It’s a Tribal Thing… Winning point Books.

Posted on September 26, 2011 by Dawn Quyle Landau

Last week, I was reading a book on my Kindle. That statement, in itself, seems all wrong to me: reading a BOOK on my Kindle. I don’t use my Kindle for all my reading, but I got it because I like to read and I like to travel, a lot. Travel + books= remembering to choose and  take books along; making sure I have the right book(s); having the correct number of books for a particular trip; having access to what I want; and then, the issue of schlepping the books around in my travel pack (further tweaking my back and shoulders)– none of this was working so well.  For many years, I didn’t weigh these issues, because there were no other options. Want to read while traveling? Deal with the list above.  That’s how it had been forever. Until the electronic book, the first of which was Kindle.

I’d given all of this a lot of thought, and I really wanted a Kindle and so had made it the big ticket item on my wish list for Hanukkah and Christmas three yeas ago… I figured that with both holidays, and my birthday in January, coming up, I was bound to get one. I’d mentioned it to every family member, just to be sure that Hubby didn’t miss the “clues.”  Then, just before the holiday season that year, I went to hear the author Sherman Alexie speak at our high school. I love the man: the way he writes, the stories he tells, the easy and humorous way he speaks in public and, I generally agree with most of what he says. I’m a huge fan. So, when he suddenly turned to the audience and began discussing Amazon’s Kindle, I got a little edgy. Oops, I respect this guy, and he’s now explaining why he wanted one, how he liked it for a while and why he now hates them. Alexie discussed several issues that had come to bother him, but the point that really struck a nerve and came back to bite me later, was tying books to a tribal issue.  With Sherman Alexie, most things come back to tribal issues, but even I saw the wisdom of  this one.

He discussed the wonderful feeling he’d always gotten when he’d see other people reading a book he likes (or doesn’t).  The shared books, brought connection to others.  He gave the example of getting on a plane, right after a new Harry Potter book came out (back when waiting for H.P. to be released was a true event) and walking up the isles to his seat, as he noted that he (and his kids) shared the same book as 30-40 other people. Looking at others, H.P. in hand and smiling, each silently acknowledging that they belonged to the same tribe, of reader. I could see this image clearly; it resonated with me, and the idea that I might be messing with that, wiggled under my skin. I can’t deny it, I doubted my desire for that Kindle, for a few moments there.  Little Man, who was sitting next to me, leaned in close and whispered:  “Hey mom, isn’t it a Kindle that you want to get for Christmas this year?”  “Shhh.”  I applauded Mr. Alexie‘s talk, got him to sign my book and on the way home rationalized that he was missing some point, that all my friends with Kindles somehow understood. Sherman Alexie isn’t perfect, despite any previous statements to the contrary, that I’d made. (Note:  This is me in denial. I adore Sherman Alexie and do in fact believe he is mostly perfect, but for the sake of getting a Kindle, I temporarily withdrew my allegiance.)   ^^ Mr. Alexie signed my favorite chapter in our favorite book, The Lone Ranger and Tanto, Fistfight In Heaven.  In our copy of The Absolutely True Diary of a Part Time Indian, he drew a hiking trail and book, after I shared a story with him about taking that book backpacking with us. He loved the story!

I began building counter arguments the minute we left the high school that night. I really wanted that Kindle, and I wasn’t going to give up on it, just because of one talk.  My friends had been extolling the virtues of their Kindles for months, and I was beginning to feel like I was really missing out on expanding my reading experience. To avoid any suggestion of hypocrisy, I refocused my interest toward the travel angle. The Kindle seemed like the perfect solution to the silly things that were bugging me about traveling with my books: one reasonable item that would solve the entire list of complaints above. Not heavy to pack, access to any books I want, ability to switch gears any time and get a different one, and a long battery life, so that it would last for pretty much any trip I envisioned, it was obvious why I needed one.  As I’d hoped, I got it for Hanukkah, and was excited to use it right away. I wasn’t going anywhere, so I figured I’d buy the (then) current book my book group was reading, and give it a try. The first book I ever purchased on my Kindle, was Petropolis, by Anna Ulinich. I know that because my Kindle keeps track of what I’ve read and has the list ready, with a click of the “home” button. Another perk.

