my world, and an ashtray was always present. A pile of cigarette butts might tell an observer how much time had passed, or who had been in the room. I could always tell how long my mother had spent getting ready for work, by the number of cigarette butts crushed in the ashtray on her vanity table. I noted all of these details in these photos, but continued to search for something to explain my strong attraction to this piece of art.

And there it was: a date, and the hairs on my arm stood up. I glanced around the gallery to see if anyone had noticed my sharp intake of breath, my strong reaction. Most people were too busy watching the frozen word “Imagine” melt, in an encased frame. Or the pile of sand that anyone could touch and maneuver into or out of a pyramid shape. Conceptual art, it is not really my cup of tea but it certainly can draw you in. In Robert Fones’ piece, it was the date on one photo: November 29, 1972. As I stared at that single frame, I thought of my father. That picture was taken on what would be his last birthday, his thirty-third birthday, six months before he was killed in an motorcycle accident.

I held my breath unconsciously for a moment as I scanned the photo for a clue. There was nothing of course. There is no rhyme or reason to my father’s death, nor to the enormous impact it had on my life at the time and for years to come. But staring at that single frame, I somehow thought I might find something that would shine some light on the events that shook my world, as if that table were my father’s and maybe I would find some missing message. These are the thoughts of a child. I know. But my ten year old head, my ten year old broken heart, took over for a few minutes and I searched the image with a singular hope for clarity, comfort, some kind of answer.

November 29, 1972
Robert Fones, La Table Ronde

There are none. I know that too. An artist, probably a bit younger than my father at the time, chose to photograph his table over a few weeks. There is no tie to my dad: his life or his death, aside from the date. But the image rocked me for a few hours. I walked through the other galleries and then slipped back to look at it again. Still nothing, aside from the sense that Robert Fones had somehow captured a moment that I didn’t have: my father’s birthday, in the minute details of that table. Did my father have a nut cracker and bowl of nuts like that? Did he drink coffee, and how did he like it- black or with milk? I don’t remember these things. I don’t know. So I studied the details of someone else’s photo, taken on my father’s birthday…. to remember? To feel closer to him again?

None of it makes sense, practically. I know that there is no rational connection between the photo and my father, but from that moment on, the entire exhibit impacted me differently. As I walked through the exhibit, all those photos of people in the 1970s felt so familiar. The full sideburns and hair that is a bit longer than it maybe should be, the clothing, the cigarettes in so many shots, and the expressions of so many people that seem to mirror each other… Those faces are faces that were around when my father was alive. The faces of the early 1970s hit me harder than the later images, because that time period is seared in my memory. It is a time when my young world was rocked to the core and I looked everywhere for answers… that could not be found.

Perhaps this is the essence of Conceptual Art.  The images in the exhibit capture both the mundane and the creative for that time period. People looking into the camera from a busy intersection, faces looking directly at the artist’s lens, movement and time are captured in the images of the artists shown. Rober Fones piece is the simple concept of clutter on a small table, over the course of a couple of weeks. We all have tables. We all have clutter at one time or another. Dishes are put out, and dishes are collected to be washed. To see that captured compels us to associate it with our own lives. What would my table look like over time (Well, of course many of you know what my table looks like!)… ?  For me, the date grabbed me and shook me by viscerally. November 29, 1972, the last birthday my father celebrated. Did he enjoy it? Did I make him a card? None of us knew that it would all change so much, six months later. Robert Fones had no idea that he was capturing a moment that would impact me forty-one years later, for very different reasons than he probably conceived of then.

As an adult, I have moved on of course. I don’t seek many explanations or clarity around this topic. It is what it is, a piece of who I am. However, at the Vancouver Art Gallery this past week, I was transported back in time for a while and I felt those things afresh. Conceptualize that baby.

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Posted in Aging, Awareness, Daily Observations, Death, Death of parent, Honest observations on many things, Life, Musings, My world, Personal change, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 18 Comments

It’s The Dot, Dot, Dots… That Throw Me for a Loop

Posted on October 19, 2012 by Dawn Quyle Landau

I went for a walk with a friend this week to get some exercise and catch up on each other’s lives. We were grateful for one of the potentially last sunny days:  some cool, crisp fall weather.  Leaves had fallen heavily during a wind storm over the weekend and the trail was buried in gold; the air smelled of aging berries and wet leaves. It was gorgeous!

