Fifty Shades of Humiliation… at Costco.

Posted on May 14, 2012 by Dawn Quyle Landau

WARNING:  Kids, my kids (adopted or birthed), do not read this one! Do not read it. Trust me, it’s embarrassing enough without you thinking of fifty new ways that your mom is not who you thought she was. Best to skip to some other post, if you must read these. There are other people who I might advise similarly, but no doubt that just makes it more compelling. The kids know from past experience, that I mean what I say when I say don’t read this. You are officially warned.

Note # 2:  Note to new readers:  Our family took in two foreign exchange students this year. Denmark is a 17 yr old girl. China is a 16 yr old boy. The U.S. is our 15 yr old son (Little Man). Israel, when home, is our 22 yr old daughter (Principessa), and Canada our 19 yr old son (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…

I’ll start with by saying: I deserved it. I believe in Karma and admittedly, I got a big dose of whoop ass humiliation karma at Costco, for going back on all I’ve said for months, and for doing something that I was embarrassed enough about, that I was actively trying to hide it when the whoop ass rained down on me.  But, in fairness, it all started with a simple trip to Costco…

We had been out of maple syrup for 10 days, an official crisis at the U.N.  “Ma! We have no syrup! Can I put this on my waffles?” China had asked, after taking a couple of different spreadable things from the fridge.  The kid’s been known to spread Nutella on liverwurst. Yes, really.  No, stick with Jam, I suggested. “We have nothing to eat!” U.S. pointed out for several mornings, adding “We really need syrup!”  For those who know me, starvation is a real and frequent cause for concern around our house… (if you’re clueless  blindfolded  too lazy to check the pantry or extra fridge)  Seriously? Nothing? I at least tried to sound concerned. Denmark knew enough not to ask when I was going to the store, fully aware of my resistance to going to Costco, unless absolutely necessary.  I admit it:  Eggos are critical in this house; and ridiculous amounts of maple syrup are consumed with them. I have considered switching to fake syrup, just to drive home a point about portion control and quality. However, I fear that several nations will actually like the high fructose corn syrup varieties and that slippery slope would inevitably lead to Jiff, Hamburger Helper and eventually, Wonder Bread. So I continue to buy real Maple Syrup and remind them continuously: “Please use less syrup!”

<– Flowers at Costco

Anyway, we were out… for 10 days… and there was clear multi-nation unrest. I had a list of the usual items that I try to buy only at Costco because it kills me to pay the ridiculous prices for less at the local store. Seriously kills me. I was organized and determined to get in and get out, and not wander into areas I didn’t need to be in. I was doing remarkably well. I’d even bought myself a beautiful Mother’s Day bouquet, the first I’ve purchased since Mom’s death a few months ago. I bought her flowers there weekly, and it’s just been something I’ve avoided since. In her honor, I bought myself some flowers. I had all my groceries, and was searching for a snack item that U.S. requested when I found myself near the books… the evil stacks of low priced books that has always landed me in trouble. They’ve moved it, and personally, I thought it was less available and thus better for people like me who have a forever stack of “need to reads.” Nope, there it was, right in my path.

Can’t hurt to make a quick browse, I thought. There might be that… hmm, can’t remember the title, but the one so and so recommended. I’ll just take a very quick glance, I continued to rationalize consider as I moved quickly through the stacks. And then, it happened. I saw Fifty Shades of Grey sitting there in one of three mile high Fifty Shades of Grey piles.. If you haven’t heard of it:  Quick, lift the rock you’re under and enter the world of porn literary dilemmas extraordinaire!  Fifty Shades is a book that was written and self-published on-line initially, initially based on the popular Twighlight Series (which I didn’t read). It went viral on line, then was self-published by author E. L. James in e-book and print on demand, and eventually picked up by Vintage books for recent re-release in paper back. It’s so huge now, that Costco is selling it… And that is where my fifty shades of humiliation begins.

This book has prompted all kinds of dialogue since it first appeared on the scene (before it’s release in paper book). It’s been called erotica, chick lit, garbage, BDSM (bondage/discipline/ sadism/ masochism), “mommy porn” (by the press), romance, brilliant, and a million other things. I haven’t seen so much written about one book in a very long time (like this, and this, and this, and this…) and as I started reading more and more about it, it began coming up in conversation after conversation.  Wink wink nod nod moments with friends and sometimes women I hardly know. Based on reviews and feedback from a few readers, I resolved that it didn’t interest me. I had read enough about the degradation of the young heroine of the novel and the poor writing to believe that I didn’t need or want to read this.  And so, that’s what I told everyone who I discussed this with: I’m curious, but I don’t plan to buy it or read it, blah blah blah. (Excuse me while I grab another bite of humble, from my pie)

I glanced around, and then hesitantly grabbed a copy. This is that moment when the music would change and there’d probably be a clap of thunder.  No one was looking; that’s key. I knew that picking up this book meant something. Without a thought, I grabbed another book (that I definitely didn’t plan to buy) and covered Fifty Shades with it. The very fact that I didn’t want to be seen holding it is evidence enough that I was embarrassed…By a book… Never a good sign. I eventually ditched the other book (a lofty biography of Churchill) and buried Fifty under my groceries. Sign two: I generally place all books in the front kid seat area, so that produce doesn’t leak on the pages. I buried this baby deep under the bread. Then I pretended to peruse other books (clearly sign #3) for a few moments before making my way up to check out, avoiding any eye contact… with anyone. Free and clear, I thought.

And then it happened. I’ve shopped at this same Costco for nearly eleven years now. I’ve gotten to know some of the people who work there, if only peripherally. We at least say hi and chit chat at check out. As I was doing just that, I saw the book approaching the scanner and then as if in slow motion (cue Jaws music), the woman at the register looked at me, looked back at the book and (serious karmic bitch slap here) said: “Oh, look what you’re reading! Someone’s going to be having some fun! He he he.” I kid you not; pretty much exact words. I have no doubt I was blushing, but I tried to remain calm and cool. I am a grown woman. I can read whatever the blankety blank  I want. Right?  Oh, yeah. Ha ha. I’m just curious. I tried to sound neutral. “Curious, riiiight!” she laughed.  I take it you know it?  Steady tone, calm breath. We were just discussing books… I thought. “Know it! I couldn’t put it down… Holy cow, that is some book! Yoooou’ll see!” She was evilly positively amused by the whole thing. Giddy even. She clearly saw us as sharing a secret sexy sisterhood.”We should be selling out of these pretty quickly!”  She added with gusto and a big smile. (Great, now I’m part of the mass Costco mommy porn industry.) Right then, just when I thought it couldn’t be more embarrassing, I got the second hard slap. Late twenty-something, 6’2″ macho guy, putting my groceries in my canvas bags, looks over; picks up the book and grins. Grins! He looked just like the Grinch, when you first see that sneaky, smarmy look cross his face. That is absolutely what he did. And everything got Fifty Shades worse, all around.

“Well! Look at you.” (No, please don’t) He grinned bigger. “I’ve heard about this book! Guess we know what you’re up to now…” (No! You don’t!  Really, you don’t!)  I could not believe this was all happening. All those times I joked around with these guys, all those times I was friendly, had somehow given the impression that I actually have a sense of humor, or can take some ribbing. Not. NOT!  I hardly think a book makes that big of a difference. A book doesn’t mean I’m up to something.  I tried, really tried, to maintain some dignity as I said that. “Riiight.” (Hello? What’s with the Riiiights?)  “Well, everyone knows there’s plenty to be up to in here. I’ll be looking at you a little differently from now on!” (Oh my God! Seriously… seriously, silly boyish thing?) I could barely look him in the face. Any previous cougarish thoughts I might have had, vanished instantly. The very second he said that. Poof!  I know he thought it was funny, and did not get the entirely inappropriate level he’d reached, but my head felt like it might explode. The gal ringing up my groceries was roaring by now.

It is not the topic of sex that made me want to leave my groceries and dash out.  Again I’m an adult, and for the most part, that topic isn’t the worst topic in the world. Granted, at the Costco check out it was a bit jarring. And let me be clear here: I haven’t read it yet, but for the record, I write pretty good sex all on my own. I’ve already shared that in Sex and Flyfishing, Bad Parent and Bikers… Not That They’re Connected, and in a few other posts (by the way, don’t head off to that link thinking you’ll find any examples… just references to the fact). Hell, if I plan to see my own book published (which I do, and it’s in the works) I might as well fess up now and not worry when it’s finally out there. It’s fiction; I stand by that.  It wasn’t any of that that had me cringing sideways and backwards. It was the mere fact that all of that sex was in a book that I’d heard was bad.  A book that I was told was very poorly written, by source after source. I’d vowed I wasn’t reading it. I’d actually sat with a friend the day before and said firmly No, I’m not buying it either. Twenty-four hours later, karma was bitch slapping me ferociously for my sanctimonious statements, for the fact that I was blatantly breaching said statements and buying the book after all, and worst of all, for being jealous of E.L. James for making millions and selling millions when all I want is to see my book properly published. Damn. Karma sucks. (And, yes, I know that this is not technically karma… it’s just a play on words… doesn’t really matter; the humiliation was real. Real.)

