Eating Crow as I Choke on My Pride.

Posted on April 16, 2012 by Dawn Quyle Landau

<– Humility a la crow.

After months, ok, years, of holding on to shit and letting it pile up in closets, an office that has become a hoarder’s nest, corners, drawers, etc… I wrote a post about holding on to stuff (Houston, I Have a Problem), admitting I might have a whoring hoarding problem (the first would make a more salacious post, no doubt), then I began taking baby steps toward getting rid of stuff. I put out a challenge to readers of this blog, that if they visited my Facebook page and hit like, I’d donate two items per like.  Frankly, that was a bit of let down. I guess I need to offer free iPads or something? Visiting a page and hitting like, seemed an easy enough request, that the getting rid of stuff was just a playful challenge to myself. However, I started at 70 and I’m now only up to 83. Not the monumental windfall of likes I’d hoped for. I did give away about 50 books, so I kept my end and more. One enabling friend pointed out that I’d gone so far past the the required donation number of 26, that I could hold back on any further donations until a lot more people had clicked like… a slight misinterpretation of my point, and the goal, but I secretly held onto the backup plan.

Honestly however, all that focus on letting go pushed me to really think about the stuff I’m holding on to. My closet’s definitely the worst offense, even if the office is by far a bigger nightmare to look at.  While the closet looks neat and organized, it is absolutely crammed with stuff that just keeps accruing, as I’ve continued to justify that things will come back into style, are still cool, or (the best) worth something. “These are  Ferragamo! They’re worth something!” “This was $7 billion dollars, I should be able to get $4 billion at consignment.”  “These never go out of style; they’re classic!”  Ahem, after all it’s consignment right? They should love this once valuable stuff.  I have been telling myself, and anyone who dares suggest I get rid of some things, these words for long enough that I actually believed them.

Well yesterday I woke up with a burning desire to purge, and since vomiting grosses me out, I opted for my closets and drawers. I began pulling beloved but ignored items out, left and right. The pile just grew and grew, before I’d even formulated a plan. Not sure where this desire came from… Perhaps Smart Guy slipped me a roofie the night before and whispered  I will get rid of stuff in my ear all night? Maybe all that snoring was really subliminal messaging? Whatever it was, I woke up and started cleaning my closet before even checking my blog stats. That, people is saying something. Items of clothing that I’ve insisted that I love, or will still wear, just started piling up on the floor, as space opened up on the racks. All those slick space saving hangers I bought were actually paying off, and now had room to truly hang, versus, say, just be crammed up against one another. Clothes were suddenly hanging, draping; I could slide things along the bar. I was giddy, as the piles grew!  (THE best hangers: no hanger marks on your clothes, nothing falls off, and you can get 2 items where 1 previously hung!  Brilliance. —>)

I looked at my fallwinter and sprinsummer piles (the 2  seasons we have here in the Pacific Northwest) and saw dollar signs and validation in my immediate future.  I imaged the gals at the consignment shop saying: Wow! Where have you been hiding all of these gems? You have such a sense of style!  I was thrilled to show Smart Guy my determination and ability to finally do this, though his response: “Great!  I bet Little Man has a bunch that could be sorted too,” wasn’t exactly the high five I anticipated. For those of you who switch out your closets each season, or live by the requisite “if you haven’t worn it in two years,” I am that gal you disdain. I hold onto stuff for… for… forever.  I have things from college! Undergrad. I have stuff that has gone out of style and come back into style several times, over say, 25 years. Some of those things, from a sheer passage of time perspective alone, are technically vintage!  Letting go is not my schtick.

I also have newer things, that I thought I liked at the store, but I just didn’t wear.  The point: I have way too much in my closet.  But let go I did. The piles grew rapidly, and I felt lighter. Do these piles make me look thinner?  I resolved to get these things directly to a consignment shop and then find more to get rid of; on a roll baby!  The purging happened Sunday and the items were loaded in my car on Monday morning. On. A. Roll!  I had lunch with a friend, and headed smuggly over to the shop, ready to watch the girls working there raise their hands up, praising God and all things divine, that I’d finally cleaned my closets and drawers and they were the lucky beneficiaries. Fortified by my delusions of grandeur conviction that my stuff was hip, I was at the shop right after lunch on Monday. A roll!

Ten steps forward and three humiliating steps back. Glass half full says I’m still ahead, glass half empty says “See! Losah!”  Or, that’s how my friends back home would say it.  Bostonians don’t sugar coat it.  All you clever readers saw this coming in the first paragraph, right?  Thanks for sticking around anyway.  Yep, monumental rejection. I left with four huge bags of stuff, and I walked back out with three. Three bags of stuff that even a consignment shop didn’t want! Three bags of clothes that I’ve held onto, totally undesired by the two young thangs who were pulling items out of the bags, and just as quickly dropping them back into bags.  No real moments of indecision or question; snip snap I was walking out with my decidedly unstylish tail between my legs, and three bags of stuff.

<— Headed back home.

As I drove across town, to do other errands, the injustice of this just kept eating at me. I actually pulled over, out of sight on a side street to look through the rejects, to see what I’d missed, and lick my wounds. But frankly, something surprising happened. As I rifled through the items still in the bags, I realized that none of it was as valuable as I’d kidded myself into thinking. I suddenly saw the faded colors, the styles that were passé, the items that had been hanging far too long in my closet… taking up space in my life. I can’t lie, there were a few things that I wanted to take elsewhere, and prove their worth, but mostly it sunk in that I just need to get rid of more stuff, and do it much more often. The gray skies brightened and a host of angels sang hallelujah!   I closed my trunk and sat for a moment, letting the idea sink in.

The clothes can all be donated. I should have done it in the first place actually. The time and energy of taking things to consignment is really not worth it, compared to the good feeling I get when I take my things to shelters, the Y, etc and someone actually says thank you. Mind you, junk/crap/stuff are relative terms. These clothes are still in good condition, clean and valuable to someone getting back on their feet and trying to get a job. They are worthless to the savvy shoppers who are looking for cutting edge at a discount, or the teens who want hipster and slick, for a couple of bucks. I held onto my stuff for too long to satisfy the second group, but these bags are headed for better homes, where they’ll be appreciate and used. I need to sort through more things, while I’m on this enlightened wave.  And from this seat, crow tastes a little more like cornish game hen…                                         (And the fallwinter pile is just growing, for September, when I donate even more. ^^)

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. Go back and hit Like.  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 (sorry about the gun, but this is serious business).

Posted in Aging, Awareness, Blogging, Daily Observations, Ego, Humor, Life, My world, Sarcasm, Women, Women's issues, Wonderful Things | Tagged , , , , , , , | 12 Comments

Stop! I Want to Get Off.

Posted on April 13, 2012 by Dawn Quyle Landau

I am in the middle of a big, BIG  f*#C%ing meltdown!  Admittedly, it’s selfish of me. Because it all revolves around the fact that my son, Middle Man, turned 20 today, and it’s freaking me out!  Seriously. Freaking. Me. Out!

I woke up fine. I even slept past the miserable 5 AM jet-lag-wake-up time I’ve been doing all week, and slept until 6:45. Yeehaw. It felt good. As soon as I woke up, I thought: Oh, it’s my boy’s birthday. I wish he was here, so we could go out to lunch together. I’m not that mom who wishes my kids were still right here, versus away at school.  I’m really not.  I love that two of them are off at excellent schools, very happy, and enjoying their college experiences. Both are living in places that they really enjoy: Principessa in Western Massachusetts and Middle Man in Southern California. They both are very happy with their schools; they have good friends, and are doing very well. This makes me happy; I wouldn’t have it any other way. However, on days like today: a birthday, I just wish Middle Man and I could go get sushi and hang out. We like doing that together, and on his twentieth birthday, that would be a nice way to spend the day.

<– At twenty-nine, falling madly in love. Middle Man was less than an hour old.

That is not the source of the meltdown however. Again, I woke up happy and content with how things are. I missed my boy, but I was glad that it’s his birthday and he is in a good place. I was glad. Then, I got thinking about his actual birthday. The day Middle Man was born was one of the three greatest days of my life. No cliché or Hallmark commentary: the days my children were born, were the three best days ever. And, while each of those days was grand beyond grand, Middle Man’s birth was truly fantastic. After having a C-section with Principessa, my first baby, it was such a relief and so incredible to have a healthy, 8 lb boy (nearly 1/2 a pound less than his sister, and a full pound less than Little Man), born with little medication and no surgery. Those final moments as I pushed, I clearly remember thinking: This is like running for the Gold medal at the Olympics, and knowing you’re about to win.  Again, not a Hallmark version. I thought that IN that moment. It was sublime.  (sublime: |səˈblīm|adjective ( -limer , -limest )of such excellence, grandeur, or beauty as to inspire great admiration or awe.) It was golden.  And then, moments later, I had this spectacularly beautiful boy in my arms and the world just got grander.