Hard not to love this.

My friend and I are in different phases of life, though only a few years apart in age. I’m older. Her boys are deliciously sweet and young still. They both dash into my arms still and give me big hugs, and boyish giggles. The younger one calls me “Huggy” because I always chased him for a hug, when he was smaller. A few weeks ago, however, when I ran into them at the Farmer’s Market, he gave me a big bear hug with no effort on my part. What a joy they are. Face painting and silliness at the Market, talk of super heroes for Halloween, the sweet smell of boy sweat on their yummy little necks. Oh how I miss that! These days, my boys give me my hugs with unspoken warnings: Don’t push it Mom. I love you, but don’t push it. Not so long ago, they wrapped me in tight hugs and messy kisses: “I love you more mommy!” And while I love how each of them smells still, because I know their smells so intrinsically, they rarely smell sweet… or innocent anymore.

Fall… a time for change.

These differences in our children are what we talk about as we walk. I have become that older mother who’s been there, done that. She runs ideas by  me and I share my experience. The advice is free, but comes with lots of buts and ifs. We’re very different people, very different mothers; I know that it helps to hear how others did it, but she’s doing a great job on her own dime. In exchange, she’s there to support me in my stuff. She’s a solid person who offers support and a kind, true ear. A hug when I need it and wonderful encouragement as I figure some things out. I am grateful for good friends like this, who are there and offer their hearts openly. And so we both had things to offer and share, and that’s what makes for good friendship really. All the better on a beautiful day, in the woods.

As we chatted we talked about how much harder it gets as your kids get older, and yet how hard it all seems when they’re little as well. So many happy, good things, but so much work at each juncture. Trying to figure out your child’s personal learning style, or when there is something that needs addressing, starts early but takes on increasing weight as those things begin to determine how your kids will do in the long run (college, social issues, etc). It’s all very real when they’re little, but it tugs at your heart with a bit more tenacity as they move toward moving on, and you realize that your time is limited… to tell them what you want them to take with them.

We walked briskly, six miles on a trail I love to walk. The time passed quicker than usual as we filled the space with our lives. Amazing how our children fill that space. She is still fairly early in this game and I warn her to pace herself. It’s a marathon, not a race. Cliche number one, but true. There are “lessons” that I can pass on now, that she his grateful to hear, and I’m still reflecting on.  Don’t try and get every single dinner perfect; it’s exhausting. I advise. Dinners have become so simple now that there is only one kid at home, I add, the weight of that sitting on my chest. I’m no longer wrangling the various likes and dislikes or life styles. None of the gluten free-kosher- vegetarian-picky of this summer and years past. One simple boy, whose preferences are established. Meals are small. I’m struggling to not cook too much, after last year when we had two exchange students and a revolving door of people here. I told her all of this and she laughed. It’s so different for her right now. I didn’t realize how much I might miss all that thought and effort… someday.

One left hanging there… waiting to blow away.

“Wow! I can’t imagine getting to that point!” She tells me this as if it’s new. Oh, I know, I think.  I remember thinking that too. Ten minutes ago, it seems. I’ve said it before: blink. But I keep it to myself. “I remember you telling me, years ago, that one of the first things you thought each morning was ‘what am I going to make for dinner.’ I thought it was funny then. Now that’s me! I do the same thing!” She tells me this and I remember that me, telling her those words… but it’s hard to remember me then. I remember my children so much more clearly. Myself: that’s blurry. Now my nest is nearly empty and it happened while I was dashing around making those dinners. I saw it coming; I was mindful, but it still happened in a haze. First my sweet girl was gone, leaving me with boys to men. I missed the camaraderie of her presence for a long time, now I just miss her. When Middle Man left, a lot shifted: the end got a lot closer. Only one more to go… coming up fast.

You know it’s like pregnancy, I tell my friend. For nine months you get used to less sleep, spilling things on yourself and not worrying so much about how you look, worrying about someone else more than yourself or your partner, shifting… and then the baby comes and you lose all that “freedom,” but you’ve already adjusted. The pregnancy gets you ready; having the baby is the “exclamation point” at the end of the preparation. “Totally! It really is.” She says this because she knows it’s true.  “So what comes next?” she asks. Wow. Hmm.

The boots I’ve kept. It’s the little feet that wore them, that I miss.