At first, I loved my Kindle.  My “book” was right there, wherever I went.  It opened to my last page, with the flick of the another button. I could hit dictionary (same button, different option) and look up words I didn’t know, without going all the way to the kitchen to check our ancient Webster’s dictionary (1984). Hmm, I’d received two books in one, right off the bat; point, Kindle!  The only real con I could find, at first, was that the screen didn’t light up, requiring the continued use of my mini-book light, which seems to cause conflict between my husband and I each time I use it. (Aside: So, if Hubby doesn’t want the big light on, and he buys me multiple mini-lights so that I can read in bed, when he wants to go to sleep, isn’t there some point when Hubby should suck it up, turn over, and forget about the incredibly miniscule amount of light, coming from my side of the bed/mini-light? Just askin’.)  In fact,  I’d just assumed that a lit screen would be a perk of having a Kindle.  However, I got beyond that pretty quickly and just used the mini-light, as I always had. I was back to loving my new Kindle, still arguing with Hubby about reading lights.  It went on like that for quite a while: pros and cons, but mostly pros, Kindle in the lead.

No doubt, travel proved wonderful with my new gadget and all the benefits I’d imagined, came to fruition each time I got on a plane, packed my backpack, or took off for more than a couple of days. Bonus points were scored when I was able to download a new book on my way to Denmark, and then purchase another one for the trip home, finding one of the book stores at Sea-Tac (I’d forgotten my book). When Middle Man and I backpacked in India, I slipped my Kindle in the pack and brought along two different books to keep me reading for the full two weeks.  This came in very handy on a long train ride to Varanasi. Middle Man even found himself clicking my Kindle on and reading sections of my book as well. It was my comfort item, as we went without so many other comfort items, over those two weeks. I’ve taken it on long trips and short ones, but each time, I’ve been reminded of why I love my Kindle: it’s the perfect (reading) travel companion. (^Kindle: on the train to Varanasi (sweaty, hot, hungry),  and our only pool day, Delhi (cool, refreshed and feeling pretty damned good!)>)

However, I have also come to understand a lot more of what Sherman Alexie was talking about. At first, it was fun to see other people who had their Kindles out. We’d glance appreciatively at each other, both “techies,” but then… that was it. There was no further opening for asking what they were reading, it just didn’t seem “cool”  to ask what was behind that sleek blank cases. I missed seeing the book covers, that Tribal thing that Alexie had mentioned. There is something briefly magic about passing a total stranger and seeing them reading something that you’ve read, are reading, or want to read. There’s an instant connect and (for me) that leads to a quick flash of other things:  if he/she likes that book, do they then eat this food? Do they like to ski? Do they watch certain movies as well? Books say so much about a person, I think.  So, that moment when you see someone reading a particular book, for me, is also the moment I wonder all those other things. We become tribe members through shared experience, via our books. The Kindle takes that away.

As time went on, other things began to bother me as well. I missed the weight, the comfort of my books in my hands. While the Kindle has an easy, aesthetic feel to it, and is fairly easy to manage, it’s not that same feel you get from a solid book. No doubt, everything I added to the negative column, works in Kindle’s favor as well. I can almost hear the counter-arguments coming my way.  However, I was starting to add more points to the book column and more cons to the Kindle list.  I missed turning pages, and started to find the click of the switch, each time I finished a page, annoying. I’m totally amazed that Hubby has not complained about the clicking at night (to his credit) as I have found myself ready to lose it some nights, listening to that click, click, click. I read pretty quickly, so sometimes the sound is non-stop. I’ve played with pushing it down slowly, as I approach the bottom of the page, to soften the click, but that just distracts from the reading. Click is part of the Kindle package, and I was missing the flip of the page.