By now, everyone was having a good laugh but me. I was a having a “show-them-this-doesn’t-phase-you-laugh.” I was trying to have my freckles not blend entirely with my blushing cheeks, and act like I only cared about how my bags were packed. I was trying not to look at the elderly couple behind me in line, who were both looking suspiciously at the book now, and I was pretending very hard that I absolutely didn’t hear when the lady said “Well, now I have to see what that book is.”  It was just like that moment from When Harry Met Sally, in the deli, only I was standing in Billy Crystal’s role.  I sincerely wanted to crawl out of Costco. I did not respond. I refused to even look at someone’s grandma.  Instead, I watched the woman at the register as her face got a few shades more serious, and she told the older woman, “Oh, it’s just a very popular romance novel.”  Oh man! Now I was buying a romance novel at Costco. Someone just call Fabio. There was no saving face at that point. The lady and her husband just looked away politely. They’d heard everything said previously, and clearly they had their own ideas about what kind of reading I do. As I was leaving, the bad bag guy handed me the cart and said, “See you next time!” I swear he winked… jokingly, but he winked. I looked both of them squarely and said, I think I’ll be driving to blank city from now on. It will be worth the extra fifteen minutes of driving to avoid seeing anyone for a while.  Oh how they laughed as I walked away, holding my cart for support. I can say with absolute certainty, there is no amount of maple syrup that could justify the fifteen minutes of sheer hell I had at that check out.

<– There it is, tucked away in a dark, safe place… for now.

Now, the book sits hidden away. As I work through my PTSD, I have not been able to look at it. No dogeared good parts, no skimming for the stuff that has millions talking. Nothing, nada. I put it away before any of the groceries, just so it wouldn’t inadvertently end up on my counter and I’d have to explain to Smart Guy or the members of the U.N. (kids).  Hiding books… hmm, maybe this is Fifty-one shades of humiliation.

So I’ve shown you mine; now show me yours. Do you think in Grey now?  Are you curious, but too scared to buy it… and now, after reading this horror tale, determined not to?  Why should I, or should I not go pick this up right now and read it??

Finally, since I went down this path anyway… Come on, make me feel good. Stroke my…. ego. Hit the title of this article and then click on the Like icon at the bottom. Share your thoughts in the comments section.  It makes me feel soooo good. And to make it really last, if you haven’t already done it: go to my Tales from the Motherland Facebook page and hit Like there.

Posted in Aging, Awareness, Blog, blogs, Ego, getting published, Honest observations on many things, Humor, Life, Musings, My world, Parenting, Sarcasm, The U.N., Women, Women's issues, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 36 Comments

Passing Ghosts.

Posted on May 10, 2012 by Dawn Quyle Landau

I wrote this for my a submission in my writing group, with the prompt “Mother’s Day.”  It’s not my usual style for the  blog, and I did not initially write it for this. However, the wise and talented women in the group suggested I share it, and they are rarely wrong. Please remember I said that ladies. I share it in honor of my mother, Carole, who died December 31, 2011 of Huntinton’s Disease. She was 68 years old. This will be my first Mother’s Day without her, and changes the holiday in ways I hadn’t anticipated. It’s a journey however, and each milestone shows me something new.  To Mom.

Passing Ghost

The silver car pulled up to the light, preparing to turn left and pass me in the opposite direction. The driver caught my eye, and I held my breath.  My car made the right at the green arrow on it’s own, as my head pivoted in slow motion, to look more closely at the driver of the car, turning and passing me on my left.  Stunned, my senses racing, I watched the woman navigate her own turn, while my heart sped up. She looked so much like my mother that I had to force myself to look back and focus on the road ahead.  Our cars moved past each other, and I looked at her more closely. The resemblance was striking.  The tight line of her jaw, the determined look, the way she held the wheel lazily in her hands, as she looked around her, as if driving were an afterthought: all of it was my mother.  Each nerve in my body tingled, the synapses fired the message: she is gone, while my heart tugged and raced in disbelief.

Of course, even as it was happening, I was acutely aware that it wasn’t, couldn’t be, my mother.  She has been dead for four months; her ashes sit in a box beside the fine china she loved so much.  By the time Huntington’s Disease finally took her, she relied on a walker and her ability to navigate was gone.  She had become a frail woman who could not care for herself.   Before her death she hadn’t driven a car in nearly five years and I would no more expect to see her behind the wheel of a car, than I’d expect to see my twelve-year old niece driving. Yet in that moment, as that silver car drove past me, I wanted desperately to turn around, follow the car, and find my Mom.

The rest of the day, the woman’s face played in my thoughts. I saw her turn her head to look for the right building, over and over. I replayed the look on her face as she drove.  The day slipped by and I saw more of my mother in that face, until my memories had me believing that I’d actually seen my mom driving around town.  I want to believe that I’m not that foolish:  that I didn’t really think it was my mother driving past me, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’d seen her ghost.

In the four months since her death I’ve slowly been coming to terms with my mother’s illness and all that it took from her, and from us.  I’ve been trying to remember more of the times we shared before she became ill, instead of the slow, agonizing decline that was her life for far too long.  It’s not easy.  The reality is that mom’s illness came to define her, over the twelve years that she suffered.  In the end, it was often what people saw first when she approached them, and what we saw too often, in place of the enormous personality that she’d once had.

Her walker; the messy, unfashionable clothes she wore; the toothless grin, because she hated her dentures; the vacant look in her eyes so much of the time… all of this replaced the mother I’d once felt so enmeshed with. It replaced the mother I adored, resented, struggled with and loved, the woman I tried to emulate and then tried to distance myself from. In the end, gone was her perfectionism:  regarding her hair, her wardrobe, her overall appearance.  Instead, she had settled into the simple goal of being as comfortable as possible, without concern for other’s opinions. It’s an attitude that so many of us claim we aspire to; but trust me, it can prove very different in real life.

For much of my life, I believed my mother worried too much about what other people thought.  I believed that she was too focused on how she looked; what label she wore; standing out in the crowd.  And she did stand out.  She was a business owner before many women had even figured out how to survive without a man.  She was independent and smart about so many things, while missing some of the crucial things that would have made her life easier.  She was stylish and charismatic; she was funny, playful, ballsy.  She was the one who made so many of our family get-togethers an event, often the life of the party, whoever was having the party. She was sarcastic and wry, and she rarely missed a good line, all while looking better than most people around her.  Lilly Pulitzer skirts, silk blouses, the perfect shoe for each outfit, and her hair, make-up and nails were always impeccable. When she walked in a room you noticed her.

When I was young, I resented her obsessive fascination with style and fashion: with how things looked.  It was something she forced on us as well. Throughout elementary school, my mother insisted that I dress in styles that were better suited to Vogue and Cosmo, better suited to adults, than to the small town where we lived or the kid I was.  Navy blue gauchos with “pop” daisies, paired with a kelly-green jacket-top, while my peers were wearing simple jumpers.  In Junior High I fought forever to finally get a pair of what was then the biggest craze amongst my peers: straight leg boy’s Levis.  I was forbidden to wear them:  “They’re so boyish, so plain.” Finally, in ninth grade my pleading finally caused her to relent.  I bought them with money I’d earned babysitting. As I walked awkwardly into the kitchen, the first time I wore my powder blue Levis, she looked at me carefully and  stated sarcastically, “Hmm, they look comfortable too.”   As if comfort had ever played a role in her fashion choices.

<— She rarely left the house looking less than fabulous, but when she dressed up: wow!

Only later would I learn to appreciate her discerning eye and her high standards.  Anyone would be hard pressed to find a photo of her, where she isn’t completely “put together:” the latest hair-cut or style, tailored outfits, and perfect make-up was always in place.  I struggled to emulate some of her stylish choices, even as my own inherently casual nature left me forever falling short of her standards.  She was totally at a loss whenever she looked at my unpolished, often dirty, finger-nails. “How can you walk around without a manicure?”  She asked this as simply as if it were the most obvious thing to wonder. Never mind that my jeans and sweaters hardly called for manicures.  I would roll my eyes and remind her that gardening and horseback riding, something I did daily until ten years ago, were enemies to any manicure. She never bought my excuses.

So, as her Huntington’s progressed and she began to lose one piece of herself after another, it was her lack of interest in her appearance, in the end, that most startled me… right to the last days.  Each time she showed up without a bra, or with food on her already faded, favorite black shirt, I was startled. Each time her luxuriously thick silver hair stood up, clearly un-brushed or styled, I had to resist the urge to grab a spritz bottle and a brush.  She hated that her appearance bothered me.  “Just leave me alone, Dawn,” she’d state, tiny bits of her autonomy still intact.  Only now do I see that my desperate desire to help her look good, was my unconscious attempt to deny the end I knew was close, and that I was not ready for.  She died with perfect red polish on her toes, a striking contrast to her wasted body.  My sister and I each did her fingernails as well, days before she died.  I offered to have a friend come do her hair, as she lay in her hospice bed, days away from death.  She rolled her eyes and told me she “it doesn’t matter anymore.”

<– Four years ago, she still dressed herself and cared how she looked, especially for her granddaughter’s graduation from High School.

I bought her new clothes right up until the end, but she clung to a few items she’d come to love, and I came to loath.  “Why aren’t you wearing the nice brown sweater I bought you?” I’d ask. “It’s in the laundry,” she always replied, sometimes avoiding my eyes, other times staring me down.  I’m certain that she was still cognizant enough to calculate that that answer would shut me up. This reasoning, however, left me wondering why she didn’t wear the brown sweater with food on it, instead of the old black shirt with food.  Each time I went to her closet, in frustration, the new items sat neglected on the shelves. “Your new pants/shirt/sweater is right here Mom!”  “Oh, I didn’t know that.”

When she died, I can’t count how many of the things that I sent to the YWCA’s back to work program, were brand new.  Many had never been worn.  The ironed-on name tags, which I fastidiously put in each item of her clothing, were the only indications that they’d ever belonged to anyone.  Honestly, it is at the least hopeful of me to think that she was still clear enough to willfully choose the older, rattier outfits just to push my buttons, and at the most, delusional of me.  Yet, many times that’s exactly what I believed.  I need to believe that she wasn’t completely gone in those last few years. I need to believe that parts of her lay hidden in the body that suggested otherwise. While the dementia and ticks of Huntington’s drove my mother, grief drove me.