Well, I guess raising our kids is like a longer pregnancy. Each year our efforts and worries shift, the demands change. When they’re little we ease into getting it right, and then they up the ante as they get bigger-  and how they turn out, what they need, what they do, or care about, pushes us to figure out our groove. And then, just when we find it, just when you feel like you’re doing a good job, they start becoming more independent. They begin to push away a little. By high school, their every action is silently geared toward leaving us and doing it on their own. So when they finally head out the door, we’ve already started tasted more time for ourselves, new choices to make, smaller meals to prepare, less energy put out on others and more time to figure out what we want to do next. When they leave for college, I guess it’s the “period” at the end the whole experience.

My friend, walked beside me quietly. “That seems so far off, but I know it isn’t” she tells me. Nope, it comes even quicker than people like me warn it will. Now I guess I’m just trying to figure out what I do after that “period.” My friend paused for a second, and then said: “What if it’s not a period? What if it’s a dot, dot, dot?” Whoa! I’m gonna use that, I warn her. She laughs, but my head is spinning as we approach my car. Out of the mouth of babes! I guess it’s the dot, dot, dot that’s throwing me for a loop right now. The stuff that comes after those dots may have as much impact as everything that came before them. I take this in and spin it around my head. Three dots leave room for lots of things, and that is scary and exciting, from where I sit now…

Where are you in this? Taking care of little guys, or watching them go? Share your thoughts.

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Posted in Aging, Beauty, Blog, blogs, Daily Observations, Education, Honest observations on many things, Humor, Life, Mothers, Musings, My world, Parenting, Personal change, Tales From the Motherland, Women, Women's issues, Wonderful Things, Writing | 18 Comments

The Middle: Famous Last Words.

Posted on October 17, 2012 by Dawn Quyle Landau

image: annetaintor.com

It’s one thing to get the last word, but then there are famous last words. And you can quote me:

I only need to get a couple of things at Costco– This is not possible; I’ve tried! There are no couple of things at Costco, only huge numbers of things.  I’ve managed once or twice to get out in the $30 range, but most often I go in for a rotisserie chicken, some avocados and one other item and come out with: giant boxes of cereal; a huge bags of peppers/ lemons/ mangos/grapes/lettuce/broccoli/insert other produce; several loaves of bread; new books for my pile (even though I really should buy them at our wonderful local book store); almonds; beef jerky; new socks; stamps… Kaching! $300

For the record– There are lot of things on the record.

Oh! I could never finish this whole thing! – Don’t say this; just don’t. Chances are you will finish it, and then everyone will know that you ate a whole lot of something.

I’m only going to eat two of these chocolate chip cookies/brownies/ insert sweet thing (I’d never be foolish enough to say ‘one’) – It’s not going to happen. If I make a batch, and it’s sitting in the kitchen, all bets are off. I’m going to eat them… all. And blame the kids.

I would never… Never say never darling. It’s just bound to land you in a heap of I told you so. 

I’m just going to check one quick thing (on my computer)- Down the rabbit hole! Every. Time. Call me a sucker, but here, try it.  START HERE:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uz_s8ThT6oc&feature=player_embedded,     THEN THIS:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7yNdpaSBTzo&feature=related     AND THEN: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rEPgd2v1LTQ&feature=relmfu    OR: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wJgVeeQ1KNo&feature=related    THERE’S MORE!(who can resist babies?):   http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hb9RJlHvjXQ   It’s endless Alice!

I just want a little bite– Of almost anything that I would say this about… it’s a slippery slope.

I mean it!– Generally translates to: Seriously, don’t make me say it again… Stop it… really… I mean it!

I’m not going to say this again– Translation: I’m about to say this again.

Oh Grow up!– It’s one thing to say that to our children, but oh how it stings when they do.

We could really use some rain: Inevitably leads to “Rain again?”

I’m going to tackle that mess in my office– Tomorrow.

I’m going to get all of my holiday shopping done early this year.– tick tick tick…

I can write a post under 500 words. I can!

What do you have to say?

Please take a moment and hit Like, or join me on Facebook.

Voila! 424 words

Posted in Blog, Blogging, Daily Observations, Honest observations on many things, Humor, Life, Musings, My world, Writing | Tagged , , , , , | 8 Comments

Homecoming or Coming Home?