Pages in general are something I miss.  Turning them, feeling the paper between my fingers, the smell of the paper in both new books and old and the ability to flip back and forth from pages, when I want to check something or re-read a detail. That’s fine on the Kindle, if you’ve just read the detail, but if you need to go back and re-read something from much earlier in a book, I find that very difficult with the Kindle.  I also find it frustrating to guess what the percentage point at the bottom really means. With a book, it’s easy to flip pages and see that you have X number of pages to go and figure out the percentage, simple math, but the percentage that the Kindle provides doesn’t translate as easily for this reader.  When it says I’m 87% done, that could be a few pages or more than I can rush through. If you want to skim and move through sections quickly, it’s just not as easy on the electronic book as it is when you can skim the actual pages and see the ending sentence.  Forget it if you have one of those delicious “aha!” moment late in a read, on a Kindle, and want to find the place in the beginning, when the author hinted at it. On the Kindle there is no back page or front flap, where you can look at the author’s picture, read their brief biography and make all kinds of guesses about why they wrote this book, and what they’re like in real life… based on said thumbnail and brief predictable biography.  You can’t flip around period, unless you’re willing to click away and make a lot of guesses about where you want to land. That drives me nuts.

Our book group just finished A Visit From the Goon Squad, the Pulitzer winner by Jennifer Egan. If you’ve read this book, you can no doubt understand why a reader might want, no need, to flip back and forth as the book progresses, just to keep track of which characters are which, let alone what time period they are in. The book segues from distant past, recent past, future, and present, often with little warning. The characters appear in various settings, in changing forms, and it can be very confusing. Without pages to skim, this was extra frustrating at times! (I wasn’t traveling, but bought this one on Kindle, because I kept forgetting to go buy it.) Ironically, the chapter in Goon Squad that is written entirely in “texts” and digital imagery was nearly impossible to follow on the Kindle. These images were distorted and made less sense, on the screen, than seeing them laid out on a printed page, later. Strangely, trying to read that chapter at night, by the glow of my mini-light was nearly impossible! Something about the screen version of the images was especially distorted and then even harder in dim light. I reached over and borrowed Hubby’s reading glasses (something I don’t usually need) and even though the magnification helped, I still could not read it properly until morning, in full light. This particular chapter (which I can’t skim through now, to give the number for, because of the aforementioned un-skimability of Kindle) was more challenging for all of the book group members with Kindles.

Another major loss for me has also been a loss for the book/publishing industry as a whole. I was no longer going to buy my books, I wasn’t taking the time to visit my favorite bookstore, Village Books. On a bigger scale, buyers all over the nation, are doing the same thing, and that means big problems for little book stores (though lots of reasons for their decline, have been sited over time).  With my Kindle,  I could just click a button from home and have (nearly) instant gratification. The trade off:  I no longer enjoyed the ritual of visiting our local gem, perusing other books, buying the latest issue of Poets and Writers Magazine, or checking out art books, in a comfy chair. I was staying home, and missing out on this visceral part of reading, which had always been an integral part of my reading experience. The growth of e-books has had an enormous impact on “physical” book sales for three+ consecutive years, and a projected decline of book purchases, at 5% per year, has made it hard for book stores and publishing, across the board. Big chains like Boarders have gone bankrupt (a combination of declining book sales and overgrowth of their chain) and smaller book stores are struggling to keep up. It’s hard to compete with the pricing and ease of e-books and corporate giants who making mailing and purchasing from home easy.  For me however, I began to realize that I was missing something in not stopping in to Village Books, that could not be bought with a click of my computer or Kindle. I missed the people who work there; seeing Chuck and Dee,  who have nurtured their community store since 1980; the friends I’d see coming and going; the feel of real books, that I could flip through and take home for my shelves. All of that was lost in the hard plastic ease of my electronic book.