I remember it so clearly, it could have been a blink, just yesterday.  It is not possible, that twenty (TWENTY!! As my meltdown began to form) years have passed. I won’t pretend that those years were all easy, or they all sped by, but seriously, it is inconceivable that Middle Man is 20 and Principessa is 22, and I (here it comes) was, WAS, 29 when it all happened. (Technically, 27 when Principessa arrived, but it’s M.M’s birthday that got me spiraling today!). I was twenty-nine years old!  A baby. I can’t even remember who that person was. I can remember nursing that baby, and staring for hours at his perfect little face. I wanted to just curl up and spend forever with him. He never cried (seriously, do a background check, and old friends will tell you that he never cried. Smiled all the time and coo’ed.) But, I don’t really remember who that 29 yr old was. I don’t know what I wanted, beyond those moments with my baby; what made me happy/sad/anxious/etc… It seems so strange that I was that young, and now, today my baby turned 20 and I’m… well, you do the math.  (Gorgeous beyond words. Who knew that this beautiful boy would one day shove me into 7

And then, the really ugly thing happened: This spinning, constantly moving, dizzying, whirrling ride that we’re all on, shifted a little more, and… I did more math.  And that was the distinctly ugly moment, when the meltdown commenced, in my shower. I realized that this 2o years raced by at record speed, and well, that can only mean that the next 20 will do the same. Right? RIGHT?!  Everyone constantly comments on how much faster things move, as you age.  So, if you’re doing the math along with me:  when Middle Man has his next twentieth birthday, I will be nine months away from, oh God, I can’t think it. SEVENTY!! SEVENTY!

Seventy can only mean a few things (from a meltdown in your shower perspective):  I will be at that point where my kids will be saying things like:  “Do you really think mom and dad are ok on their own?”  “Mom drove to the wrong doctor, again today.”  “Middle Man, just let it go, you know she’s almost 70; just let her pick the restaurant.”  (Principessa will still be telling Middle Man what to do; he’ll get pissed off and tell her to mind her own business, he’s not a kid… It’s his birthday, he’s 40!!)  My kids will be having second thoughts about leaving their kids with us,  my grandchildren, who actually could be in their teens by then. “They are nearly 70 now! This wears them out.” (Um, for the record, grandpa will be 70+ already!)  Holy Crazy Shit, Batman. I will be older than my mother was, when she died a few months ago.

Oh God. My mind began racing, along with my rapidly aging heart… that probably has plaque building up, as I type.  My left knee ached, in response to the mere idea of another twenty more years of yoga. I reassured it by noting that it would probably be replaced by then. I stumbled upstairs, where my contractor, a friend and a psycho-fit-studmuffin-healthnut-married to psycho-fit-studmuffinette-doyouhearmeK?-healthnut, calmly (like I mean: hardly blinked at my meltdown), CALMLY  (in the face of my rising hysteria) informed me that: “It’s just a number.”  Just a number? JUST A NUMBER?  Easy for him to say.  First of all, he’s a year younger than me (and his kids are much younger too) and he had just come from some crazy Mountain Biking route, before work, and he just smiled again, and said “it’s really just a number. You have to remember that.”  Remember that? Hello, can you say dementia?  I’m hurdling toward 70, as we speak.

An aside: I am convinced that he is just covering, or clearly in denial.  He may feel different when his boy hits twenty, and he realizes that he’s going to be 73 (hear that F, 73!) when his boy turns 20. Wait, then I’ll be nearing 75. This is a slippery ass slope. I don’t like this ride; I want to get off! Wait, no, I guess getting off means… way past 70 right?

He continued to try and talk me off the ledge, and it should be noted that with our deck partially dismantled, we were all standing three stories off the ground, with big gaps to fall through. That concern might have entered his head, as I remained in a tailspin. “You know, 70 is totally different today; people are much healthier and living longer,” he soothed.  Oh God, this is like the “50 is the new 40” pep talk women get as they head toward 50, even as we see the lines multiplying, the grays taking over, the skin drooping further… Please! YOU are healthier, I have some serious improvements to make, for 70 to not be  freaking me out right now. “I hear you, but just keep reminding yourself: it’s only a number.”  Yeah, a big, f’ing number that spells old. (When their son is turning 20, I plan to stop by and talk numbers… see where he’s at then.)

Instead, the entire day, thoughts of 70 swirled in my head and evidence accrued.  As I returned to the produce aisle for the third time, for something I’d forgotten, dementia was strongly on my mind.  The befuddled older woman looking for a supplement at Costco, as her husband led her by the elbow to another section. Me, in twenty? If Smart Guy ever guides me by the elbow, I’ll loose it. Seriously. The message I got from Middle Man about memes, and his assumption that it would confuse me… So, ok, I did have to look up memes a while back, when he and his sister kept referring to them, and ok, the joke was a little over my head… but that doesn’t mean that I’m too old to learn new things… yet.  This did lead tot the realization that there may be more and more things that my kids know, and I am in the dark about. Does that imply that I will be that older parent who waits for their kids to drop by and figure out the new fangled Teleporter (they are eventually coming, right?), or whatever version of a remote we’re using then… Using the word new fangled. That much older woman in yoga, who always uses the wall for poses. Maybe I do need the wall for Dancer, or Warrior 3, so am I already on the wall yoga trajectory.  By 70 I’ll be doing all my poses leaning against the wall?

It’s all just too much. The idea of all of those things, and the fact that my boy is twenty and that twenty years slipped by in a whisper, is just too much. Of course I get Studmuffin’s point: they’re all just numbers. But when you look at the math, the numbers just start adding up and, in those strange moments when that reality bitch slaps me hard, the numbers scare the begeesus out of me. When I imagine the life decisions and events that will come in the next twenty:  loss of already older friends and family, new family members that I didn’t personally create (son/daughter in laws), career choices and life choices that my three kids will make, new wrinkles and a face that looks less and less like the face it was when I started this ride, it is all very immense.

This morning, I woke up returned to my previous state. The panic subsided, the meltdown retreated. I’m one day older than yesterday, Middle Man is twenty and a day. Seems like it was just yesterday that he was turning twenty. Oh, right… time does fly… Or, maybe it is just the way you look at the numbers.

Posted in Aging, Awareness, Blog, Daily Observations, Death, Dying, Ego, Honest observations on many things, Humor, Life, Mothers, Musings, My world, Parenting, Personal change, Sarcasm, Women, Women's issues | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 15 Comments

The Middle: One Man’s Classic…(Another Music Post)

Posted on April 11, 2012 by Dawn Quyle Landau

Yesterday Simon and Garfunkle came on the radio, and I stopped to sing along. Memories of my own youth and then my kids’ came rushing in, having played this song for my children countless times… But wait: I’d sung it as a child.  And something struck me hard in that moment: all the great music I’ve been playing for my kids, for most of their lives, and calling classics, may just be Oldies. Oh sweet mother of rude awakenings, how could this be?

Let me back up:  I’m a music person, as I’ve said many times before. If you read Me In The Chord Of, you can have the privilege and joy of checking out much of the music that I hold dearest. I’ve prided myself on staying pretty current… until now. Yesterday, as this horrific reality penetrated my stunned brain, (Classic=Oldies) I also realized that I’ve fallen a few steps behind in music overall. I’m no longer relevant.  I’m out of step with what my kids (or at least one of them) are listening to. Oh God, have I lost my music groove?!

My classics: Simon and Garfunkle (this video makes me feel very old!), The Talking Heads (this ROCKS), The Cure, Fleetwood Mac, Depeche Mode, R.E.M, Peter Gabriel, to name a few, are now oldies. Hell, they were probably Oldies when I was playing them for my kids and calling them Classics. And that’s what really hit me:  My mother’s classics: Where The Boys Are, Bobby Darin, Ritchie Valens, Buddy Holly and Elvis (this song was one of mom’s favorites; I’ll give her Elvis) were no less classic to her than the singers I’ve held dear for 30-40 years. When I was a kid and she’d play those songs and tell me how incredible they were, I quietly dismissed them as old. I saw them as a reflection of my mother’s disconnect from what was new and relevant in music. Yet somehow as my own kids were growing up, I put forward my old music as “Classic.” I drilled in to them that The Talking Heads are supremely (seriously, supremely) timeless. Still relevant. Still very cool. If Talking Heads’ This Must Be The Place (skip ad in 5 seconds) comes on the radio, we all sing along and I still say: THIS is classic; it never gets old. 

As my kids have grown I’ve stayed tuned into “Alternative and Indie” music, for the most part.  Today I listen to:  Metric, Arcade Fire, Kings of Leon (one of the sexiest songs ever), Hey Rosetta (despite this ridiculously long intro), Radiohead (could listen to this over and over), and Deathcab for Cutie, to name a few.  However, Fleetwood Mac still sounds good; it doesn’t sound old… to me. But is that what makes it a classic? That you (read: I) can listen to it 30+ years later and it still sounds good; or, does it still sound good because I’m getting old too, and those songs take me back? Does it sound really old to my kids, but they just can’t tell me? Do they only connect to those songs because it’s a connection to me, even as they think Oldies, in their heads? I want to believe that The Cure, Talking Heads, Depeche Mode… all of the great music that I still listen to and hear as (still) fresh, is truly classic.  Ok, so the videos are grainy and old looking, but if you look away and just listen (and each of these links will take you to truly great music; trust me), the music still sounds like something that might be played today… right?  It has to be as sign of something that these songs keep showing up in current sound tracks, right?

<– How many do you know?