Posted on October 14, 2012 by Dawn Quyle Landau

Image: fhntoday.com

All last week, it seemed that every parent I ran into, who has a high school student, asked the same question: “Is Little Man going to Homecoming?” That answer changed throughout the week. Surprisingly, for a kid who is young for his grade and doesn’t get into dances, etc, he has always enjoyed the Homecoming dance. He’s never taken a date, but he and his buddies have gone each year- some with dates, some without, but together. There is always a dinner beforehand and up until this year, a few parents who do the driving. This year, most of them have their licenses. In fact, a lot changed this year.

Ten days ago we were planning to shop for an outfit to wear, and discussing dinner plans. I’d be happy to make a nice dinner for you and your friends, I told Little Man, who’s 16 and a junior in high school. Maybe Mrs. X could help me. We’d make dinner and then leave you all alone to enjoy the meal. I figured that it would save all the expense and issues around going out to dinner. We have a nice dining room, and I like to cook. He and his friends could use the china and then go to the dance. Perfect, right? Glitch number one: Two members of their posse opted to not go, and this mixed things up a little. That’s ok, I reassured. The rest of you can still go… whether you all have dates or not. Things began to look a little shaky, but Little Man is tenacious when it comes to these things. He was still going. He was determined to see it work out, and I was cheering him on.

Glitch 2 brought things to a screaming halt, however.  Middle Man’s best friend was taking someone not in their group, who didn’t want to spend dinner with the group. Suddenly, one by one, the group kind of fell apart. Those without dates figured they didn’t want to have dinner with part of the group, and not the rest. Things were wildly up in the air, and then Little Man told me that he wasn’t going to the dance after all. I admit it, I was really sad to hear this. I knew he liked going; I knew he wasn’t going because he felt a little cast away. The dinner’s one of the funnest parts Mom. I don’t want to show up at the dance, when everyone’s been out beforehand. I wanted to tell him it didn’t matter, but I knew that it did. I’m not going. I really don’t want to, he told me. For the week before the dance I mulled this over and stewed about the situation, while Little Man seemed basically OK about it. Not happy, but not as disappointed as me.

From that point on, each time someone asked if my kid was going to Homecoming, I felt a little twinge. For each rational thought, there was an equally strong heart tug. Oh, my boy’s not going to Homecoming, and his friends are. Then I ran into a father, and the topic of Homecoming came up again. His son wasn’t going either. We talked about the growing pressure on boys to invite a date to Homecoming with a painted pony, dozens of balloons or banners from the highway. The pressure to pay for tickets, dinner out, a corsage and all the sparkle that goes with asking a date, is huge. We harkened back to our own Homecomings, when there was a very important football game and a much less important dance. Jeans and shirts, was what we wore. A live band was the highlight. Now, the girls spend a small fortune on (mostly) very tight dresses and gravity defying shoes. Hair salons, waxing,  and nail vendors all make a fortune on Homecoming. It’s a pricey evening, with a lot of pressure, the dad and I agreed.

There is no doubt in my mind that navigating through high school with a daughter was harder. Girls can just be so… mean. And calculating mean, at that. Boys are goof balls, for the most part. A pile of puppies tumbling their way through the same events, very differently. Some are alphas; mine is not. But ultimately, they’re all just a bit behind the girls in the figuring it out department. However, I’ve learned that there are still some tough moments with boys as well.  If you have a boy like mine: who doesn’t party, doesn’t date, and is young, or a boy like the father I was talking to has: who doesn’t party, is highly focused on school and isn’t in the dating pool either, the pressure to go to Homecoming can be enormous. The let down of not going is equally awkward. It’s expected, by almost everyone. Yet, while we both felt the same conflicting emotions about our kids sitting home, we found ourselves agreeing on why it would be hard for a lot of kids to go. And then I heard myself say to him, what had gotten lost in the emotions of the situation: Isn’t it strange that when two adults talk, we can agree that it’s fine for 16 year old boys to not want to date, or get all caught up in the drama of Homecoming? Isn’t if fine for them to stay home and play games, or watch a movie? Don’t we want them to be true to themselves, and not do things just because their peers are? The dad smiled and said, “Absolutely. It just feels hard when it’s your kid.” Yep.