For me, so much of the ritual that is part of reading, is somehow lost in using a Kindle, or any electronic book. Even if you simply sweep your hand across a screen (vs the click), as with the iPad, it’s not the tactile connection that comes from a printed page. There is not the variations in font and text with a Kindle that exists in physical books. All the work that authors put in to that decision is gone, when it’s marginalized for electronic use.  Now if I finish a book and love it, and I want to share it, I can’t with the Kindle. It occurs to me that my beloved library:  the beautiful stacks of books that fill my huge wooden book shelves, books that have histories and meaning, stories of their own, will not grow and flourish, if all the books I read are on electronic sources only. That of course is great for the environment, cutting back on paper use, but when I told a friend about A Visit From the Goon Squad last week and offered to lend it to her, I had to take the offer back immediately, when I realized that I was not willing to hand over the Kindle and wait to get it back.

So, while there have been both pros and cons, I think my Kindle will be semi-retired at this point, and only taken out for very specific missions: travel. It is ideal for that purpose and I will use it for that and that alone. On Friday, when we’d finished dinner, Little Man, China, and Denmark and I walked over to Village Books and I showed them this “very special place” in our town. China and Denmark walked around in awe and excitement, showing me the books they had also seen in their own countries (not surprisingly, Twighlight was universally recognized) and checking out all the cool options for reading. China got excited about a pile of recommended reads that the staff had compiled and we discussed which ones he could try, from our library at home, and which he might want to purchase.  Little Man found another history book, with all kinds of esoteric facts, which he bought with his own money.  As they were closing, we had to pushed out, all of us wanting to linger in the cosy space and explore our individual interests. It was an outing, an event, not a night spent at home on our separate computers.

In the end, one of the most compelling points for “real books”, is the fact that as a writer, who wants to see her own work published, do I want to see my words on electronic pages, or do I want to get on a plane and see passengers holding MY book?  That is pretty clear for me. While I obviously want most to see my work published, and purchased in whatever format I can, ultimately it would be a real thrill to walk up the isle of a plane, and see my book in someone’s hand. I want people to buy my book, flip to that last page about the author and say, “Isn’t that…?”

Here are ten books that I adore:

A Fine Balance, Rohinton Mistry

Cutting for Stone, Abraham Verghese

Peace Like a River, Leif Enger

The Whistling Season, Ivan Doig

Midnight’s Children, Salman Rushdie

Possession, A.S. Byatt

Ahab’s Wife, Sena Jeter Naslund

Lord of the Rings Trilogy, J.R.R. Tolkien

Birdsong, Sebastien Faulks

Time Traveler’s Wife, Audrey Niffenegger

Go ahead, blast away!  All you Kindle, iPad and other e-book users, tell me why you disagree. Or, if you are a book fan, tell me why. What are you reading right now and what do you share with others?  Five books you’d recommend?

If you enjoyed this article, please hit Like and/or use the Share button to pass it along. If you want to get the latest posts, Subscribe and you will get an email each time I post a new entry. You wont get any other mail. And if you’re new to this site, check out some of the older posts, by hitting the Archive button.

Posted in Daily Observations, Humor, Musings, Parenting, travel | Tagged , , , | 11 Comments

Call Me Gay. Call Me a Fag.

Posted on September 22, 2011 by Dawn Quyle Landau
Prop 8 Support Request

Image by mind on fire via Flickr

Note: I can’t sleep, I’m upset. After watching the news with my kids tonight, I needed to write this now, and not Friday. So, I will not post until Monday, despite what I wrote on The Middle, just 7 hour ago.

That’s right, call me a Fag. Call me Gay, Homo, Queer. There are lots of words, and they can get much uglier. They are just words, but words that kill, and words that need to change. Frankly, I’d be proud to stand up to those words and maybe we all should.