Yet when Middle Man refers to Dubstep, my eyes glaze over. I had no clue about what it sounds like.  I was totally out of touch when he played LCD Soundsystem for me, but having the Muppets as back-up won me over. He has tickets to Cochella this weekend and admittedly, I only know 12 of the 135 acts that will perform, over two days. I’d be totally stoked to see Gotye (hard not to love this), Bon Iver, Florence and the Machine, Radiohead, Black Keys and a few others. However, I’d probably pass on Snoop Dog and Dr. Dre (together here). I never really liked American Rap or Hip Hop, but have enjoyed some of the Ethnic Rap my son has shared (this one, I found on my own). Maybe because I can’t understand them saying “whore, bitch, motherfucker,” when it’s in another language.  I get that Rap/Hip Hop is relevant and speaks a language that I don’t totally relate to, but I can’t listen to it for hours, like Middle Man’s friends might. Admittedly, I’ve only connected with some of the more pop-rap, like Eminem, Black Eye’d Peas (Lyrics are necessary for any Rap), etc. in the U.S. The fact is: I don’t really know what Middle Man listens to anymore. I’m a little more clear about what Principessa likes, and I still influence Little Man… for a short little while more.

The tables have turned. Now, it’s my kids who are turning me on to new music. They may listen to some of the same things I’m finding on the radio too, but they no longer look to me for  their music. Even Little Man looks at me like I’m stupid, when I say Who’s that? My music, my classics are oldies for them; and this is something that I will need to chew on for a while. Even as I write this, I want to argue that the songs I’ve listed here are timeless… never-get-old-diamonds (mega-carat, flawless diamonds) of music. That my classics are different than my mother’s, or her mother’s.  I want to believe that my kids will some day play The Heads for their kids, but yesterday I sunk in in a new way, that that’s unlikely. The Times They Are a Changin’ (they will always call Dylan a Classic), and I need to learn some new songs.

What do you listen to? Do you prefer the songs of your youth (AKA: Oldies), or do you keep up with music today? If you’re a parent, do you listen to anything your kids like, or have you drifted apart as they get older and choose new grooves?  Take a minute and make a comment… share your thoughts on music.

Stop! Really. Read this.  Please note:  Check out the Facebook page:https://www.facebook.com/TalesFromTheMotherland.  Please take a moment and like the new Facebook page (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. Go back and hit Like.  Thanks. Then, be a good doobieand “Share” them with others; it’s nice to share. 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 (sorry about the gun, but this is serious business)

Posted in Awareness, Blog, blogs, Daily Observations, Honest observations on many things, Humor, Life, Mothers, Music, Musings, My world, Parenting, Personal change, Sarcasm, Women, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

Step Away From the Chicken.

Posted on April 9, 2012 by Dawn Quyle Landau

Warning:  Nothing in this post should be taken personally. I own my own melt downs and I’m not blaming others. I’m just calling it the way I crave it this morning.

We just got back from a week long “vacation.” Frankly, having just spent 18+ hours traveling home from said vacation, with three teens who have clearly reached maximum saturation with each other (and with us) and with whom I have also reached maximum capacity… right now a VACATION would be much appreciated. I feel suntanned, but not really rested. Sleeping on a tiny bed with 6’4″ Smart Guy is not exactly restful. Being so together (read: on top of each other) definitely got the best of all 5 of us (China, Denmark, Smart Guy, U.S./Little Man and Me) and coming home feels good… but I can’t help but feel like I really need to get away. Get away from the vacation hang-over.

(<— The wicked stuff that comes from a post vacation melt down)

This does not bode well for me nutritionally. Frankly, when I’m stressed I’m not that gal who runs for the tread mill, or puts on tights for yoga, or makes up a wonderfully healthy smoothie. I’m that gal who reaches for the crap food that doesn’t pack as much in the vitamins and grains department; I reach for foods to melt down with. So today when I had to go grocery shopping (because there was nothing in the house and three teens expecting something when they get home), I found myself throwing a few unhealthy options in the cart.  When I got home at 9:30 AM from shopping, I immediately melted down… with fried chicken. Yep, fried chicken. How could I resist? It had just come out of the fryer at my local grocery store. It was fresh, and local… and, ok,  fried. I needed it. I also needed the box of brownie mix that I will make later. I’d make the batter and eat it uncooked right now, but I’m trying to show some restraint.

It was exactly what all the health gurus warn you against: shopping when hungry/stressed/unfocused/insert any number of other post-non-vacation vacation adjectives here. Frankly, to see three teens race out for the bus this morning was enough to shove me face first into a pint of my beloved, caffeinated Haagen Dazs coffee ice-cream, in my pajamas (no, I didn’t; but a girl can fantasize). I was ready for a cocktail, a bowl of ice-cream, some fried chicken, Cheez Its, Twizzlers (which I took in my purse, to sustain me as I drove to the store) and my favorite Betty Crocker Supreme Deluxe brownies, the minute I opened my eyes this morning. Yes, that bad. Eight days with kids sleeping on the floor or pull out, and all around us. Eight days of negotiating meals in a house that’s not your own and planning things so no one’s bored, yet, feeling like we all need a break from each other… Passover, Disney, Kennedy Space Center, Grandparents, Cousins, kids fighting over bathrooms, who sits in the middle (car) seat (every time we got in the car!), sun burns, sun poisoning, (but sun glorious sun!), 6 loaves of bread and grandparents who are shocked at how much food three teens can go through, and that little bed to negotiate each night with very tall Smart Guy… Yes, I woke up wanting relief.  Tragically, I had to go to the grocery store, and that folks is where all of my resolve and relative cool, came crumbling down on me… and lead to some less than healthy food choices.

I almost pulled the chicken out of its sleek, plastic container and ate it right in the grocery store. It’s scary how close I got. The pent up anxieties of a week of juggling stuff, and sudden access to all food I might want, was almost too much. I didn’t though, eat the chicken in the store. I made it home dignity intact, and then ate the it as I put away groceries… and while I can practically here the tsk tsks from some of my friends, others will understand. It’s just not really a vacation, when you stay in someone else’s home with your kids.  There’s too much to negotiate, and not enough just letting the details from home go. On vacation: cooking, laundry or dishes seem worse than at home. Kids on top of each other all week, just lead to cranky kids who need to be away from each other.  Without their rooms to retreat to, instead exposed and out in the open all the time, everyone slips into a bitchy sassy groove. It’s unavoidable. No matter how generous your hosts, or how much they try to make it nice, it’s hard to be in each others’ space an not get squirrelly.  No matter how hard every one tries to get along, or accommodate, nerves fray and boundaries are stretched.

(<—It wasn’t all junk in my cart!)

For me, that leads right to my current melt down. I crave a cart full of crap to vent with. It all looks good and I don’t particularly care what the calorie count, fat intake, glycemic index, carb count is. I just want to sit on my sofa and eat junk, and watch Game of Thrones… or some other fantasy show we taped (Mad Men, Survivor)… or laugh through an episode or three of Modern Family. I don’t want to empty suitcases full of sunshine clothes and dirty bathing suits. I don’t want to get back into the rhythm of school, homework nagging, dog walking, grocery shopping, laundry, and home routines.  And yes, I know that I shouldn’t complain, because we are very fortunate to go away on vacation. Add that guilt to my junk food craving list. I spiral for the first couple of hours…   Until I look out my window. Then, I take a deep breath; I step away from the chicken, and I remember why I love coming home. We will all find our groove again. Boundaries will be re-established and snarky comments will abate; I’ll go back to yoga tomorrow and make a smoothy to purge the chicken and brownies from today. We’ll talk about how fun Florida was, and how great it was to see everyone. Like having a baby, we’ll forget the labor and snuggle up to the babe. For these brief hours, I’ll finish my melt down, and the chicken pull myself together… and we’ll have something healthy for dinner.      (Mantra for the rest of the week:  Focus on the view, and cook some veggies.)

Stop! Really. Read this.  Please note:  Check out the Facebook page:https://www.facebook.com/TalesFromTheMotherland.  Please take a moment and like the new Facebook page (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. Go back and hit Like.  Thanks. Then, be a good doobieand “Share” them with others; it’s nice to share. 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 (sorry about the gun, but this is serious business)

Posted in Awareness, Blog, Foreign exchange students, Humor, Life, Mothers, Musings, My world, Parenting, Sarcasm, Teens, travel | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

“Houston, We Have a Problem.”

Posted on April 6, 2012 by Dawn Quyle Landau

I probably shouldn’t waste that title. God knows I could use it for other posts, but that’s what I found myself saying throughout the day, this week, as the U.N toured the Kennedy Space Center (KSC). Anyone who hasn’t lived under a rock for most of their lives, unless, I guess, they are from a foreign country (as two members of our party are), knows what that quote refers to:  Apollo 13, the movie. Unless, of course, you are visiting KSC. Then, Apollo 13 is ever so real, and ever so incredible.  The minute you set foot on Cape Canaveral, the air force station that his home to the space center, you are sucked into the spectacular world of space exploration and history. I can’t lie: I get goose bumps just hearing the Hollywood stirring music they pipe in at the entrance. My goose bumps lasted for most of my visit, because whether I like to admit it or not: I’m a sucker for the brand of pure American pomp and circumstance that KSC manufactures offers, and I am still (inside) a kid who wants to be an astronaut. When I watch any of my favorite space movies: Star Wars (the original 3, not the ones that came later and are inferior. Period.), Apollo 13, The Dish, The Right Stuff, and Avatar, I can’t help but believe in a day when I too could use light sabers, fly through the galaxy, visit other planets and pony up to an intergalactic bar, for a cool drink (something I truly crave, after this week of togetherness).  I love that stuff, even though I’m  not intrinsically a Sci-Fi fan, and when I visit KSC it all comes front and center.