<– At the very end, comfort and love was all that she wore.

Now I long for a few of those tangled interactions.  Some days, I miss the vacant look and the ravaged body that was left, as much as I yearn for the vibrant mother of so many years ago.  My frailer mother hugged me as if it would be the last time, each time she greeted me or said goodbye. Mostly it annoyed me, as I was simultaneously struggling to get her to the car, make dinner, not engage in a discussion about her clothing choice.  And even then, I knew that one day I’d regret my short sightedness, my frustration and harsh judgment. I knew, even as the days were ticking by, that I would miss her and wish for at least one of those moments back.  I knew all of that; but I guess I never really anticipated that I’d be seeing her ghost, that she’d come back to haunt me.

Note: Share your thoughts. Is your mother still alive? What do you admire most? What drives you nuts?  If she is gone, what do you miss most?  Take a minute to share your thoughts in the comment section, and if you liked this post, please hit the Like button… I’ll count it as a Mother’s Day gift. : )

Posted in Aging, Awareness, Beauty, Blog, Daily Observations, Death, Death of parent, Dying, Honest observations on many things, Life, Mother's Day, Mothers, Parenting, Personal change, Women, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 11 Comments

The Middle… Excuse Me, But Can I Sniff Your Butt?

Posted on May 8, 2012 by Dawn Quyle Landau

Each time I go to the dog park with my studly dog Luke (his real name), I find myself equally amused by the people there as the canine crowd. Without fail, there are several people standing around, creating dialogue for the doggies they’re watching. I have to admit, I’m one of these fools. Can’t help it. The one liners and zingers just fly out of my mouth, as I watch Luke and the other boys and girls run, play, chase, pee and sniff… each others’ butts.

To be clear, my 11 year old dog Luke is a total alpha. He was a calm, easy going dog when we adopted him at 18 months, but I’ve always said that Smart Guy and I can ruin anything, and this yellow lab was no exception. He went from sweet, easy and chill to hyper guy in just two years:  eating socks whole (and spitting them up as solid, yellow wads later), tearing out our phone, shredding anything left sitting around and following me around like a neurotic shadow. As our old dog, Callie, got older and slower, Luke just amped it up and drove me mad. Mad! I’m not a quitter, but I seriously thought about finding a new home for him for a while. It is worth noting that Luke destroyed his first L.L. Bean “Indestructible Dog Bed” in under 2o minutes. They enthusiastically replaced it and he destroyed the second in less than two hours. They sent one more. That lasted a day, and L.L. Bean no longer carries the “Indestructible” dog bed. I told them that his face should be in their catalogue.  As I said, we can ruin anything:  kids, dogs, exchange students… we’re just that talented.

Anyway, Luke went from being this chill dude to a totally alpha beast. He is sweet to the core, so while he comes running into the dog park with his hackles all on end, he leaves a fight quickly and I’ve never seen him bite. He’s been bitten numerous times, but he’s not the biter. However, when he runs full speed into the dog park, the bitches and dudes all take notice. On those occasions when there’s another determined alpha, it can be more than a little amusing, and I take great delight in putting words to the occasions.

“Duuuude! This is my park man. See, I’m peeing right on the gate!”    “Really? I pee over your pee, Mate.”   “Mate? We’re dudes dude. You talk funny.  And I’m gonna pee every two feet just to show you who’s boss here!”  “Tell me you didn’t just squat?”  “That wasn’t a squat, it was a dip and raise the leg… ’cause I’m tough.”

  

“Woa, heads up Mate! Here comes that bitch Bella.”   “She’s a black haired pointer. Very rare you know.”  “Dude, she’s sniffing your butt! I’ll leave you two alone… Uh man, there is dog shit everywhere! Hello, humans, pick up please. This is gross!”

“Hello! Hola!  Guten Tag?  Can I get a hey?…  Anyone?  What, never seen a Dachsund Chihuahua?”

  

“Ok, I’m taking charge here:  Just line up guys. We can sniff more butts that way. Hey you, mutt boy, I said line up!”

“You can’t handle my magnificence.”

“Yo guys, check out the herder over there. They think they’re so focused, so intense, too good for butts… but just watch him when someone throws a ball. He he he.”

“I’ve got a better idea: you crawl through the tunnel and I’ll roll the ball to you .”

“I run, because I can. Because I’m an alpha. Watch me run suckahs!”

  

“I know she’s hot, dude, but doesn’t Bella remind you a little of Gene Simmons?”

“I was playing! Playing!  Seriously, don’t look at me like you’re gonna eat me. We’re domesticated! Domesticated!”

“Guys, check out husky; always has to hang with the hipsters. I’m Siberian you know, blah, blah…Cripes, on the table, seriously?”

“Fetch it yourself. I’m way too old for that shit.”

“Hey! Hey! Hi! Hi everyone! It’s me! I’m here! Come on; let’s play! Let’s play!”

“Ooops!  Moooooom!”

“Muddy? So, what’s your point?…”

“Shower! I hate showers! This is wrong on so many levels.”

“I am alpha. Your water can not bring me down human.”

 

Does your dog talk too?  Are you a fan of the dog park, and why?  Share some good karma and hit Like on this post. Leave a comment and talk in human words. Share some love.

Posted in Blog, Blogging, Daily Observations, Honest observations on many things, Humor, Life, Musings, Sarcasm, Wonderful Things | Tagged , , , , , | 4 Comments

There’s a Tree for that Apple.

Posted on May 5, 2012 by Dawn Quyle Landau

As my daughter fast approaches her college graduation, it has been impossible not to reflect on so many things about her, how far she’s come, and how we see her as she heads into this (gulp) next adult stage of her life.  In doing this, it’s been impossible not to notice the similarities, as well as the differences, in how she and her life are unfolding and how my own or her father’s did. When I was her age, I was already in love with Smart Guy; he was in medical school, and we were seriously taking baby steps toward our futures.  While Principessa is not in a serious relationship, there are so many other details of her life that open old windows on my past and who I was as a 22 year old young woman, as I watch her forge her own path and make big decisions.

Principessa is clearly her own person. She always has been. She came out of me running toward her own dreams, letting us know she had a mind of her own. She’s been fiercely independent from the time she was a toddler. However, as she finishes her last classes and types her final papers (announcing on Facebook that she TYPED her final paper on the real typewriter she’s had for years, versus a computer), she awaits word on where she might be next year, as she updates us on Graduation weekend (in 2 weeks) and readies to say good bye to the college life she’s loved, I am struck blindingly at times by the similarities between us. Beyond the physical similarities that others often see in pictures of me at that age, I see the passion and determination in her that so defined me at that time.

Our circumstances could not be more different:  I had a single mother who could not contribute to my education at all. I was entirely on my own at that stage in life, in all decision making (the first to graduate from college in my family), financially and often emotionally. Principessa has a wide world of family who support and love her, and help in any way they can, or she needs. That said, she is a very independent young woman, and aside from tuition and board, she has not asked for single penny in four years. Not a one. She has budgeted and taken care of herself in a very mature and impressive way, managing to see much of the world as she’s done it. She and I share a strong inner drive to be out in the world. I could not afford to do much at that age, paying for school, etc, but I did manage to go to Australia for three months during college, something that seemed extremely exotic to everyone I knew at the then. Australia was not the familiar destination it is today. Principessa has spent nearly 16 months in the Middle East, during her college career, certainly an exotic and misunderstood place to many of us.

We each had a huge, and at times painful, love affair in our four years at school. There is hardly a person alive who did not have their heart broken once in their life, but that doesn’t matter when you’re in it. There was little I could say or do that eased that time for her, but knowing that she was strong and so was I, that she would get through it too, made it all a little easier… for me. There’s no easy when you’re the one with the broken heart, but I never knew until then how my own heart to could ache for someone else’s, in quite that way.  She has strong elements of her father’s logic and interests, and it has been interesting to relive flashbacks of a young Smart Guy, listening to her explain something she’s read, some new idea that has her excited, the same way I listened to his latest theory or plan.  I am always jolted when I realize that she is in fact a mixing of the two of us, whilst so truly her own self.

However, it’s not just my own daughter that I’ve been making this connection with. Over the past year or so, it has struck me over and over that I am now of an age where I have friends whose kids are the same ages as we all were, when we first met. Many of these kids, I’ve known since they were babies as our families have grown up together, while others I’ve gotten to watch grow through annual Christmas cards and letters, with occasional visits sprinkled in. It’s striking over and over when I see flashes of their parents, as I once knew them. The musical interests and passions of one, remind me so much of his young father that I can’t help but chuckle each time he posts some new band he likes. His strong political stands often remind me, with a faint tug to my depths, of the hours of arguments and heated debates I shared with his dad (a dear friend to this day) about welfare, poverty and American values versus U.K. policies. At the same time, his quiet humor, his lovely smile and ability to connect emotionally, is his mum all over again.

Another friend’s son looks so much like his father looked at his age (21), that it sometimes stops me dead. His dad and I spent so many hours skate boarding and walking around Cambridge, MA, talking about bands we liked, and hanging with our friends. I remember so well when his parents fell in love and we watched them leave us all behind for a brief while, as they had eyes for no one else. Now, thirty years later, we’re all still close friends and last summer I found myself sitting up late at night, talking about life with their boy. He’s so clearly a mix of both his parents, and so uniquely his own person, but as we sat and laughed, and sat and talked, I kept seeing his dad’s old twinkle, his mom’s laugh. Ghosts of my youth, on the sofa beside me.