I could not sleep tonight because my thoughts keep going to the image of  Jamey Rodemeyer, a 14 year old boy that committed suicide this week, due in large part to anti-gay bullying. Fourteen years old; merely a baby, and yet he felt, in those last moments: that life was so bad, that death was the answer.  While there is always a way to deflect the blame and take it off of the issue of anti-gay attitudes, this boy felt that being dead was better than being called Gay/Fag/Homo, every day. That is sick; and I feel sick about it.

In an interview with CNN tonight, his older sister told Anderson Cooper  that she just hoped other kids would seek help, would reach out and find something other than suicide to solve their problems. She implored other teens to step up and do the right thing: reach out to someone who you know is hurting, who you know is being bullied. My heart broke, to see that girl say these words, shock still settled in her eyes, her face imploring people to do, what we should all do in the first place: be compassionate humans, who care for one another. In an appearance by the venerable Thich Naht Hahn recently, in Vancouver, I was deeply moved to hear him speak to the pain teens feel, that leads them to commit suicide. They are so unable to see the impermanence of the moment:  that this moment will pass, and the next, and that the pain we feel in these moments eventually passes with the moments. Jamey’s sister delivered this same message, in the shadow of her own loss.

This is not the first young person to kill themselves because of anti-gay bullying. The list is shamefully long and horrifying, in that it speaks to a problem that we all see in the news, we read about, and perhaps we discuss, but how often do we truly stand up and say: enough!  I am ashamed that I have felt this same helpless sadness each time one of these stories breaks; each time I discuss it with my own children; each time I hear whisperings of it in my own community; but then do not do more to take action.  Would I be complacent if it was my own sons or daughter? I hope not, I believe I wouldn’t, but why then do I, we, turn our heads when it is someone else’s child? Do we turn away, unconsciously hoping it isn’t contagious? Or, is it the “there but for the grace…” attitude, that makes us quickly close the door and keep this out?

Even an anonymous child like Jamey Rodemeyer (<see Jamey’s video), who I’d never heard of until today, should know that we care enough to look at this and stand up against the cruelty that lead him to take his life. Now that his beautiful face is seared in my brain, what should I do to help stop one more Jamey from feeling that this is an answer?  All you have to do is watch the videos of him, look at the pictures:  how is he any different than our own children, in his innocent wonder and sweet beauty?  I was struck by how lovely he was and how much he reminded me of my own children, in various shots:  holding some sea creature, in wonder; hugging his mom on the beach; hamming it up with a funny hat; sitting for his school picture. He is my son, my daughter. The only difference is place and circumstance. Even that is a tenuous thing. When a teen in our community committed suicide 2.5 years ago, and many spoke quietly of the bullying she experienced (even upon her death), we were paralyzed to do more than grieve and wait for the pain to pass. I think of her parents and sibling often, and know that their pain will never end.

When I think back to my own days in Jr. High and High School, I remember being vaguely aware that some of my classmates might be gay. It was a different time for sure, when AIDS and gay activism was really just beginning, or coming out of its own closet. Yet, we knew who was “different” who might be “that way.” Why didn’t it bother me?  I sensed that a few people I knew, some I was friends with, might be, but I don’t remember worrying about it or feeling threatened by it. If they were teased, I was unaware of it; and for that I am now sorry. I suppose, then, so many of us were in our own worlds, working out our own issues, as many teens today must still feel.  However, we didn’t have Facebook and MySpace and Google, and all the other sites that I am woefully un-hip to. Middle Man laughs at my lack of tech savvy, but some days, I wonder if I’m not better off. We were better off then, I believe, in that the bullies couldn’t enter your home, couldn’t enter your bedroom, your phone, your every waking activity. If you were bullied at school, you went home and they were not there, even if the anxiety and fear followed you.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not downplaying what people went through then. I have certainly heard in the years since, that people I knew in my youth were in fact harassed, and they could probably call me on the carpet here because that description is probably a sugar coated version of what they might have felt. However, I strongly believe that the age of constant connection, plugged in and turned on, 24/7 access to communication via cell phones and the internet, has made this problem that much worse. As Jamey’s mother, Tracy Rodemeyer said (paraphrasing:), in another time, Jamey might have had a break from school bullying, over the summer, but the bullies just followed him home, via the internet.