There’s no way around it: NASA kicks butt.  The American space program, the history of space flight, what we’ve accomplished in barely 50 years, is nothing short of out of this world, this galaxy (how can I pass on these puns?)… the stuff of, well, Sci-Fi.  The mere idea that in 5o years we went from limited commercial flights, to putting a man on the moon, building an International Space Station, and countless space missions, is truly goose-bump worthy. The fact that KSC uses all kinds of stirring music to show you all of this, only brings it home with more bang for your buck. Tour buses drive you around the massive complex, while knowledgeable drivers fill you in on all the details of the Center, the Missions that have been launched from there, the history of the Space Program and (bonus here) the incredible wild life preserve that the island has become. While we’ve visited a wild life sanctuary in search of alligators earlier in the week, we ended up seeing 3 hugs gators and a manatee at KSC, from the bus. You can take a guided tour (China didn’t have his passport, so we could not take that one) or just do it on your own… which was fine for our rag tag, exhausted group. After our very long day at Disney, and temperatures in the mid 90s again, we were fine with taking our time and seeing things on our own terms, pausing in the AC as often as possible.

We started with the flight simulator… and let me tell you, it rivaled any of the rides we enjoyed at Disney!  Many astronauts, in video presentations, let you know that this is as close to actually lifting off in a rocket as any of us will, realistically, ever get. They educate you about the actual flights that were taken from KSC as you prepare to load… This place oozes educational impact, a lesson and learning experience in each step… and convince you that you are (practically) going into space. Once strapped in:  you’re turned upside down, pulled back against your seat, your cheeks flap and move (from “G-force”), the room explodes with sound, and eventually, as you enter space, the roof opens and you gaze down on an HD image of Earth and the stars… and you get goose bumps all over again. When an official sounding voice comes back on and tells you to exit to your right, you can’t help but feel like you’ve been yanked out of a real space ship adrift in the cosmos.

<– China, Denmark and U.S in the hall that houses the Saturn 5.

The various areas of the Space Center that you visit, give you many insights into the enormous human effort that has gone into space flight. The  “Crawler,” the moves each Space Shuttle or rocket to the launch pad, is a work of genius and brilliance in itself, and looks like it inched right out of Star Wars’ Command Station.  Moving less than 1 MPH, it brings each mission to the launch pad. The engineering that went into it, and each component of every mission, is astounding and humbling. The idea that so many people have applied themselves to this singular effort, space travel, is truly stunning!  I found myself shaking my head and thinking about how easy it all looks in the movies, compared to the reality that you come to understand as the day unfolds at KSC, and how much we all may have taken it for granted.  I watched with chills as real videos from former missions showed us the tension and focus that the mission specialists had when each mission went up. Ironically, the astronauts seem to fade a bit in the light of all the brilliant minds that get them into those rockets and up in to the stars.

Don’t get me wrong, watching the 3D Imax movie about the International Space Station, the astronauts give me tingles as well. To reach that position in life, that you would be chosen for space flight, is an effort that most of us can’t really fathom. The training, the education, the passion and drive… All to get in a fuel-packed rocket that may blow up beneath you, and which if successful, will take you as far from the planet we live on, as we have gone thus far. The images from space are gorgeous. Each astronaut shared the same moving thought: From space, there are no borders between countries and continents. There are no lines that divide us. From space we are one people, on one beautiful blue ball of a planet. It makes all the fighting and horror that we launch upon each other seem that much more pointless and futile.  This notion stirred me deeply.  As we exited one venue, and passed a winding display of each crew that has gone into space, I paused before the image of the 1986 Challenger image and tears sprung up.                                                              (A collection of rockets on the campus —>)

I still remember so well that clear day and how my naive view of the space travel changed forever. Having grown up believing that men simply get in the rockets and then go to space, I had not really internalized the idea that some might not survive.  Admittedly, before the Challenger mission exploded in 1986, many of us had become a bit complacent about space travel and NASA. That day, I was home skipping work and pretending to be sick, and watching the lift off live. I had not watched them in a while, but with a teacher (Christ McAuliffe) on board, I was determined to see it that day. From my Connecticut apartment, the sky outside was a spectacular blue, the sun shining. I felt giddy as they counted down, imaging what Ms. McAuliffe must feel like… an average citizen like me, going into space. My heart actually raced with the thrill of it. As it lifted off, my eyes watered and I felt the same excitement that I believe so many other Americans felt that day. And when the shuttle exploded, I sat in total shock and disbelief. Moments later, I sprang to my window and looked up, sure that if I could still see that clear blue sky, unmarred, the image on the TV might not be real. I sat transfixed as viewers and commentators alike questioned what we were seeing. All of my naive, idealistic ideas about how easy it– “it” being taking humans into space–  all was, exploded with the Challenger that day. Like many, I cried for days, and I never took that missions for granted again.  As we passed the images of each of the crews that have gone into space, I paused before each of the pictures of the crews who died trying: Apollo 1 (when 3 astronauts died in a fire on the pad), Challenger and Columbia (one of which exploded just after take off, the other which was destroyed on re-entry), and touched the images, connecting for a moment with that compelling reality.

One of the most awe-inspiring things at Kennedy is the Saturn 5 Rocket that lies on its side in one of the buildings on the campus. The sheer size of it stops you dead. The rocket boosters at the bottom rise so high that getting a photo of the entire unit is difficult. It’s impossible not to be awe struck and dumb founded by the mass and engineering that goes into what you’re looking at. The exhibits of the various flight suits, the moon rocks (one of which you can touch), original system and flight journals, the photos, and (most stirring) the Omega watch that astronaut Ed White was wearing when he died in the Apollo 1 capsule, demonstrate the amazing history that is our space program.  (The Saturn 5 Rocket and U.S./Little Man—>)

As I walked through these displays and watched the videos and presentations, it’s more than patriotism and touristy nostalgia that I felt. Unlike our trip to Disney, this is real stuff. It is a history that started just before I was born, barely, and has come to a sad close recently. The Space Shuttle flew it’s last mission, Atlantis, in 2011. The Kennedy Space Center is not slated for any human space travel at any date in the foreseeable future. Private companies (not NASA) will bring man into space and deliver things to the Space Station. Other countries will continue to pursue space dreams, but we are grounded (for the most part) for now. This struck me as sad, over and over again as I thought of the thousands of people who work at KSC and who have committed their lives to these endeavors. It saddened me as I imagined how space travel has shadowed me throughout my life, but will now be pushed back for a while.

But for a single day, with China and Denmark witnessing the ultimate in American dreams and ingenuity, I felt proud and moved to be an American.  When we all walked out of the final space movie, about the International Space Station, a bright, full moon sat in the sky, as if manufactured especially for us… To remind us that it’s still there, waiting to be explored further.  That man has visited that bright orb, but there’s more beyond it.  When you visit Kennedy Space Center, you can not for a minute minimize the courage, drive and passion that brings man into space,  the true tragedy of when that goes wrong, and the beauty of what it has been to America for 50 years.            (Goodnight Moon—>)

           Stop! Really. Read this.  Please note:  Check out the Facebook page:    https://www.facebook.com/TalesFromTheMotherland.  Please take a moment and like the new Facebook page (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. Go back and hit Like.  Thanks. Then, be a good doobie and “Share” them with others; it’s nice to share. 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 (sorry about the gun, but this is serious business)

Posted in Blog, Car trips, Daily Observations, Honest observations on many things, Humor, Life, Musings, My world | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

The Middle… The U.N.: Squeezing Every Ounce of Magic from Disney.

Posted on April 4, 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, and there is no other clever name. Smart Guy is just a smart guy. 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.

Warning: Little effort was made to make this short. Two days in the Orlando/NASA arena can not be abbreviated. Today Disney, next NASA. Please note that I had only the camera on my phone; picture quality is not ideal.

We had to do it; anyone could have predicted it. How could we visit Florida, with two foreign exchange students, and not visit Disney World, the land of magic and sparkle, that is so quintessentially American, that it might as well be wrapped in a big Disney style American flag?  How could we travel 12+ hours from West coast to East, visit the Sunshine State, and not visit the Magic Kingdom? Right, we couldn’t, and so we did… and in doing so, with only a single day to see it all, we aimed to squeeze every drop of Magic we could from that day. And, we did.

<– Who doesn’t love this Magic? Really.