I am fortunate to have several such relationships. I have been blessssed to have had good friends that have now shared a life time with me. We met in our youths, some as far back as middle school, others in college or just when we started our families, and we have remained connected through all the twists and turns. It is a testament to some of these friendships that despite entire oceans of distance, we have made it a priority to see each other whenever possible. Family vacations, conferences with a few days added on, these often brief but emotionally packed visits have allowed us to remain close, while we’ve watched each other’s kids grow up. Whether it’s their alternative interests in music, their laughs, their mischief, the way they push the hair from their eyes, the way they discuss a subject inside and out and then tenaciously circle back,  there are so many bits and pieces of my past, the people I knew and spent my life with, the person I was, the person I married, in those young faces, in those young lives. Sometimes it takes my breath away.

I am keenly aware of the fact that I’m aging and thus am drawn back, sentimentally, by these memories and connections. However, it is a wonderful place to be, despite my age spots. “Simone de Beauvoir believed that if a woman gives her “consent”  to growing older, she is changed into a “different being,”  one who is more herself, more complete.”  (Traveling with Pomegranates, Sue Monk Kidd and Ann Kidd Taylor). That rings a solid chord in me, as I’ve reflected on the evolving lives of my own kids and those of friends I love.  It’s thrilling to see these young people move forward and go in new directions from the ones we chose. Working in China, studying abroad, choosing careers so different from the ones we chose, I get a chance to watch it all unfold, from a place I feel comfortable sitting.  It’s powerful to note the similarities that tie them to people I have long cared about and kept close, while seeing them explore their own unique paths. There’s a tiny moment of reclaiming my own youth, our youth, while comfortably (most of the time!) grounded in my own life. None of them are little kids anymore. I’m not looking for the physical similarities that you find in young children, that announce, yep, he’s just like… Now, as they all become adults, it’s a much more visceral connection to my own past and life, even as I watch each of them move in their own directions. The flashes of myself and Smart Guy as young people are startling to see in our daughter… The apple of our eyes… but it’s all the apples and trees in the orchard that connect the past and present, so tangibly, and leave me smiling and grateful I’m here.

(All images from the internet)

Stop! Really. Read this.  Please note:  Pin me, tumbl me, share me, like me!  Check out the Facebook page:  https://www.facebook.com/TalesFromTheMotherland. Please take a moment and Like it (the page, not just a post). If you enjoy these posts hit “Like” and make me smile. It also helps my blog grow and that is the point.  Thanks!  Then, be a good dooby and “Share” them with others. Better yet Like them; Share them and then do something nice for yourself: “Subscribe.” You won’t get any spam; you can sign up with an anonymous name (I won’t know who you are, unless  you tell me), and you will get an email each time I post.  Think of it as a free gift to yourself.  You know you want to. Go ahead, make my day!

Posted in Honest observations on many things | 6 Comments

The Middle…. Perennial Joy.

Posted on May 2, 2012 by Dawn Quyle Landau

For most of my adult life, I have planted perennials in my garden, mostly in the form of bulbs, for their…well, their perennialness. Not a word; I know, but it suits my intentions perfectly. What I love most about tulips and daffodils, and all the other perennial bulbs, is the fact that you put them in the ground in the waning days of summer, as fall brings cooler nights and leaves change color, and they pop up each spring to remind you of the hard work you did months before. Just when you need a boost, a reminder that summer will come again, the little green heads pop up, and weeks later, the colorful buds. What’s not to love?

(Tulip: JoAnn, for my grandmother, JoAnn and my birth name)

In our old home in Michigan I planted approximately 4,000 tulips and daffodils on our 35 acres over about four years, most of them in the front circle of our driveway.  I started out with a few hundred the first year we lived there, a crazy endeavor to say the least. I had small children, no friends yet, and our house was far from neighbors: our own Eden. There were 300+ wooded acres behind us, a golf course on another side.  Our 35 acres with 100+ apple trees, wrapped around our house and provided a beautiful palette for plantings. So, I planted, and I planted some more.  There were years where I was out there in the freezing mud, until early December, determined to get my bulbs in the ground!

Prior to our move to Michigan, we had been living on the 20th floor of a high rise apartment in Chicago for seven years, while Smart Guy did his training. My kids had grown up with sirens blaring all day and night (our apartment adjacent to the Emergency Room of Northwestern Hospital) and all the action and stimulation that a big city offers.  Planting bulbs, having a garden, seemed part and parcel of being a young mother in the country. I wanted to create a piece of the world that Martha constantly showed me on TV. I envied Martha’s beautiful world and perennials were one way to claim a small piece of that. Sweet, colorful beauties, that would not only come up each year, but reproduce on their own and spread each year.

Here in Washington, it’s hard to compete with the epic displays in Skagit Valley, each year during Tulip festival. In addition, the deer seem to wait until I’ve let my guard down (late winter) and come each year to bite the heads off about 1/3 to a 1/2 of my babies. Without fail, just about the time I start thinking Hmm, I’d better put out some dried blood out there (yes, I use that stuff!), I wake up to find tracks throughout my flower beds, and ragged green stubs. While I know it’s terrible stuff, from a terrible place, nothing makes deer sniff and yell “Run Bambi, the thicket! Faster! Don’t look back!” like dried blood. Yet each year, I seem to think of this, the very day they come for my bulbs. I’ve tried other awful things, trying to save my tulips, but the deer always win at least a few of my sweeties.

   

   

(Skagit Valley, WA beauty. Personally, I believe Holland can barely compete with these scenes!)

There are few things in life that are as predictable and easy as spring bulbs, and perennials, and that’s why I love them so much. I can count on them each and every year.  I dig a whole, put some bone meal (yep, another yucky thing) in there with them, and then go about my fall and winter. The snow comes and goes; the cold only strengthens the bulbs, they expect it, they need the cold temperatures. Then, when I’m wishing for the spring to come, there they are, a gift for my patience and hard work. Sometimes I still dream of our old house, and the gardens I left there. In each dream, my house has been altered, the rooms moved and the grounds split up for development, but always, always, the tulips still come up. One year, I will visit there in the spring and see if my Michigan babies are still coming up, still blooming. It’s a perennial thing.

  

 

  

(My garden: Tulips, my crazy allium which will produce enormous white and purple poms (in summer I have some crazy Dr. Suess like ones!), primula and grape hyacinth, for the wooded areas.)

Do you garden?  What is your favorite thing to plant?  No doubt you’ll see these pictures and be even more jealous about where I live; or tell me why your home rocks. Either way, show me some love. Like this post, and if you haven’t already, visit the Facebook page and hit like on there. Thanks!

And to make that even clearer:

Stop! Really. Read this.  Please note:  Pin me, tumbl me, share me, like me!  Check out the Facebook page:  https://www.facebook.com/TalesFromTheMotherland. Please take a moment and Like it (the page, not just a post). If you enjoy these posts hit “Like” and make me smile. It also helps my blog grow and that is the point.  Thanks!  Then, be a good dooby and “Share” them with others. Better yet Like them; Share them and then do something nice for yourself: “Subscribe.” You won’t get any spam; you can sign up with an anonymous name (I won’t know who you are, unless  you tell me), and you will get an email each time I post.  Think of it as a free gift to yourself.  You know you want to. Go ahead, make my day!

Posted in Beautiful places, Beauty, Blog, Honest observations on many things, Life, Musings, Natural beauty, Nature, Wonderful Things | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 10 Comments

Bitch is a Dude

Posted on April 30, 2012 by Dawn Quyle Landau

Note:  Don’t judge me. I am a hot wired momma and that plays well and not so well, depending on the day and the circumstances. I am openly admitting my wrongs here, but this is my story. I’ve put it down as honestly and truly as possible, but as with anything, there are other sides. Let them start their own blogs!  However, no ill will is intended here, all amends have been made, and everyone is fine. However, some male folks may take offense to some of this. Sorry dudes. Best advice I can give you is: don’t read it.  You’ve been fairly warned… just in case the title wasn’t enough.  Also, if you get to the bottom, there’s a note about the novel… but you have to read all of this first.

What is it that makes being a woman an invitation for all kinds of unreasonable labels and attitudes? Why is a woman’s righteous indignation or bad mood, labeled bitchiness, while it’s righteous  and rational when displayed by a man?  Why is emotion a weakness in women, but often an “ahhh” moment with men?  When a man becomes tearful discussing something, I see a tendency by many to stop and take it more seriously, to feel a compassionate understanding of the man’s struggle. Yet when a woman tears up, it is more likely dismissed as weak, “emotional.”  Why is that?

I don’t ask any of this from a feminist standpoint, or wondering about the state of our place in the world;  I just see this happen a lot and it pisses me off.

Why is it that women are still defending themselves for behaviors that guys toss around easily and with sanctimonious abandon? Case in point: why do I still need to call in the big guns: Smart Guy (who, for the record, is no smarter than me, and not much of a gun) to make certain points?  When Smart Guy tells the kids to do something, or tells them what wasn’t done correctly, they take it very seriously.  In fairness, they may secretly call him names in their heads, but woe is the day that they say those things out loud.  I see the annoyed expressions that Smart Guy often misses, the angry glances. Yet, rarely is a word said in debate. “Yeah, ok dad.”  The tone may be snarky, but there is little argument.  I get the obvious explanation: he’s not around as much, he doesn’t say it as often. Ok, fair. Yet, it irks me that when I point out that lunch box container that’s left out each day, or chores that are being done poorly, I get arguments, explanations, surly looks and comments, or worse.