Jamey Rodemeyer (14);  Eric Mohat (17); Carl Walker-Hoover (11); Justin Aaberg (15); Brandon Bitner (14); Tyler Clemente (18); Raymond Chase (19); Samantha Johnson (13); Jordan Yener (14)… the list is painfully long, and these are not all of the names. These are all kids who committed suicide recently due to anti-gay bullying, a term coined “Bullycide,” and virtually all of them felt plagued by the bullying, beyond school, in text messages and on-line harassment. This list grows even longer when you include kids who committed bullycide for non-gay related reasons.  That list, interestingly, includes far more girls, who were called “whore, skank, slut, bitch, etc” until death seemed a better option, than those words. Watch the video clip  Bullycide in America, it is very powerful; listen to the song; click on these links and read their stories.

  

^ Carl Walker-Hoover         ^Samantha Johnson          ^Eric Mohat

So I come back to the issue of being Gay. What if I did say: call me gay?  Would those of you who know me change your views of me; would you treat me differently?  How would my world change in regards to my relationships with the people I care about? I would still be me: reasons to like and dislike me abound and those would be the same. But would new people have fuel to throw and how would that look or feel?  This thought keeps me awake tonight, as I grapple with how that young boy felt when he decided to take his life, just months after recording a video for the  It Gets Better Project (click this link and check them out!). I’ve seen those videos, I’ve been touched by them, and yet I never took the pledge and I never really stepped up, until now.

I think of my classmates R, J, B, R, A, P, and the friends I’ve had who have been gay and lesbian and feel some shame that I haven’t done more. They are living this each day and I wonder if each time one of these stories hits the airways, they see themselves at that age and count their blessing that they made it through? Such a raw issue, that must hit very close to home when you’ve traveled that road. These tragedies hit the news and I cry as I watch them. I read the stories and then they fade away… until the next one. Tonight, it’s keeping me up, it has me wondering how many more and what we do to stop this. Many have suggested that legislation needs to be passed to make bullying a true criminal offense and I wonder how it hasn’t already been done. To hear Barbara Bachman (and truly, I am not picking political battles, but there she is, front and center today) say that this is “not a Federal issue,” I wonder how can it not be!

In a week where Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell was finally repealed and Navy Lt. Gary Ross was finally free to marry his long time partner, Dan Swezy, in uniform, and gay and lesbian men and woman are now free to openly die for their country, (see Jon Stewart), we are faced with Jamey’s story as well.  How truly bitter sweet. How painful for gay men and woman, to celebrate one hard won victory, to face such a painful loss. And, I do believe that Jamey’s death is a loss to all of us, but particularly to the gay community, who has seen one more kid die at the hands of “Gay!  Fag! Homo! Queer!”

<— I snapped this today, as this story brewed in my head.  Amen.

What if we all stood up and were called that?  What if those words could lose their poison and be the mere words they should be? I would be proud to be called any one of those things, if that changed the picture. Until then, I am not sitting by and simply hitting “like” when my gay friends post tolerance based posts, that I agree with. I want to be the one making those posts and looking at what can be changed. I want to get off my ass and do more than care, from the safety of my bed, or this seat… tonight my bed didn’t feel so safe and for that I am vowing to make some changes. Until every person who loves someone is free to marry them and live whatever version of happily ever after they want; until all of our children who are figuring out their sexuality, feel safe to do so and look forward to a future that includes all the milestones and life choices that I had to choose from; until my gay friends feel safe to share their lives openly at work, in their communities, in this country; how can we continue to let each story fade and then act shocked when the next one comes?