Admittedly, I lie a bit there. If we were younger (Smart Guy and I, or the kids for that matter) we would have all gotten up at 5 AM and driven the 3 hours to Orlando, from Wellington, FL, to be at the sparkly gates the minute they opened. However with three gnarly teens, and Denmark so sunburned we feared she might in fact succumb to her red flesh, and jet lag still making us all fairly cranky in the mornings… we were pleased to get on the road by 7:45. We arrived at Main Street Disney at 11:45 AM, determined to see every square inch of the park. The U.S. let us know, throughout the remarkably long day, that he felt like a “little kid.” Of note, he did not need to keep telling us that, as his behavior was a dead give away:  Silly jokes, giddy laughter, skipping (ok, if you are a friend of U.S., you didn’t read that), racing to each line, faux accents to match rides and venues, and lots of outrageously expensive Disney treats… pretty much sums up the U.S.’ child-like rapture. He was determined to be a kid again and take in every single moment, and it was magic to watch. Denmark and China joined in the high jinx throughout the day, even as they admitted to being overwhelmed by all the stimulation and, well… Disney.  (The castle by night… from magenta to blue to gold to bright white–>)

Interestingly, China was for the most part unaware of many of the things that we all associate with Disney. While the rest of us could name each and every Disney song piped into our day, he was not. While Denmark and U.S. were excited to see Pluto as we entered the park and all the other characters throughout the day, China wondered if we might see The Simpsons. He has not been raised on the same dose of sugar coated, sparkle fest Disney imagery that we all have. The Adventure Land entrance: decorated in African/jungle theme ala Disney, only looked like Survivor to China. Each time we passed any kind of tropical theme, he announced: “Survivor!”  (Ok, so perhaps we have not introduced him to the best of American television…).  He slept through the Hall of Presidents, because he’d “already learned that in school.” That was one of Denmark’s favorite experiences. She loves museums and experiential things. China does love his meat, so the 1 pound Disney turkey legs, were a big hit with him… and the rest of us.  China explained that having recently visited Universal Studios in California, with all its exciting rides, Disney was not as impressive. China prefers “things that are more intense.”   (^^ Who you calling turkey? That’s 1 lb of turkey Bubba.)

The increasingly obvious differences in culture were that much more obvious through the Pixar quality colors of a Disney prism. China is inherently more practical, fact based, unemotional, logical. The wide-eyed wonder that Disney tends to illicit from American/European children (no matter how old), who have been raised on “A Whole New World,” “Be Our Guest,” “When You Wish Upon a Star,” is not the same for China. Had there been Tom and Gerry, he explained, he might have been a bit more excited, but for the most part, the fact that he is now grown and was not raised on these fantasies, made for a slightly less Magical experience.

<– Even China loved Splash Mt., but the Secretary General was the only one who kept her arms up the WHOLE time.

Smart Guy, who has long been a distinctly un-Disney “guest” to the Magical Kingdom, managed to find the Monster’s, Inc. experience fantastic, and screamed (think long, bellowing sounds from behind the Secretary General) like a kid on Space Mountain, everyone’s favorite ride by far. With our Fast Pass, we waited eight hours to get that ride, though we were all totally relieved to not wait more than 40-50 minutes for any given ride, despite enormous crowds. With temperatures in the 90s, we were so grateful for that. Our timing was, well, Magical all day. We managed to arrive for each (non-ride) attraction just minutes before they opened, and timed our Fast Passes so well, that we got to enjoy each of the rides that were “musts” while only missing some of the rides that were geared more to the younger set. Admittedly, we would have liked to have ridden Peter Pan’s Magic flight, but none of us was willing to wait an hour+ for that one.  It was well worth waiting 50 minutes to see Johnny Depp’s Captain Jack Sparrow, on Pirates of the Caribbean.

Make no mistake, when we left the park at 12:30 AM, every one of us was exhausted. Feet were aching; we all longed for soft pillows and cool sheets; we were collectively, the walking dead. However, we all agreed that we’d shared a remarkably lucky and fun filled day. While our teens could not appreciate it, Smart Guy and I were struck by how much easier everything was without small children complaining about the waits; needing to go to the bathroom again, wanting to buy swords/caps/autograph books/photos/Mickey ears/etc,  needing to be carried or pushed,  waiting for each and every character to sign the autograph books they will lose in their rooms, as soon as we get home.  Teens move much more efficiently; they eat when we want to eat; they get that watching the entire Electric Light Parade, is not as important as getting on Space Mountain.

<– When I’m at Disney, all I can think is: Where do I get this gardner?

Where Smart Guy and Secretary General differ, regarding the Disney experience, is in the very basics.  Smart Guy hates the the entire fantasy world that Disney manufactures, so well. He hates the crowds, the plastic, the full-Crayola-box colors that assault him, the mass consumption/consumer mentality that hits you the minute you hit Main Street Disney… the need of every child to get Goofy, or Snow White, or Aladin’s autograph… you get my point: Disney’s version of the world. The Secretary General loves all of that. I love that the trees are cut to look like Mini and Mickey. I love that every thing I see is beautifully colored and maintained; the streets are swept clean constantly, the trees smile at me. I love that Tinker Bell is real and the Castle changes color as the sun sets. I love to sing along to each and every Disney theme song that plays throughout the day. I skip, I dance, I sing along. I buy the pineapple swirl each and every time; while Smart Guy complains about the ridiculous price of the pineapple swirl, each and every time. I believe in The Magic; Smart Guy is too smart for it. Throughout the day, he reminded me that we would not return until “we bring our grandchildren.” Ouch. Grandchildren! (For the record: If either of my two older children are reading this: you are forbidden from making this true, any time in the near future. Forbidden. No grandchildren yet.) When I’m at Disney, I feel far too young to entertain the idea of grandchildren!

<– We were ready for the Haunted House cemetery, by the time we stumbled out of the park.

At the end of our incredibly long, full day, we drove the 30 minutes to the reasonably priced, “we’re only going to sleep here” hotel that we ‘d booked on a discount web site, ready to actually pass out. We entered the lobby sweaty, limping and unable to speak in coherent sentences. At check in, we were informed that a “large group of high school students had just checked out, and had totally destroyed 12 room: $20,000 worth of damage, toilets pulled from walls, tv’s yanked from walls..” –My eyes glazed over as the clerk spoke and I could only hear a Peanuts like voice in my head, the words garbling and assaulting me, as the reality worked its way through my boggy brain: There was no room at the inn.  No, please tell me you are not telling me we can’t get into a bed right now, I managed. They were sending us to a “much nicer hotel, only 30 minutes away… we are covering the difference, of course,” the manager assured me.  Couldn’t we just sleep in your lobby? I managed. “No Mam, I’m sorry, we’re fully booked.”  Nooooo! I staggered back out to the car, to tell the troupes.

<– This was the view, as we entered our room. Hello!

I’ll cut to the chase here:  We arrived 25 minutes later to a 5 star, 4 diamond resort hotel, that blew our collective minds. We were given a 2 bedroom hotel suite, the kids were assigned a 3 bedroom luxury condo. Of course, we didn’t want the kids across the resort from us (well, we did… but we didn’t dare), so we agreed to share our suite, unseen. When we opened the door, we all agreed we might want to stay on. Marble bathrooms, enormous showers (which the kids did rock, paper, scissors to determine who would go first), massive cushiony beds, glorious! China promptly exclaimed: “Is this Disney too?” Ahh, terms China could truly appreciate: luxury, prestige. We all washed away our aches and pains and fell into deep, dreamless sleep, and awoke the next today to opulence beyond our anything we’d anticipated when I hit send on orbitz hotels.  (The best part was this incredibly comfy bed, and the huge marble shower in the background. I was sound asleep before I could roll over and tell Smart Guy to stop snoring.)

<– This is where woke up. No joke.

No time to enjoy it. We took a quick look at the luxury golf course and roof top pool oasis. We passed the water park on the way out. “This will be perfect when we come back… with our grandparents,”  Smart Guy pointed out again. Enough with the grandchildren!  I’ve had my fill of Disney Magic for a while; on to Kennedy Space Center.  We’ll save the cosmos for the next post… At this rate, Denmark and China will go home in a few months, having seen so much of the American dream: Sunshine, mice that talk, Mermaids that sing, ginormous turkey legs,  fluffy bedding and marble floors, huge rockets that make other nations quiver, and delicious pineapple swirls. (Can you say Lobby?–>)

Stop! Really. Read this.  Please note:  Check out the Facebook page:https://www.facebook.com/TalesFromTheMotherland.  Please take a moment and like the new Facebook page (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. Go back and hit Like.  Thanks. Then, be a good doobieand “Share” them with others; it’s nice to share. 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 (sorry about the gun, but this is serious business)

 

Posted in Beautiful places, Blogging, Car trips, Daily Observations, Foreign exchange students, Holidays, Humor, Mothers, Musings, My world, Parenting, road trip, Sarcasm, The U.N., travel, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 7 Comments

I’m Walking on Sunshine…

Posted on April 2, 2012 by Dawn Quyle Landau

<– Hard not to love a view like this. My piece of heaven, from my kitchen.

I live in the glorious Pacific Northwest. Every day I wake and look out to the most amazing views, or see them in the course of each day: stunning mountains; Puget Sound; the San Juan Islands; moss covered, lush green forests; waterfalls; and more. Really, that is where I live. It is truly a pinch-me-is-this-real place. For those of you in other parts of the country, who watch Grey’s Anatomy or The Killing, and think you know what the Seattle area looks like, it does not rain buckets every day, as it does on those programs. Yes, it rains here more than some places, but less than others. We can have some real wet spells for sure. However, for the most part we live with gray most of the winter, and a rain that can only be called mist most of the time. It rarely pours. When the sun shines here (much of the summer and fall, parts of spring and most afternoons, just before sun set), there is no place more spectacular, I believe. There is almost nothing I would change about it… almost.