If Smart Guy was, for example, telling a certain male exchange student (who may or may not be from China) and Little Man/U.S. that:  They made Smart Guy’s morning much more stressful, by leaving key chores undone, forgetting items that needed to be driven to school (so that Smart Guy had to run these items to school, and do the chores, before making early morning appointments of his own– something, that would, for the record, never happen!), and not following through on things that were specifically asked of them (instead leaving a note explaining why they/China, didn’t do it), said exchange student would not (absolutely would NOT) ever say “Calm down Dad.”  Keep in mind that Smart Guy would, hypothetically, already be speaking calmly. He would be driving the kids home from track practice; he’d be stating his list of “this cannot happen agains” in a firm and clear way.  His voice would not be raised, and he would not be doing anything that would warrant a “calm down.”  Mine was not. I was not.

If this sounds like a thinly veiled example, aren’t you smart… she said snarkily.  It is. Let me be clear in stating that two witnesses will attest to the fact that I stated my issues clearly and calmly. I was not ranting, nor was I going on and on. My voice was not raised, my tone was firm but neutral.  As a matter of fact, I was stating the issues for the first time, and began with “before we get home, I want to be clear about something…”  I had barely gotten two sentences in, when those words were tossed my way: “Calm down mom.”  The phrase was tossed my way with clear disdain and annoyance by a certain boy, while I watched in the rearview mirror, as he rolled his eyes and said it.

As far as foreign exchanges go, the next couple of seconds could go down as distinctly bad parenting and justification for then repeating the “Calm down mom.”  It would be fair to say that Smart Guy would not have sent a deathly glance back in the rear view mirror and said, very strongly (but not yelling), “Whoa!  Don’t f@#^*ing tell me to calm down!”  In the name of full disclosure, I admit here that I actually used the full out F word.  This was the first time I launched it at China, and my anger was bullet fast: right between his eyes. I felt instant anger, that was based on countless times that the attitude he had, and similar words have been used, when I’m making a point that Smart Guy, or most men for the matter, would say without such a response: “I really don’t appreciate racing up to go to an appointment and finding your messes, and a note that you didn’t walk the dog, or do the job required. In the time it took you to write the note and cook your eggs, these things could have been done.”   I acknowledge that I crossed a line, and I immediately felt badly about it. But…

The rest of the ride was distinctly quieter.  Later, I was surprised all over again, when I back tracked, apologized and explained why I’d gotten angry. I stated that I don’t tolerate any of my own kids telling me to “calm down,”  but China saw nothing wrong with this. He felt totally righteous and entirely disgusted with me, for the initial infraction (not being calm? telling him he’d done something wrong?) and for then losing my cool and swearing. If the “calm down” were an isolated incident, I’d be pissed off and then get over it; but it’s not. I hear from friends all the time, similar scenarios, wherein their boys (not their girls) launch the “take it easy,” “calm down,” “why are you getting so upset,” response when the women involved feel they are simply being firm.  Again, I accept that I launch far more requests, rules, issues than Smart Guy, who’s at work all day. However, I am generally fair; usually don’t just throw the F-bomb around (in anger) or lose my cool so easily, and I allow some wiggle room for mistakes and slow responses. But, BUT, I can’t stand when the boys respond to my reasonable requests as if I’ve been ranting and raving for hours. Rolling of eyes, the condescending tones, attitude that is rarely used with other dudes. “Okaaaaay Mom.” (Translation:  Gee, take it easy; calm down; what’s wrong with you?)

For those of you who haven’t had this happen, bravo! Sincerely, I am impressed. I can turn this in on myself instantly: You must be a better mother than me. It could be true. I could use some fine tuning for sure. But seriously, I am always impressed with those of you out there who just don’t see this stuff, and whose men and boys don’t use this tone, or theses words with you. Unfortunately, I know a lot of other women who are stewing in my corner; and while my reaction may be sharper than others’, we’re all fighting the same battle.  As for myself, I see a double standard that just pushes a button deep inside. The use of pejorative labeling, and condescending tones, when mothers, sisters, female employers, women/girls express themselves with any emotion, be it sadness, frustration, anger, excitement, disappointment, etc.. it is often turned on them in a judgmental way, that is not used on males as often.

The most obvious example, of course, is bitch.  Bitch, the verb is even more prevalent.  Seriously, it’s astounding that this word still gets tossed around, and often for things that dudes do, just as well and just as often, and frankly, often bigger and badder. Dad in a bad mood, is dad in a bad mood. Mom in a bad mood is bitchy.  Female employer/employee demanding better standards, asking for something to be done right (requesting that ones dishes be done , not left sitting) is bitchy, not quality focused.Equal opportunity, should also include a man being called bitchy for snapping at someone, or being cranky after a long day.  Why is it that women are still defending themselves for behaviors that guys toss around easily and with sanctimonious abandon?

(No doubt, what is really intended…)

Yeah, yeah, don’t even bother sending me long diatribes about why I’m generalizing or this isn’t always true. Sure, fine, ok. That’s fair: not always true.  Not all males behave this way and not all females are treated this way.  No doubt there are moments when I am in fact ranting, or behaving badly (my F-bomb moment was not a proud one, for instance), but I also know that this is not my issue alone. I am not on some feminist ride here. This is where I live and it bugs the shit out of me.  I had a very interesting conversation about this very thing, this weekend, with a highly accomplished woman, who runs a giant firm in Seattle. I told her that I’d been writing this post for two weeks: scrapping it and starting over. Nuancing my wording. Scrapping it again. Starting over, and then posting something else. Yet, there we were having a very powerful dialogue about why this still is true, in so many walks of society.

 (This was given to me by my sister, who probably has thought that more than once… but, that’s different.)

I am my own worse critic most of the time… unless my real worst critic is sitting out there reading these, and waiting to pounce. I am very hard on myself, and often judge myself harshly for things that others wouldn’t. Case in point: this issue. I think part of the reason I kept not posting it, is that inevitably, I believe someone will read it and say: “Well, she is pretty unstable,” or “Well, she is a hot head,” or  “Man, she threw the F-bomb at some poor Chinese exchange student? I hope he doesn’t think all mothers would do that!”  There are lots more examples, of what I think you could be thinking. I am ahead of you there. But, as I spoke to this woman, in her sleek, hipster outfit, in a home that made me nervous that I might do any one of 700 things wrong, she was saying exactly what I was saying:  she’s tired of being labeled for her feelings or actions, differently than men are for the same things.  Frankly, no one should be calling anyone bitch; it’s so passé and entirely wrong. But it’s still used, and generally only to women… in both the verb and noun forms. Whether I’m accused of being bitchy or a bitch, it’s the same thing.

So, while I hate the word, and while I don’t encourage what I’m about to suggest… I am toying with the idea of using bitch, the verb, more often. To be clear, it would be a dark, dangerous day in our home, if anyone used it as a noun when speaking to me.  However, my pleas to not label my other emotions and behaviors fly over heads, while bitchy they get. So, say for instance, when a certain smart guy was having an especially bad weekend on call, and that smart guy kept calling and being really snappy and unpleasant, or when he came home and was launching orders and using a surly tone, I might in the future say: “Hey, stop being so bitchy.”  When you stop telling me to “calm down,” or “take it easy,” I might accept a white flag and meet you on level fields.  Something tells me that the point would become a clearer a lot faster if I stopped trying to intellectualize the issue and discuss it, and if I just sink to the lowest denominator and throw a few bitchys around.   I think that the mere idea of a dude being called bitchy might make the point much clearer. But, Bitch is a Dude, just makes for a much catchier title than Bitchy is a Dude. N’est pas?                                                 (This ^^ hangs in my office, a gift from a friend… a male friend, with a wry sense of humor.)

Changing gears completely:  An update:  I am not ready to share all of the details, but I have gotten a lot of emails, notes, etc about the novel. After the novel was declined by Rozlyn Press, someone contacted me about publishing the novel with their assistance, guidance, and partnership of sorts. This person has been publishing magazines for nearly 3 decades. He’s written and published 3 books of his own (photography and writing) and his second book has sold 200,000 to date. He’s read several chapters of my book and thinks it’s “very good,” and would do well published. It would be “self publishing” with a big dose of help, or co-publishing, all of the details are not clear yet. I have done the writing, but he has the knowledge and experience to help make this go smoother, more successfully.

I have not agreed to anything yet, because I’m slowly letting go of my long held desire to “get published.”  I always dreamed of that big publishing house who says: “Oh, we love this… when can you start your book tour?” Or something along those lines. My ego is fighting me.  Some who have given me advice, point out that publishing has changed enormously in the past few years, that I would be getting in on a hot trend, that is likened to the “.com” bubble of yore. Others point out that if I could do well in independent sales, a publisher is more likely to “pick up” my novel and take it from there (a la Fifty Shades of Gray, or so many other books that started independently).  This would give me complete control over my work and its distribution, its failure or success.  All of that is true, but is also not the way I imagined… That said, I am leaning toward taking that leap, and beginning to wrap my head around all that means. It’s exciting, scary, daunting, exhilarating, and a few other clever “ings.”

If you have some words of wisdom, encouragement, discouragement, anything to share, please do. Post a comment here. Start a conversation, or join in one that someone else starts. I’d love some more feedback, before I make a leap.  If you enjoyed it, make me feel good and hit the like button on this blog page. Oh yeah, do it… just do it.

Posted in Aging, Awareness, Blog, Daily Observations, Ego, getting published, Honest observations on many things, Humor, Life, Mothers, Musings, My world, Parenting, Sarcasm, Teens, Women, Women's issues, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 22 Comments

If I’m Ever in China, 这会咬我! (Reflections on the U.N.)