We all want the best for our kids. Ultimately, each generation wants their kids to do a little better than they did. I don’t think this ends with jobs and education. We all want our kids to do well socially; we want them to feel successful within their peer group. It stands to reason that on some level, each of us hopes for a better Homecoming, Prom, SAT, date, weekend, etc for our kids than we had. Or, at least as good. As much as I believe what I said to that father, it was hard to accept that my boy would be sitting home alone, on a night when so many of his peers were donning matching ties, buying flowers for pretty girls and dancing in a sweaty cafeteria, to music I mostly hate.

Then the Homecoming drama made a final, unexpected twist within the pack that Little Man hangs with. Dates shuffled (Read cancelled- who does that?) and we were back to square one: Are you going to Homecoming? With only days until the dance. One by one, they all agreed that it was all just too much. I could have told them that while they may not have noticed, I was sure that there was a girl for each of them that had secretly wished he had asked her to Homecoming. I’m sure of it. But we notice what we are open to seeing, and these guys were not seeing that. Instead, as I heard phone calls being made and answered, I began to realize that none of them was really up for the game this year. Of note: many of these kids don’t even go to the game that Homecoming is all about. Our football team has not had  stellar record, and lots of kids have become apathetic. They go for the dance, not the team. Back when I was in high school (in the late 1900’s) we were all about the team, all about the game: it was everything! (Read Homecoming, Seriously?) Not these guys. So when Little Man hung up the phone, two days before the dance and said: “Hallelujah, we’re all going to do something else!” I finally got it. My boy was not going to Homecoming this year, and that’s what he wanted.

Most of this ice-cream melted. There was not enough room in our freezer for ten tons of vanilla!

Instead, a group of six teen boys (some juniors and some seniors) decided that they would go to a favorite local Chinese restaurant, and then come over to our house, to play table tennis, eat a lot of junk, and watch a stupid movie. They tried to organize themselves to go see a movie at the theaters, but between R ratings, the logistics of picking a film, getting there, and thinking it all through… they came to our house. I set a goal a long time ago: to make this the place that my kids would want to bring their friends. Fire pit- check. Makings for S’mores always on hand- check. Microwave popcorn- check. Free movies- check. And the promise to stay out of the way- check. We are generally home, but stay away from their action. Each of my kids has used this in a different way, but Little Man and his friends are truly a pleasure to have around. They are creative (Themed dinners: classic movie attire anyone? Indoors hide and seek with all the lights off. Poker. etc) and all of them are good kids, who have never made me question or regret the open door policy.

The day after Homecoming I found what I knew I would find on line: a slew of pictures, of other people’s kids going to Homecoming, all over Facebook. I felt the tug that I knew I’d feel, as I looked at the beautiful faces and nicely dressed kids, all excited to go to the dance. Some of them with that special person that they really wanted to be with, and some with someone they went with to not be alone. “We’re going as friends.” They all look happy, and so shiny. Dressed up and excited. That’s how it should be… for some kids.

Homecoming debris. The hardest stuff consumed: Oreos.

But for my kid, and his group of friends Homecoming night: they were in jeans and a shirt, with a ginormous vat of ice-cream and too many cookies, watching the entirely inappropriate but at times hilarious Borat. Smart Guy and I went out to dinner, to a place that doesn’t allow kids (guarantees us not to compete with the Homecoming crowds) and had a nice dinner with friends. We knew we could trust the boys at our house, and so we laughed and had fun talking about grown up topics. When we came home, the boys were playing table tennis and lining up a movie. Vanilla ice cream was sitting out melting on the counter.  As I settled in to work on edits upstairs, their laughter was music to me.  Throughout the movie, someone would say “This can’t be real?!” I Googled Borat, ready for answers when they finished. Mostly, I sat and worked, and I smiled a lot. Those boys laughed so hard, and so much, for 86 minutes that I couldn’t help but laugh too. I’m convinced that there is nothing funnier than listening to a group of teen boys watch Borat. There’s more than one way to dance; and there’s nothing better than knowing that your kid is happy, and doing just what he should be doing for Homecoming.

Did your kids go to Homecoming this year? How was it? Do you remember your own Homecoming fondly, or with regret? Share your thoughts.

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Posted in Awareness, Blog, Blogging, Education, Humor, Life, Mothers, Musings, My world, Tales From the Motherland, Teens, Women's issues, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , | 9 Comments