This week, I’m on vacation with my family (including our exchange students, China and Denmark) in sunny Florida. So far, we’ve woken to bright sunshine every day. Temperatures have been in the 80s, with only an occasional, lone cloud in the sky. And, I have to say: I like it.  For the record (that infamous record book that I keep somewhere), I am not one of those people who complains about the weather at home. There are certainly days when the gray gets to me; when I wish it was dry out, but overall, I appreciate the sun we have and love the green that all that mist brings. We get to enjoy lots of green gardens, flowers all year, and lots of color. Still, each day in Florida, as I’ve headed out to the pool to read the news, sat by the pool or the beach, or just found myself woken to bright light in the morning, I’ve thought: This is really nice. I could get used to a little more sun.  (My feet and I could get used to this view; at the beach on Florida ^^)

<– Somehow, the umbrellas look much brighter in Florida.

The truth is, if we had more of this at home I probably wouldn’t need to take my daily dose of Vitamin D supplements. If we had a little more sunshine, the moss might not grow as lush, but we’d be outside a little more. I notice that I wake up feeling a lot more energetic here, and I am guessing the sun plays into that. At home, the gray days tend to push me toward a big cozy chair, a good (decaff) latte and a book. Here, the sun pushes me to take a walk, jog in the pool, or get outside. The sun here makes the day seem more promising somehow. Let’s play golf; let’s play tennis; how about a walk? (Ok, so admittedly, I swear too much for golf and can’t play tennis; but I walk.)  I don’t seem to munch as much either, here in the sunshine state.  Vanity: putting on a bathing suit tends to encourage self-restraint. Walking at night feels so nice, when the air is warm and the breeze is gentle.  It’s nice to walk around after dinner, when a fleece or down jacket isn’t involved.  It is so nice to feel light fabrics against my skin, and not need to layer. I have to admit, this weather could be easy to get used to.

The reality however,  is that I am not a big fan of Florida itself. While I love our walks in the Everglades, and the site of the turquoise Atlantic, I’m not a fan of the miles of malls and concrete that surround them. Every corner has another strip/mini mall. The roads are four lanes wide, or more; the traffic endless. The sun that seems so beautiful from a beach or pool chair, is blinding off the endless, white cement. When we run into the grocery store, the car is 150 degrees when we return. Seriously, 150. I can’t help but think that I’m grateful there are few gates (as in gated communities) where I live.  People pull up to your home and knock on your door; there’s no stopping at a gate to be ushered in. At home, we walk across a lawn or pathway with little concern for fire ants. Our slugs don’t bite. Here, I walk with my head down, afraid to disturb one of the many sandy mounds that would lead to painful bites, on my flip flop feet.  At home, if it’s hot and there’s a pond or lake, I can jump in without worrying about being eaten. Eaten. Today, while coming back from her bridge game, dad’s partner, R, found an alligator blocking the pathway. She turned her golf cart around and got help from the guard (at the gate). I can’t deny that every time we drive by a canal or waterway here, I glance across the beautiful water and wonder what’s in there.  Back home, I have to watch out for the deer that eat my garden down to nubs, or occasionally find themselves trapped inside our fenced back yard, but alligators are not on my list of concerns. I just prefer not to have to even think about prehistoric reptiles, that can’t distinguish me from a large fish.  It doesn’t make canoeing seem as fun, as it is at home. As much as I’d like to be more reasonable, these things flicker through my thoughts, and can’t deny: I’m not a fan of Florida.   (China, spotting his first gator. A baby, but not the cute kind.^^)

At home, there are recycling bins everywhere. We live in a town that prides itself on being 99% green, for all downtown businesses. When I say “No bag please,” they don’t look at me funny at the store; they say: “Great! Thanks.”  Here, it seems that every two items are thrown in a separate, plastic, bag. I caught Smart Guy re-bagging our items the other day, each time the cashier turned to pick up another item. Plastic bags have been “outlawed” at home, and will soon be removed from our stores. No matter how many guests at home, it is very unusual for us to pull out plastic cups or flatware, and I never use styrofoam. People go out of their way to recycle, compost and re-use. One could argue that it is nearly fanatical. Here, the opposite is true. I have not seen a recycling bin yet, except at my father in law’s home.

<— If I could just bottle a day like this, and take it home…Ahh, that would be sweeet.)

There are lots of wonderful memories of trips to Florida over the years. My mother lived on the West Coast, in Naples, for years and my father and mother in law moved down here about fifteen years ago. Before that, we had Smart Guy’s grandmother to visit, and my family; I’ve been coming here since I was a Junior in High School. We have favorite places, numerous people we love, here.  It is like a second home, in many respects. My nieces and nephews are here, my brother, father in law and his love; it is a wonderful place to visit. However, when I get back on the plane at the end of a week, my heart beats faster at the idea of returning home, to the place I love so much. I may soak in a few extra rays to store up for the gray at home, but I won’t miss Florida in the summer. I won’t miss the things that just go against everything I practice at home. I don’t miss the cement and sprawl. If I could only bottle up a little of the sun, a few extra ounces of the people I love, and take it all with me, I’d pretty much have heaven on earth. Since I can’t, I’ll enjoy it while I have it and then return to my green and gray paradise. This week, I’m walking on sunshine, and it feels good!  (This is what makes my heart sing: home sweet home.–>)

Posted in Awareness, Beautiful places, Beauty, Blog, Daily Observations, Foreign exchange students, Humor, Musings, My world, Natural beauty, travel, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 17 Comments

The Middle… Just Shoot Me.

Posted on March 28, 2012 by Dawn Quyle Landau

For years I’ve been saying to my kids: If I ever  ________, just shoot me.  They have teased me for having said it to so many things.  At one point Middle Man said to me, “There’s so many things you say to shoot you about mom, first you’re going to have to buy a gun!”  (If I buy one, shoot me.)

Yesterday, talking to a friend, the phrase slipped from my lips. I began to think of what things might one day lead to my demise:

I once thought that any kind of plastic surgery or vanity procedure was disgusting. My mother, who had a face lift in her 40s, and I argued endlessly about why I would never do such a thing, and how I thought 5o+ years of smoking had caused her wrinkles. Now, with one very droopy eye and a growing trail of lines, the DNA writing is on the wall, and the idea of “help” is not  so far fetched. However, if I ever start looking like the Cat Woman, or the myriad of women who start out sensible and end up a parody  (pulled so tight you can’t blink), or a character in Brazil, just shoot me. (Cat Woman, aka Jocelyn Wildenstein-L, and Katherine Helmond, in Brazil-R)

I don’t care how fit I get, or how good I look, if I ever show up at a public place in a thong bathing suit, shoot me. I accept that the two piece I wear is pushing the envelope, but if I lose track of that line and you see me in something thongy, you know what to do.

If I become one of those old ladies who forgets what she once believed in, and starts saying the kind of racist, elitist, sexist, intolerant, prejudiced, hurtful things that a lot of older people turn to… put us all out of our misery.

<– If I ever lose track of loving these three people, no matter how big they grow, just shoot me.

To my kids:  If I ever become one of those mother-in-laws who makes my kids or the ones they love, miserable– if I bring hurt to your home– sit me down and set me straight. If I don’t listen, support your partner and lock your door. If I don’t listen, and I huff and puff and blow your door down, just shoot me.

If I start wearing pajamas in public, and think it’s fashion, shoot me. Seriously.

I’m lucky enough to not have needed to color my hair so far, but if I start, and I ever have that super fake orange/red hair, but tell you it’s real, just shoot me. Actually, if I get to that point, where my hair is a Crayola color, shoot me anyway.

If I ever turn on those I love (be they family or friends), because I don’t like what they say or do; if I judge them and turn my back– without trying, and trying again, to re-connect– If demand that they say what I want to hear, rather than what they really believe…  I hope I will always work to listen first, and try to understand. I hope that love will be bigger than being right.  But if I truly turn on those I love, without working hard to meet in the middle; just shoot me.

If I ever show up at our local market (or anywhere!), in skin tight, leopard print leggings, with a big ass silver bag and ridiculously high heels, just shoot me.

If I ever start carrying large, fake Gucci, Coach, or Louis Vuitton (etc) hand bags, and pretend they’re real… just shoot me.

If I live to see the day when our air is not clean enough to breath, our oceans don’t make my heart soar, and the glaciers truly disappear… if we truly destroy the natural world that I love so much… please shoot me.

If we live in a world where we become complacent when a young black boy is shot, for “looking suspicious,” or we allow young gay teens to be bullied to death;  if we don’t care about the loss of another mother’s child because our children are safe and happy, or don’t care that others can’t be married, because they don’t live like us, then put me out of my misery.

<– (If I don’t want to dress up, and be Max… if a wild rumpus only leads to me calling the neighbors..)

If I lose my sense of humor, slap me. If that doesn’t do it, and I seem determined to be sour and flat, if my sense of humor is really gone, if I lose my ability or desire to play… shoot me.

If I stop working to grow, if I settle into a dry, judgmental place; if my heart stops bleeding, or no longer lives on my sleeve; if I stop hugging my friends when I see them, if I don’t cry during “Kodak moments,” if my heart doesn’t swell each time my kids say “I love you,” if my passion deserts me… Just shoot me.

Note:  If you like this post, please take a moment to hit the Like ON the post. Check out the Facebook page for Tales from the Motherland, and Like it. Like it, like it!

Posted in Awareness, Blogging, Daily Observations, Honest observations on many things, Humor, Life, Mothers, My world, Parenting, Sarcasm | Tagged , , , , , , | 10 Comments

Ganstas, TMI and More, From The U.N.