Posted on April 28, 2012 by Dawn Quyle Landau

Note to new readers:  Our family took in two foreign exchange students this year. Denmark is a 17 yr old girl. China is a 16 yr old boy. The U.S. is our 15 yr old son (Little Man). Israel, when home, is our 22 yr old daughter (Principessa), and Canada our 19 yr old son (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…

 

这会咬我:  Spare yourself the Google translation, it’s probably wrong anyway. To some degree, that is the my point. If I’m ever in China, it will bite me. I ushered these words to Denmark this morning and she laughed, and then replied: “I don’t think so. I don’t think this is China (country), it’s China.” This followed on the heels of yet another “what doesn’t drive you crazy, better make you laugh” moment with China, the boy. The common sense chip was definitely not available in this “made in China” model. Brilliant, charming, oh so funny (as much when he intends it as when he doesn’t) and dear to us, but this kid did not arrive with that chip, and it is a source of constant “moments” between us. When my mother met Smart Guy, nearly 30 years ago, she murmured “For such a smart guy, he’s not very bright,” and we’ve been using it ever since. Smart Guy is brilliant, like China, but both miss some things… big obvious things sometimes… that can make me scream  or laugh uproariously, depending on the moment, the circumstances, the time of month. (Neither would get that reference).  This morning, it was a mix of the two. I wanted to scream, but ended up laughing, along with Denmark. China doesn’t always appreciate these moments, and hence my acknowledgement that if I were to ever end up in China for a year, no doubt these moments would come back to bite me.

I have been constantly aware of that fact for the 8 months that the U.N. has been in session. Daily doses of insanity, frazzled frustrated crazy moments, hilarity that reminds me that my bladder is getting old too, quick anger that surprises me and then (thankfully) abates just as quickly, and always, moments of sloppy humility. It’s sloppy, because I am constantly tripping over it and then realizing: oh, there it is again; me thinking it’s them, when it’s just as much me. How can I not feel humbled, when I stop to think what these two kids have done in eight months?!  They are kids. Kids. They both left their homes, their friends, their families and landed here, with little to no preparation. In both cases, our home was a last minute situation and neither they nor we were prepared. They came not sure if we would be safe, kind, welcoming, or whether we’d even keep them. That, lost now in the eight months of falling in love, is a fact that can not be overlooked. We did not commit to keeping them, openly, until weeks after they’d been here.  Given the last minute details of our accepting not one but two foreign exchange students, with very little consideration, and only 24 hours preparation, we used a trial agreement as our safety net. I can justify it, but then humility reminds me again of how scary that must have been for China and Denmark, as they slept here, ate here, lived here, each day for those 6 weeks, wondering what would happen.            (Within the first two weeks, China had his first experience (ever) with snow, and should have realized this year could be a slippery slope a times.—>)

I still remember the night we announced at dinner that we’d decided to make it official… something that both Smart Guy and I had quietly known for weeks… that we would host them for the entire school year. Denmark got it right away (there you go, China needs the hard, clear facts spelled out) and teared up. She was so relieved and happy.  China looked around anxiously, still trying to figure out what new detail he was missing. It was still early, we didn’t know that we’d be spelling a lot of things out.  Sarcastic me jumped in:  China, we’ve decided to let you and Denmark stay here for the whole year. It’s no longer a temporary placement. We’re keeping you. I smiled and added, but we’re sending U.S. back. Denmark guffawed. She arrived with strong sarcasm wiring, as if I’d nursed her myself. China looked down at his food, waited a second and then answered in a concerned voice: “I am very  happy mom. But I think you should keep U.S. too.”  I should have surrendered then.

<– In the beginning, Monopoly and puzzles united.

Instead, it has been eight months of learning, for all of us. For the record, it turns out that China is a very sarcastic boy as well. Sometimes it doesn’t translate, but often he catches me in his Chinese web. Oh and then, how he grins. Yesterday, I was driving China and Denmark to an exchange student event. China eats tic tacs all the time, usually the fruity ones, and he took them out and offered one to Denmark and I. You know, you should buy the mint ones China, I said. The fruity ones are just sugary and do nothing for breath. Everything is a teaching moment, right?  “Ahh. Ok mom,” he answered. He shook the container, and then said “But I don’t understand this word meeent on this container.”  China! That’s what I just said, mint, mint, not meeent. Mint is something people use for their breath, blah blah. It took me a second to realize that China was smirking at Denmark, over the car seat,  and I was the butt of his sarcastic, fake Chinese accent (meeent), and the one slow on the uptake this time. What a wicked web that boy has, when he’s in his groove. Those are the moments when I think he must be faking it all those other times, when common sense flies past him. Not so.

There are so many moments in the past year when I am reminded of all that goes into this experience, for each of us. I am constantly stumbling over moments that seem harder because they come from kids that are not really my own, even though we live like a family. This one leaves their dishes out, dual requests for food that then doesn’t get eaten (again and again and oh when it’s Organic or specialty, arrgh!), chores that are missed, requests for rides here and there and there again. I am flustered and annoyed by kids who claim to be bored, but will only go places when a ride is available, when they were accustomed in their own countries to taking the public buses. Granted, ours are not as easy to access, but they are there. “I really want to see some museum before I leave,” “I want to go to the mall,” “there’s nothing to do,” “I’d like to volunteer,” etc, etc… These things do not happen, unless I drive. With my own kids, it is easy to say  no, and not feel guilty. I have had a lifetime to define the limits with my own, and for mutual agreements about how far either of us will push.  It’s entirely different with someone else’s child.

When I stop to think that one may not see the museums, the other loves the mall, they are in all day on weekends (unless I threaten, cajole, or take them somewhere) when there are so many cool things to do… but only, apparently, if I drive… I find myself resentful and annoyed. Then, I stop and I am humbled for a moment, when I think that they still came a very long way, on their own, and they are kids.  Would I venture out to these places if I was in Denmark or China for a year?  Probably. Honestly, I think I would. But, I am much older and it doesn’t seem as daunting.  Given the 5 rides per week home from track (after school), the drives 4x a week to choir, the hair cuts, the trips to the ban or store for necessities, I will forgive me and them for the missed museums, malls and moments that are not so important to them, that they will find a way there on their own. There is little point in letting it bother me, if they are willing to miss out.

Parenting two kids who are not yours, but are given to you for 10 months, presents constant challenges for all sides. Dealing with a girl who has her own issues and struggles that I may have handled with my own daughter, comes with different boundaries and conflicts.  I can advise and offer my thoughts, but if and when she chooses another path: if she will not compete in track, if she will not wear a cami under her camies,  if she is a strong young woman who has her own ideas about many things, I can only let it go.  When a boy, who is not my son, needs guidance on everything from new customs here in the U.S. to dealing with the death of his grandmother, I can offer a hug, a correction, instructions for putting the toilet seat down and why it’s important (Hello? Don’t women in China complain about this too?), but if grief is a very private thing in China, and if advice about toilet seats goes unheeded, mints are not always used, fried rice is the preferred meal every meal, friendships are a struggle, I can only let it go.  And that, is not always easy.                                             (Yummy yes, but breakfast, lunch and dinner?)—>

<– Yours, mine and ours: we are family.

With my own kids, there is that inevitable point of letting go as well. Anyone who’s been reading this blog for a while, knows that I can be a dog with a bone when it comes to letting go. However, with our own kids the lines are clearer usually. I feel entitled, even required at times, to hold onto the bone. I don’t let nutrition go ignored.  I can lay down the law about purchases. I am inclined to explore issues of friendship and emotions. I’m in it for life. Here, in this strange arena, there is always that gnawing “he/she is not your kid,” that requires that I step back and weigh the outcomes differently. As the day comes closer that they both will leave, that line is even less clear. Smart Guy reminds me constantly, “they’re leaving in a few weeks; it’s not worth struggling over this/that/the other thing.” He’s right, but it’s hard to let it go and accept that. What do you mean you’re not going to practice? You’re not competing? We don’t let our kids let the team down. I want to snarl; instead I grumble and then I have to leave the bone lying.  Nutella does NOT go with liverwurst! (Seriously, and example) That is not a healthy snack! Why are you inside on a beautiful day? Go to a museum! You’re wearing that?! You need a haircut.  It’s endless. The comments and questions pop into my head, and then I remember that they are indeed leaving soon and I don’t need to be so vigilant. Admittedly, Nutella on liverwurst requires a stand, but the point is:  they will go home, they will have lots of memories and there is only so much that I can push at this point.

<–  Because, we love them.

Again, the humility buffers reality. If I were abroad for a year, how many times would I miss the cues?  How often would I feel totally lost in the language and customs of another place? How often would I resent “others” telling me how to do things that I’ve done differently my whole life?  How often would I just be tired of trying to jump through someone else’s hoops, when I prefer my own?  My guess is, that mostly I would just submit and go along, because they’re giving me my food, they’re letting me live there, they made this year possible for me, I need them, and because we love each other.  And for the record, we do.

Posted in Awareness, Blog, Daily Observations, Foreign exchange students, Humor, Life, Mothers, Musings, My world, Parenting, Sarcasm, Teens, The U.N., Women's issues, Writing | Tagged , , , , , | 8 Comments

The Middle… Can’t Make This Stuff Up (but it can keep you up!)