I guess one night of missed sleep is a small sacrifice; tomorrow I will seek better solutions. How will I sleep tonight?  How will you?

Speak up, share your thoughts on this and leave a comment. I can take it.

If you enjoyed this article, please hit Like and/or use the Share button to pass it along. If you want to get the latest posts, Subscribe and you will get an email each time I post a new entry. You wont get any other mail. And if you’re new to this site, check out some of the older posts, by hitting the Archive button.

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The Middle, Soundbites From The UN

Posted on September 21, 2011 by Dawn Quyle Landau

Note:   Even though I just posted yesterday, my goal is to post Mon, Wed. and  late Fri., from now on. Two longer ones and one short one on Wed. called The Middle.  I want to stick with that plan.

This has been an all around International few weeks in our house, having taken in two exchange students, with two day’s notice. In these early days, while we all get to know each other, things are so much more amusing and interesting, for everyone involved.  China is a 16 yr old boy, Denmark is a 16 yr old girl, US/Little Man, is our biological child. He’s 15.  Together, they make up the UN.  Here are some sound bites and glimpses:

China had only seen snow once before and never played in it. A trip up to Mt Baker was a huge hit for all three, plus Little Man’s BFF, who lives with us much of the time. China could not get enough of it; proved very good at snow balls; and in the end, has decided that maybe he would like to take skiing lessons this winter. (permission to post his pic granted)

China is very competent in advanced maths, and actually finds only two challenges here:  1) The language- word problems and terms that make no sense in English for him.   2) In China, they are not permitted to use a calculator for anything. He finds using one difficult. (ha!).

Denmark was having trouble with some math problems. US is currently in Geometry; China is in Pre-Calculus; Denmark is in Algebra I.  US offered to help, as he had this class last year. So, US (in a shirt from Finland) explained the terms to China, who then went on line to have it all translated from Chinese in to Danish, to help Denmark finish her homework. It was all Russian to me!  The three were very funny with their multi-national attempts to solve an Algebra problem.

Denmark is having a hard time with her math teacher, I assured her that it is not her English. Everyone has a hard time with this math teacher.

Food is a BIG deal these days. China is having a particularly hard time with the food we eat. None of it is familiar to him; none of it is spicy enough (I’m a wimp; he’s a warrior); he isn’t accustomed to fresh vegetables un-cooked; and many things I serve, while pretty impressive here, would not go over well in China, apparently. He sniffs everything I prepare and watches warily, until he’s tasted it. Then, he photographs the ones he likes. Most of the winners are “Asian” but he thinks he “could get used to noodles with red sauce”  (spaghetti).

  

( ^ spaghetti, soup with dumplings,  fried rice with vegetables and pan fried dumplings)

Denmark went on line to see if she can get good Danish rugbroed or ryebread . It was $90 for 3 loaves, with shipping. I told her she’d need to live with American bread options, or learn to bake.

China was amazed by the Bellingham Traverse.  “Dad” was competing in the solo field: stud muffin.  China loved the community enthusiasm and mood and shared that “in China, people would never have a race just for fun. They are working too hard.”

Denmark thought it was odd that Americans go biking in Bee costumes. “Um, those are racers,” I told her.

China brought a new brand of Lays to us from China. It was not a hit with any of us, but China can eat lemons without making funny faces. The label looked Spanish to me.

Some nights, we all eat with chop sticks, while China practices using his fork and knife. Denmark and I think this could be a very good diet, as we can’t get most of the food to our mouths!  The Chopstick Diet.

A friend’s dad, from Germany, brought me candy this week. We were all happy to welcome Germany to the table, but negotiations broke down when the “Motherland” didn’t want to share. Stalemate. Negotiations currently stalled. Germany in hiding.

China tells us that school is very different here. There he goes from 7:45 AM until 10:30 PM, with a 2 hr break for food and study.  If  “one doesn’t do well in school, they might die.” We did not ask him to elaborate, but we’re pretty sure why China is pulling ahead of the US in virtually everything!