Posted on March 26, 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, and there is no other clever name. Smart Guy is just a smart guy. 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.

Note to all readers:  This post crosses some lines. This writer acknowledges that up front. So, if you don’t like potty talk, or outrageous silliness, stop reading now. 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.

Things have been shifting at the U.N., ever since Denmark and China returned from a week long “field trip” to California. They were lucky enough to tour San Francisco, Hollywood and L.A., and both had a fantastic time. However, upon their return things had clearly shifted a bit, and in the week since their homecoming, the assembly has been trying to get things back on track.

China, having purchased a “really cool” baseball cap, also acquired a faux gangsta attitude and a penchant for copying Denmark’s voice.  Attitude:  China was pushing Denmark’s buttons. Denmark said “China, Stop it!” China promptly repeated Denmark’s words in a hilarious disrespectful, perfect imitation exaggeration of Denmark’s somewhat dramatic tone of voice, with the added very strong Chinese accent:  China, Stoooop it!  Denmark, growing impatient warned: “Seriously, knock it off!” Not to be out done, China adjusted his cap and repeated, in what he clearly believes is Denmark’s voice:  Seriously, knock it off!  This went on, as the Secretary General (in the other room listening) laughed uncontrollably considered options for  negotiations and imagined high fiving China remained neutral.  China was amping up like a seasoned comedian, as Denmark clearly reached a boiling point. Interventions were finally needed and Secretary General had to remind China that relations would be very strained if his imitations continued.  The Secretary General may have winked in cahoots with China. This detail has not been confirmed at this time. The response was classic China: Oh ok, never mind.

Further attitude: China also purchased a “cap,” aka: a beanie, and likes to wear one cap or the other and saunter around, in what China perceives to be an L.A. fashion.  Saunter being a key word here.

It was noted that following the trip, Denmark seemed a bit tense and less agreeable than usual. Several conflicts between nations occurred and Denmark was present for most. It was denied by Denmark that any bad mood was involved, until evidence to the contrary was clear.  Conflict resolutions were started, over dinner.  All parties agreed that a week with 40 other exchange students may have caused some frayed nerves, and all will work on regaining a positive attitude.  Secretary General might have threatened harsh interventions, to obtain these promises.

Denmark has let slip some anti-China comments recently. Most common goes like this:  “I’m sooo sick of Chinese food!” (For the record- this has been uttered numerous times recently.)  U.S.: “We don’t eat that much Chinese food.”  Denmark: “It’s much more than I usually eat; I’m so sick of it!” (Yes, Denmark does tend to speak with exclamation points) China: “Well, I am eating American food all the time! That is really soo much.”  Denmark: “Whatever. It’s not the same.” China: “Oh, never mind.”

And: Upon seeing that The Secretary General was preparing rice with dinner (simple white rice), Denmark stated- “Oh, China will be so happy.” Distinctly  snarky tone.    (Despite verbal sparring, China and Denmark are in fact on good terms.)

Secretary General, in a moment of frustration:  This is a dictatorship, not a democracy. I am the dic; you are the tators. “What’s dad?”  He’s often a dick, but today he’s a tator too.

Text from China, while in California:  “Los Angeles- both weather and girls. L.A. is hot!”   Translation was clear.

Smart Guy: “Is snarky a real word?”  Sec.Gen: Yes.  “Is there snarkish? Snarkily?”  For the record: Snarky, snarkiest, snarkier, snarkily.

In a move to curb potty talk between Beavus and Butthead China and  U.S.(sensitive folks, should not watch this video link), The Secretary General has suggested some changes. It was requested that these particular countries reframe from passing gas and gloating about it.  (This includes yelling “Opa!” when passing gas, smiling broadly and saying smoothly “Exuuuuse me,” or simply grinning.)  It was strongly suggested that in the car, it be forbidden all together, The Secretary General siting health code issues.  China and U.S. state that this is “impossible,” while Denmark and The Secretary General insist that holding it is not only possible, but practiced by females all over the world.  Smart Guy added fuel to this debate by siding (physically and verbally) with rogue nations China and U.S.  Currently there is a stalemate in negotiating any further between males and females, who are divided down the middle… Females One side civilized, and the other males remaining in their caves.

Along these lines:  On a recent long car ride this issue reached epic levels.  China violated this ruling immediately, just before we were getting out of the car. When Denmark cried Foul! (literally), and all parties agreed that this was a terrible smell, China reponded: “No, this is very healsy smell!”  All nations exited the car very quickly, upon stopping.  China maintains innocence.

It has been established in recent weeks that Denmark is not, in fact, perfect… as previously believed by some. China and U.S. have delighted in this realization and have gone to extensive lengths to point out any and all possible evidence (dishes left out, chores not finished, snarky comments, any tiny infraction). It should be noted that Denmark has in fact demonstrated an over-active tendency for sarcasm and snarkiness of late. China and U.S. note each incidence, for the sake of “fairness.”  The bubble has burst, and The Secretary General has been forced to admit that Denmark is not perfect… almost.

After two weeks of watching the back deck (three stories up and directly outside the kitchen window) be demolished and torn down, with big caution railings installed and the floor missing, tonight China looked out the window and asked: “Are they making a new deck?”  The Secretary General responded:  Um no. We plan to leave it open like that, to get rid of guests we don’t like.  (There may be a link to Denmark’s increased sarcasm and The Secretary General. Secretary General denies all accusations. However, this is the view from our kitchen table/where we eat each meal/where you can see that there is no deck/for nearly 7 days now… clearly we’re building a new deck!)

Apparently, while in California, China attempted to take over the Governor’s office. Despite the cool hat, Southern California attitude and efforts to blend in, security noted that China was an imposter, and he got no further than a photo op in front of the state podium in L.A.

China has finally completed The Hunger Games (first book). Now, the entire assembly (who have been anxiously waiting) can see the movie next week, on spring break. Upon finishing, he proclaimed: “The boys in this book are so stuuupid!  They don’t get anything.”   Yep, that’s a  very accurate portrayal of boys, in general.  (Ok, perhaps there is some evidence to support that The Secretary General has modeled some sarcasm, occasionally.)

The U.S. sustained an impressive sun burn, skiing this past weekend, on only the end of his nose.  Apparently, the song Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer is known in other nations as well.  Proving that music does in fact bring the world together.

 <— The Secretary General thinks it may be time for another puzzle. (The U.N. in the early days of team building and calm relations.)

Despite some crankier times of late, there is still a lot of laughter.  And whatever they may say in the moment, the U.S., Denmark and China remain staunch allies.  Snarky comments, flatulent boys, sarcastic mothers, Chinese food, car trips, food wars… As Talking Heads so eloquently put it, in possibly the best song ever written: “Same as it ever was!”

(Wait! Maybe this is the Best song ever… either way, the Talking Heads wrote it.)

Note:  I am still offering to donate, or get rid of, 2 items per new Like on my Facebook page. Come on, force my hand.

Stop! Really. Read this.  Please note:  Check out the Facebook page:https://www.facebook.com/TalesFromTheMotherland.  Please take a moment and like the new Facebook page (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. Go back and hit Like.  Thanks. Then, be a good doobieand “Share” them with others; it’s nice to share. 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 (sorry about the gun, but this is serious business)

Posted in Blogging, Car trips, Daily Observations, Foreign exchange students, Honest observations on many things, Humor, Life, Mothers, My world, Parenting, Sarcasm, Teens, The U.N., travel, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

Nipped.

Posted on March 24, 2012 by Dawn Quyle Landau

Warning:  Kids, run!  Do not read this post; it could get ugly. Really ugly. There will certainly be challenges ahead, if you continue reading and choose to ignore this sign.  You know you hate the mixing of the following topics:  Mom + Sex + Body Parts + Anything that might infer that I am anything other than the first topic.  So run now and read something else. No doubt, there’s something else you’re supposed to be reading, so do it now. If you are:  Not a kid, but prefer polite chat, or, if you are very conservative, or, you’re my father in law (who reads these), or, if you say “TMI” in conversation, or, if you are already scared (just reading this warning), don’t read any further. All others proceed cautiously. Scandalous stuff ahead.  Wink, wink.

That said, I have to admit that the topic of nipples has been bugging me for ages. Great start right?  If that was the opening of any book, you’d probably read on. I would. The reality however is that in the real world, the subject of nipples seems to have become very taboo, and I don’t really get it. More specifically, it’s not the topic that’s taboo but the appearance or acknowledgement of nipples. Period. Nipples, like panty lines seem to have disappeared from mainstream America. They do appear:  In Hooter’s ads; or in movie/TV scenes where the main character is “loose,” a prostitute or of questionable moral character, occasionally on celebrities, and then they are generally referred to as “wardrobe malfunctions.”  The message seems to be nipples are bad.

<–(If  I looked like “Jenny from the block,” I’d probably be having wardrobe malfunctions all the time too.)             I don’t get this. I don’t see why this has become such a big deal.  At the Oscars this year, so many people were staring at Jennifer Lopez’s dress, not because it was spectacular and she looked like a million dollars in it, but because so many people were sure that they could see the shadow of one of her nipples. Seriously people?  Shadow? Of a nipple?  Wardrobe malfunctions (read this interesting Huffington Post article), like when Janet Jackson’s breast infamously slipped out of her outfit during the half time show at Superbowl 2004, cost the networks more than $500,000 in penalties. And ok, I get that it’s a family show and it was very blatantly exposed for a half of a second, but why is that worth a half million dollars in penalties?  Unless you taped it, paused the show, and replayed slowly (making you a pervert), you didn’t see much.  Who was hurt?