Posted on April 25, 2012 by Dawn Quyle Landau

Last night, I was going to finally go to bed at a reasonable hour. I have a problem with that: I tend to be sleepy all day, but come alive late at night and want to stay up and write, watch tv, read… really, just lose more sleep. I know I should go to bed. I know I need the sleep. I am chronically tired, generally getting somewhere between 5-6.5 hrs of sleep each night. It’s my own fault, and I know it. So, there I was ready to go to bed and glad to be doing it. I turned off Mad Men, and as I did, the tv switched to the show that was recording.  I checked the DVR and saw “Doomsday Preppers” recording for the second time in one night. Earlier, when this had happened, I promptly questioned each of the kids: “Who’s recording this? It’s crazy stuff!”  Honestly, I was sure it was Little Man, as he loves that combat kind of thing. It was surely him, that would want to see the insane stuff that people do, “prepping” for the end of the world, surviving the apocalypse. It had to be Little Man. It wasn’t.  Nor was it China or Denmark. This has happened a few times recently, so I erased the earlier recording and decided that our DVR does in fact have a glitch.

<— If the end is near, I’m not sure I want to prepare.  (Image from the interned)

There it was again, at 10:40, as I attempted to go to bed early: “Doomsday Preppers.”  Smart Guy wandered out and said “I thought you were tired? Aren’t you coming to bed?”  I am, but this is the weirdest thing!  Our DVR is recording this bat crazy show for the second time today, and no one set it to record. “Uh, what is it?” He asked, as he brushed his teeth.  Some silly show called “Doomsday Preppers, I answered, as I prepared to erase it again. “Wait! Don’t erase that; I’m recording it!”  What! You? Seriously? Why would you record this? Seriously?!  “It looks interesting,” he responded a bit more sheepishly, than initially.  And that’s when I ran smack dab into my husband’s secret life, and then fell down a rabbit whole of craziness. Who knew that Mr. Sensible, Logic Man, Rational Rules… Smart Guy, is drawn to doomsday stuff? I was stunned. I sat there totally stupefied, even as I tried not to launch into a totally obnoxious break down of why I found this infinitely stupid. You do know that you set it up to record the entire series, not just an episode? I pushed a bit further. “Uh yeah. It’s the National Geographic Channel, so it should be interesting.”  Right. No, it just shows that even National Geographic has lost its mind. Promise me, I’m serious, that you won’t let Little Man watch this with you! I really don’t want him getting all caught up in this stuff.  “Yeah, Ok. I’m just curious…”  Yeah, right I thought, keeping it to myself.

I saw about two minutes of the show, which was ending, enough to see a man with his wife and kids, their arsenal of guns and ammo, food supplies, a few livestock (little goats, chickens) and boarding a sail boat, as he said “The islands of the Pacific Northwest are the perfect place to survive…”  What!  Here? Where I live?  It even looked like our harbor. My head was racing instantly; these people walk among us?  I Googled the show right away and there’s a nice break down of the National Geographic series  Doomsday Preppers. Pretty much what I thought. These are the folks who believe we are headed for an apocalyptic end to life as we know it, and are getting ready. I’ve heard isolated stories of people here and there in town, but honestly, it never occurred to me there was an entire show for it. That they really lived among us. When I question Smart Guy a little more about where he stands on all this, he admitted that he thinks we could prepare a little… What?  What is preparing a little?  “I think everyone should know how to shoot a gun…”  blah blah blah… He lost me entirely. Seriously! Shoot a gun! We have never been shoot a gun people darlin’.   Let me go down for the record here:  if we get to a point where the end is nye, and we have to protect our property, from neighbors and people we would trust, pre-apocalypse, I’m lying down for the flesh eaters. Just take me zombie squads. I am not cut out for walking The Road with my surviving child, so that they can see a desecrated strip of beach, and live with the other 100 survivors. Not me. I don’t need to learn how to shoot a gun. Why don’t we just move to Florida first; it’s an easier approach. “Don’t be ridiculous… I’m just saying that things could reach a point where we need to look at things differently. I just think it’s worth thinking about these things. ”  I stand by my head-in-the-sand approach.  Well, I refer you back to my previous statement. Just shoot me first.       (If guns are needed, the U.S. is the place to be. There are lots to choose from. Image from the internet)

<– Admittedly, the Amish are the most appealing to me. That may be the place to land, oh Doomsday Preppers! Image from the Internet.

As I argued the silliness of the Doomsday Preppers show, it ended and Smart Guy wandered off to bed, confident I’m sure that the show would give some advice worth considering. Alas, the rabbit hole was before me. As DP ended,  Amish Out of Order came on. What? Do you see this!? I yelled.  National Geographic also has Amish Out of Order!  This is incredible!  “I’m going to bed; I’m tired.” Sure, if it’s not about our survival, not of value.  I was tired. I was going to bed. But who can sleep when there are formerly Amish kids trying to eke out a new life, and National Geographic is presenting it to you?  I pulled up my blanket and was caught up in the drama unfolding. Not only were there kids who’d left their Amish communities and were trying to survive in the “English world” (we’re the English, folks), but (and this was the thing that kept me) there was a 17 year old girl working to join the Amish culture!  Really. She was being asked to renounce her former life completely, as well as her English family, to live in the Amish way. Nice girl. Loved her family and was torn, but as the show ended (at 11:30) she was choosing the Amish. Oh my.

I scanned the channel guide and saw that there were more episodes of Doomsday Preppers in line, then more Amish, and late night was reserved for “Locked Up Abroad,” season SIX!  That’s right people, not only do Americans get locked up abroad (and according the clip, it doesn’t look pretty), there’s enough of it that we’re on season six! The clip was scary, for sure.  Think Midnight Express (ignore the silly announcer), a movie that convinced me, long ago, that I would never, ever, ever do anything wrong in a foreign country. I scanned ahead and found Rare Anatomy (images). I’m sure you can figure that one out on your own, and no doubt there may be some logic behind watching this? The scientific chances of certain anatomical bad things happening, but I can’t imagine wanting to watch babies with spina bifida in the morning. The images from Google were enough for this gal, but there is a book set too, for those who can’t get enough of the show.

<– Image from Dramagroup.org logo.

So, this rabbit hole was dark and deep people. Who can stop there? My curiosity was totally peaked, and I had to know more. What else are people watching, that I’ve been missing? I’ve seen the magazine covers that announce various teens who are now having breast implants. Not just any teens, but Teen Mom! I’d heard of it, but never seen it. But when I looked it up, there were amazing episode titles like: “Mission: Tattoo entire back,” “Jo sings his rap song,’Life of a Teen Dad’,” “Leah and Corey agree to counseling.”  Seriously!  Eventually, I watched two episodes of the catch up on the season.  I’m sorry, but I am probably gonna sound a tad sanctimonious here, a bit old fashioned, and even a little (hard to even admit it…) conservative, BUT: when I went to school, getting pregnant was not a ticket to Reality fame and fortune. It didn’t buy you a nose job or new breasts. You didn’t put it out there for the world to sit and stare at. It was a world of pain and difficulty. It was for me, birth control like no other. I felt sorry for the few girls I saw go through it and I knew I didn’t want to go that route. It was a quiet thing, that was not easy or shiny.  This show may show the hard stuff, but what lots of young people also see is that these teens often end up famous and on magazines, and their situations are glamorized.  With one mom probably headed to prison, and others in crazy relationships with young children, I think producers should make some effort to show that this is not fun and games, and there are very young kids involved. That folks, is not my idea of reality. (I am now stepping off my box top)

More checking produced Swamp People, following the lives of Cajun people, living on the bayou.  Could be interesting. I don’t believe in swamp creatures, and they do sometimes, but I do love the bayou…. and for competition, Redneck Wars brings Hillbilly Hand Fishing. Scary, but Little Man already knew about this one! (Good Lord! When did my family start this slide downward?) While he assures me that he doesn’t really watch it, it has some “cool stuff.”  Pretty self-explanatory:  “real men” catch fish with their hands. Yep, they stick their hands down into murky, brown water and pull out big ass fish, that they then can eat. Hmm, I might have to turn Smart Guy on to that one. Something tells me that IF the apocalypse does come, he may know how to shoot, but we’ll starve. Fishing could come in handy. And, since the world will be destroyed, fishing with your hands seems sensible suddenly.

Needless to say, I did not get to bed early. In fact, I lie awake thinking of giant catfish grabbing my arms, twisted anatomy, Turkish prisons, and the Amish. Actually, it was the Amish that helped me sleep. They are simple, true folk. Soothing. I spent time in Pennsylvania as a teen and always admired their simple way of life. It can be said for sure, that none of them are sitting up at night watching any of this stuff, and that was reassuring. I fell down a twisted rabbit hole for an hour or so, and a little while this morning as I continued to look up this stuff… but I landed right back here in my comfy chair, computer before me. It’s a 13″ window to the entire world, capable of showing me things that not even my TV did. But in the end, I’ll use it to type. I’ll keep on writing and leave the Doomsday to my stalwart husband, and hand fishing to my son. I will have my head buried in the sand, and throw myself on the pyre if any of this comes to fruition. It was enough to just look down that hole, and see how very strange our world can be.

Posted in Awareness, Blog, Blogging, Daily Observations, Honest observations on many things, Humor, Life, Musings, My world, TV, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

Riding the Funk Train.

Posted on April 20, 2012 by Dawn Quyle Landau

I am in a funk. All day it felt like Thursday, on Friday. All day I struggled to feel at ease in my skin. It’s just a funk. That’s all there is to it.

Image from Forbes(Image from Forbes)

I wrote two different posts today, and then didn’t want to post either.  Funk. I got a half dozen errands done in barely an hour (all over town), but then didn’t want to do anything else.  All day.  The funk:  The kids are driving me nuts. Nuts. I’m sick of fart jokes; I’m sick of figuring out what they want to eat, and whether I have to cook it. I am tired of picking them up five days a week, from track/tutoring/choir/after school/insert something else. I’m just tired of kids. I’m tired of the dog shedding ALL over!  I swear the big lug loses half his body weight every day, in hair on the floor… then somehow reproduces more, for me to vacuum the next day. Twice. I’m sick of trying to figure out who is sincere and who isn’t; and whether I should care.  I’m not getting enough sleep, but hate to go to bed early. I don’t want to defend blog posts that are my experience, and I don’t want to let it go either. I’m really excited to see Coldplay, but bummed that friends can’t make it. Not nearly as fun without them. I’m excited to see my (college age) age kids this summer, but dread the issues that will come home with them. I’m excited to see my daughter graduate from college in May, but overwhelmed by the prospects that lie before her. I feel a little older this week (almost 70!) and yet feel as restless and adventurous as when I was in my twenties… only wiser. I’m bummed that publishers asked to read my manuscript twice; that I started to hope for the best, and then it got rejected. It doesn’t matter that I know the odds and expected exactly this, it’s still a bummer. I’m in a funk.

I’m not looking for reassurance or explanations. I get it. So I’ll lay it down here:  It’s just a passing rut. I’ve been running around for years, so a few days here and there when I just feel like doing nothing (when I can) is ok.  As moms however, I think we tend to feel guilty when we’re not keeping pace. This will pass. I’m officially semi-retired now (two kids out, one almost there), I better get used to this. The kids are good kids and it’s not that unusual to reach overload with your kids. Having taken on 2 (TWO) exchange students this year, there were bound to be times when it just isn’t as fun as other times. We have all kind of reached our max: the kids are ready to go home, and yet sad that it’s ending. We will be sad to see them go, but also look forward to getting back into our own groove. It’s been a challenging year for Little Man, at school, and I’ve put in a lot of time there. I’m a bit fried on kids. Period.  I am so sick of dinner:  cooking dinner, thinking of what to cook, factoring in no cheese (x3), no tomatoes, too much rice (rice, rice, rice), and how to make each of them happy, when, I’m just sick of dinner. If I vacuum the kitchen one more time and then see more dog hair, I may scream. Ok, I screamed today. Luke is gonna be bald before he settles into his summer coat!  I am thinned-skinned. I’ve known that for many years, but some days it hits me right between the eyes. I worry too much about what people are saying, not saying, and what I feel about it. I was stunned to find myself on the outs (out, cut off and ignored) for some things I’ve written, that seemed very straight forward to me. My experience. Ironically, the point I’d made was that I’d spent so much of my life worrying about being cut off for speaking my own truth, and there it was. Working through that took some focus and energy, and I certainly know where my own head is, but the ride has been draining. Regaining my balance, has taken some work.    (There’s no hiding Lukie; you’re in the dog house!)

Keeping my head straight about kids who are becoming adults is an ongoing challenge. When they were little, I looked forward to seeing them  grow up and find their own groove (even as I wanted to keep them little forever).  I’ve hoped for them to be their own selves, to find their own fire, and catch that fire. And yet…yet, it’s hard when they go a different direction and I’m left figuring out how to keep up. Stepping back, to let them move in their own direction, even as I want to run forward, is one of the biggest challenges, I’ve ever faced as a parent. Those moments of connection are all the sweeter when they come from adult children who choose to connect with you (versus wee ones who need you and connect in a very different way, no matter how sweet those little hugs are). To have my adult daughter tell me she’s proud of the woman I am, means more than I could have ever imagined, when she was little and “your the best mommy” was not uncommon. It’s just too strange to realize that she’s graduating from college in just a month. When I was at that point, her dad and I were already together. That’s impossible to imagine now. Watching her go out into a world, that’s changed a bit in the twenty-five years since then, is startling, thrilling, breath taking. To have a meaningful chat with my son, on his twentieth birthday, and have him remind me that whether or not I get published isn’t what counts: it’s what I’ve done to get to this point. His wise words struck a spot that I needed to touch that day… before I’d heard anything from the publishers, and was still wishing. Listening to my boy, it didn’t matter for a few minutes. Sweet moment, before the fall.

<– What next?

The most challenging this week:  Dealing with the manuscript is a bit dicier than I’d anticipated. Yet, I’m more ok than I anticipated, as well. I really did go into this knowing that it was a long shot. My first publisher and my first rejection. The fact that they asked to read it a second time got my expectations up a bit, so hearing that they weren’t interested in the end, was harder to hear, than if they’d rejected me outright weeks ago. I need to re-group and move forward, but which direction?  To go the route of self-publishing, which is what most people suggest, or pursue traditional publishing, which I’ve wanted is hard to figure?  The part of me that likes to dive in and grab it, isn’t as sure where to go next as I’d like to be. I’m practicing patience and focus, rather than allowing my passion to take over.  So, I’m sitting quietly at home and thinking about this next move. There are so many amazing options out there:  the world of self publishing is so different than it once was. There are so many reasons to go with that. As someone who has always wanted to be published, however, a big part of me still wants that. Ultimately, I feel good about the manuscript. It’s had excellent editing from my writing group, and an editor. The only two men who have read the first few chapters liked it a lot, even though I know it’s closer to “chick lit.”  To have male readers like it too, was a real boost. But where next?  Breath. Breath deeply.  (Oh Luke, you can avoid eye contact, but it doesn’t hide the fur all over my kitchen this morning! When oh when will you learn to vacuum?)

So, after two other posts that just didn’t feel right to me, I’m going with the flow here. The flow of consciousness that comes from this day of funk… in a week of challenges.

What puts you in a rut? What gets you back in your groove again?  If you’re a writer, or have thoughts about it:  self-publish or traditional, and why?  Inspire me.

Stop! Really. Read this.  Please note:  Pin me, tumbl me, share me, like me!  Check out the Facebook page:  https://www.facebook.com/TalesFromTheMotherland. Please take a moment and Like it (the page, not just a post). If you enjoy these posts hit “Like” and make me smile. It also helps my blog grow and that is the point.  Thanks!  Then, be a good dooby and “Share” them with others. Better yet Like them; Share them and then do something nice for yourself: “Subscribe.” You won’t get any spam; you can sign up with an anonymous name (I won’t know who you are, unless  you tell me), and you will get an email each time I post.  Think of it as a free gift to yourself.  You know you want to. Go ahead, make my day!

Posted in Aging, Awareness, Blog, Daily Observations, getting published, Honest observations on many things, Humor, Life, Mothers, Musings, My world, Parenting, Women's issues, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , | 10 Comments

The Middle… Spring, Sprang, Sprung.

Posted on April 18, 2012 by Dawn Quyle Landau

This weekend, spring sprang here in the Pacific Northwest.  No doubt, it’s warmer and sunnier other places, but no one was complaining here. We don’t have a sparkling record in that (sun) department; but then it doesn’t rain nearly as much as people are led to believe, from TV.  We’re surrounded by year ’round green. The forests and water greet us each day. When we’re lucky, the “mountain comes out,” to add to the beauty. If you live here, you know what it means when people say: “The mountain(s) out.”  We may not have sun all the time, but oh we have beauty, and we have get up and go!  Around here, people are physically active no matter what the weather, but when the sun comes out, locals go, go, go!  Here’s a peek into the world I love.

Note:  The pictures are not that great, as I only had my phone with me, but you get the idea. All but two of these people are strangers. I made every effort to hide faces, or capture only part of them.  On three occasions, I asked permission and was granted it.   The legs at the bottom are anonymous, but I loved the shot.

We lay in the sun and read.  The gulls cry out, the water laps, and we lay there taking it in, as we turn the page.

We play frisbee.

We paddle.  Here in the Pacific NW, there’s a lot of different ways to paddle. Kayaks, canoes, surfskies, row boats, and then there’s paddling.

We go to yoga in hybrids.                                              We go to yoga on our bikes.        But either way, we go to yoga.

We wear all kinds of shoes to yoga; because here in the Pacific NW, flip flops always go side by side with Uggs.

We smile to see daffodils blooming.

Our tulip trees burst with flowers, and shed a white carpet on our lawn!     

  We savor public art, good friends, and sun on our legs.

We lay in the sun, on our deck, with our dog. And others, take pictures of us laying in the sun with our dogs.

We see the Alaska Ferry cruising on the crystal blue waters of Puget Sound.

We drive to La Conner and see whimsical art, on fences.

We drive to Deception Pass, because there are few places more beautiful.  And because we can.

We eat dinner out, and visit with friends, after a wonderful day in the sun.

Then we see an Academy Award Winning film (Undefeated) that was made by people who went to school here.  We put brewers yeast on our popcorn, because it’s just that kind of theater, in this kind of town… and it keeps Smart Guy from eating it all.

We store up vitamin D by day, for when gray will bring more green. We go to bed, at night,  grateful that we live in a place this glorious, this special.  And then we blog about it, which is different than bragging.  Kind of.

Has spring sprung where you live? Do you have all four seasons, or did you jump right to summer?  Do you live in a beautiful place too? Start a conversation, and tell me what you think.

Stop! Really. Read this.  Please note:  Check out the Facebook page:  https://www.facebook.com/TalesFromTheMotherland. Please take a moment and Like it (the page, not just a post). If you enjoy these posts hit “Like” and make me smile. It also helps my blog grow and that is the point.  Thanks!  Then, be a good dooby and “Share” them with others. Better yet Like them; Share them and then do something nice for yourself: “Subscribe.” You won’t get any spam; you can sign up with an anonymous name (I won’t know who you are, unless  you tell me), and you will get an email each time I post.  Think of it as a free gift to yourself.  You know you want to. Go ahead, make my day!

Posted in Beautiful places, Beauty, Blog, Daily Observations, Honest observations on many things, Life, Musings, Nature | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 11 Comments