Since then, sponsors and powers that be have been so paranoid about a repeat of this, that for the past 8 years the Superbowl has allegedly chosen “safe” rock acts that don’t pose a nipple or body part threat. This year, upon inviting Madonna to perform, numerous clauses were written up that made clear what was allowed and not allowed… and who it would cost if something happened, contractually: Madonna. When M.I.A knowingly flashed a finger, there were outcries, but no where near the level of that errant breast and nipple.  (Superbowl shows: Left, Janet Jackson-not k.  Right, Steven Tyler and (I think) Britney Spears- Ok. Do you see the difference?)

I don’t get any of it.  I too agree that there are things that should not be aired during the family hour, but when things like a wardrobe malfunction happen, why is it more serious than so many other things? Why are body parts: namely breasts, and most seriously the lowly nipple, such a big flipping deal? Years ago it was not a big deal to go braless; in college and when my kids were really young, I did it with little thought to propriety. Lots of women did and no one cared. If you were wearing a tank top, braless was not a criminal offense. Yet somehow, when my daughter was in middle school, she informed me that my bras were “disgusting,” because my nipples could still be seen.  My daughter and I went back and forth on this for ages… I liked my bras at the time. They were comfortable and, I thought, flattering. All she cared about was the nipple issue. Finally I relented, and eventually, I too began to worry about this.  No doubt, at 22, and having attended a very progressive, intellectual women’s college, Principessa would not care as much now. However, what kind of bra I wore, and what was showing, was a very big deal for a couple of years there. Enough so that I too became convinced that nothing should show, the nothing being something: nipples.

(He, he, he… Hey Beavus, she said nipples! Oh my God!)

Hello?  We have them. We’re women. For the record, Principessa, like her 2 brothers were happy to see them for the year+ they each nursed. (See, that’s one of the parts I warned you about kiddos) Sometimes, nipples just make themselves visible… and why should this be such a terribly big deal?  So awful that stars are highlighted when they do show, and middle aged mom’s are worried that an outfit is wrong if there’s visible proof of the nipple’s existence. Today’s bras not only lift and support, they hide any evidence of this. Padded just so things are smooth, smooooth.  No bull’s-eyes, no dots, just smooth, padded breasts.

While I’ve been writing ideas about this in my head (that’s what bloggers do: yes, we’re taking mental notes. Always.), for months, the topic has begun to show up everywhere. On the Big C (one of the best cable shows in a long time!), the character Sean goes on a million dollar rant about the disappearance of nipples in American. He struggles with mental illness and has no filters, so the stuff that comes out of his mouth is just brilliant at times, as he doesn’t worry about what anyone will think. So when yelling at a young couple, who seem a tad conservative, he hurls a host of accusations about them being anti-gay, possibly racist, and afraid of women’s nipples, going on to further discuss the vanishing nipple. I felt vindicated, as I snorted and laughed.

The sheer number of recent attacks on public figures, in the media, who may have shown some nipple, is amazing to me. However, on almost every channel, every page, you can look at full, round breasts, completely exposed up to but not including the nipples. Turn on Modern Family (which we love) and Gloria’s breasts are a separate character. Survivor, the NCIs, How I Met Your Mother… Hell, so many shows it’s pointless to list them! It seems to be fine to wear very breast revealing clothes… frankly, the point seems to be to show the breast… but spare nothing in covering the silly nipple. I would show the many products designed for this purpose, but then my post would lose it’s rating… because the silicone tape-on nipple covers (really, taping silicone over your nipple? Ouch!), are shown on the same page as heart shaped pasties.

Over time, I’ve become aware that this issue seems to be true almost everywhere in the States. I haven’t had a chance to do research in other countries, but here, nipples in a certain age range seem to be disappearing.  So while more and more attention is given to the occasional nip sighting, women in the slightly older set, seem to be hiding them…or don’t have them?  Is it like men’s leg hair: it just goes away with age? Or, have we all been commercially convinced that aging breasts are truly less desirable?  Having recently been to Vegas, I found no shortage of breasts and nipples there. Lots of material, or a real shortage of it, depending on how you look at it. Yes, I was looking at them.  I was actually taking pictures, and had helpers, who knew where my thoughts were going and helped scope out images. I can tell you one thing: breasts, not covered very well, and wardrobe malfunctions are the norm in Vegas, not something to hide. They get you into clubs for free. They get you free drinks.  My friends and I looked downright old fashioned, Little House on the Prairie practically, compared to the chicas on The Strip.  I noticed that lots of shop windows have mannequins with nipples showing, but I have little doubt that most of the women buying those clothes will go to great lengths, to hide theirs.  (This ^^ sells clothes, to women who don’t want to show “those.”)

<– There it is: My 25 year old self, braless (with my in laws no less) and standing next to a Sugar Babies sign. Oh the horror! Not to mention the crazy ass, 80’s, Go-Go Girls wannabe haircut. I grew that “tail” for years!

Arrgh! Really? Really!  While I’m not dying to run around braless anymore, I also have begun to wonder when, why and how I allowed myself to be bullied into thinking it was such a bad thing, such a slutty thing. Why did I take a 13 yr old girl’s opinion so seriously? What contributed to her thinking it was such a bid deal in the first place. I don’t remember ever really worrying about this stuff with my mom, and she was a pretty hip, modern, single gal. I understood that my mom had some sex appeal… even if I didn’t want to imagine what that might lead to. Now, if you have sex appeal as a mom, you run the risk of being a MILF.  Mom= Not really a woman–> Certainly not a woman with nipples.

<– (Safe, no nipples, breast feeding icon.)              To circumnavigate the potential assumptions that might be made by those reading my thoughts here… No, I’m not thinking about this all the time. No, I’m not looking to go braless or argue that it’s a sensible thing. Though I’d prefer to not have it be an issue, if I want to. I didn’t write this to be provocative. I just have thought a lot about this and the idea that the subject has become such a hot topic to sell magazines, or turn heads, puzzles me no end.  If you Google “wardrobe,” it immediately feeds you “malfunction.” There are endless things written about how to hide your nipples under clothes, Dear Prudence letters about what’s appropriate, and even advice that one should hide their nipples in a swim suit (pad or layering, ladies… lest you risk looking naked under that swim suit!). There are wedding sites that address the potential humiliation a bride might face, if her nipples should show… though wearing a dress that plunges, or pushes up, is very fashionable. Amazingly, Facebook allows some pretty questionable topics and sites, but breastfeeding sites can not show nipples, and frowns on breast exposure… for breast feeding! Lots of women fought that, and now you see some exposure.  You’ll find some images, but you’ll see an awful lot of icons instead.  (Clearly, Sports Illustrated does not worry about nipples. Is this a whole bathing suit?)

No doubt, my blog views will go way up as more perverts confused guys do searches for a different kind of breast, and find this instead. However, the topic’s been waiting to be discussed, in my long list of thoughts for posting. Real or imagined, the list is constantly re-adjusting to what’s on my mind in the moment. I suspect this topic will not go away any time soon. This stuff sells, and we love to judge. So, no doubt I’ll hear about this photo (wait, wait, it’s coming). Some background however, first.  For our Oscars party this year, I wore a dress that I bought about 26 years ago, when I was 23. At the time, the fact that it was worn braless meant nothing to me. I’ve already established that I was a bit loose then. This year, when I slipped it on and realized my bra was completely showing, I nervously went braless and fretted about it before our guests arrived. Smart Guy, to his credit (and he gets it here), said, “it looks as good as it did then… so do they.” Yep, they. (Kids, if you read this far, you deserve that!) So, when I got photos from friends, of me accepting the Oscar my aunt and uncle sent us (Read Golden: Call Me Oscar), there it was:  my own wardrobe malfunction!

I am bound to collect a certain amount of s^#t for posting this, in a sense asking y’all to stare at my breasts… but that’s the point. What’s the big deal? I don’t think I’ll be fined for this, though I may regret it later.  (Ok, admittedly, I already do) It’s certainly a very bad photo of me… I was hamming it up, pretending to thank Jesus, and cry… I have little to gain here. But lots of friends that night told me I looked fine, not to worry, nothing was showing… and there it is: wardrobe malfunction! Sweet mother (not the blogger) 0f God;  holy crapola!  I’ve written this finally, and I’m leaving town for the weekend. I’m posting in the middle of the night, under cover of darkness, and slipping away, while you analyze the evidence.  Now that I have this off my chest (you know I had to use that), I’m sure to sleep better.  Until I read the comments…

Note:  I am still offering to donate, or get rid of, 2 items per new Like on my Facebook page. Come on, force my hand.

Stop! Really. Read this.  Please note:  Check out the Facebook page:https://www.facebook.com/TalesFromTheMotherland.  Please take a moment and like the new Facebook page (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. Go back and hit Like.  Thanks. Then, be a good doobieand “Share” them with others; it’s nice to share. 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 (sorry about the gun, but this is serious business)

Posted in Awareness, Beauty, Daily Observations, Honest observations on many things, Humor, Mothers, Musings, Parenting, Personal change, Sarcasm, Teens, Women, Women's issues | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 18 Comments