Interesting dialogue at dinner over Tibet and China. We got through it without a break down in relations.

Fun group field trip to local Asian Market. We all agreed on dumplings; China bought canned Eel, which was ok, but not a big hit; and we decided to pass on the big bag of MSG, when China learned that it gives “Dad” headaches. He informed us that “all Chinese love MSG.”

At dinner, we raise our glasses and say:  “Skoal!” (Denmark) “Cheers!” (US) “L’chaim!” (Israel) “Ganbei!” (China) and “Cin Cin!” (there is no Irish cheers, so I went with Italy)

Denmark was very excited when I found good muesli… granola. Otherwise, she is happy with US meals.

   <——-I made SIX cups of (dried) rice this week; this is what’s left:

China:  “Dad, could you you help me with this please?  Dad? Could you help me with this please?  Dad! Could you help me with this?”        Motherland: “Hubby, you are the only dad in the kitchen. It shouldn’t need translating!”

Motherland: “China, I heard that you must try each new food 7 x for your taste buds to adjust to new flavors in a completely new culture.” (I did hear this, from another mom)     China: “Ok ma, I will try. But I think that even with 70 tries, I will not like salad.”

So far, we have not needed Switzerland.

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Posted in Daily Observations, Humor, Mothers, Musings, My world, Parenting, Teens | Tagged , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

The Zen of going from Snarky to Bliss…

Posted on September 20, 2011 by Dawn Quyle Landau

Pinch me, but this looks like a good day!  Strangely, it didn’t start out that way, but it’s turned around in the blink of an eye (two hours to be specific). When my alarm went off at the unGodly hour of 6:15, which may seem fine to some of you, but shocks me every day, being more of an night owl than a morning girl, I felt a bit grumpy. No reason, other than the alarm at that point. It’s not like anything unpleasant happened from point A (my bed) to point C (the kitchen), but I just arrived at point C a bit grumpy. But then, there were three teens in various stages of  ‘not really ready for school yet’ and my grump got “ier.”  I came up ready to take on China and the US/Little Man in regards to showers: take them! So I wrote a big note that says “Showers, Today!” and taped it to their lockers. Teen boys don’t want to be told to shower, apparently, but they also seem to avoid showers until the rest of us can’t take it anymore. I happen to have it on good authority that this is happening in households all over America (involving a few girls as well)… and now, I suspect China has a problem as well. Denmark comes up smelling good every morning. She smiled smugly from the counter, way ahead of the boys in morning readiness.

Getting that out of the way, I took note of the general lack of readiness combined with slow movement, and in short order, I was annoyed that they all seemed to be paralyzed over what to bring for lunch. Instead, they were all planning to buy lunch AGAIN.  In fairness, I only pay for one of those teen’s lunch, but I have filled our house with options, because they all told me emphatically, at the start of school, that they did not want to pay for school lunches, and would need food options on hand. So, I’ve spent time and money buying ham, fried chicken, breads (for various nations), noodles, several fresh fruit options, lunch boxes, chips, and all kinds of delights, packaged for kids who bring their lunches… only to see each of them walk out without their lunch boxes for two straight weeks!

Being a tad grumpier version of myself than I was at point A, I snarked something about the waste of food, the laziness involved in not just making a simple lunch and the inequity of a middle aged person like myself needing to get up to say these things in the morning, when a certain Multi-National team should be able to problem solve this together (Cue Charlie Brown adult speak). Denmark looked slightly amused by my snarkiness and slightly sanctimonious, as she clearly felt the (male) colleagues representing China and the US were the problem, not her, though I noted that she had no lunch prepared either. China was immediately confused and anxious that “ma” seemed to be glowering, but asking me several questions about which tupperware lid fit the dish in his hand, did not help my growing grumpy. “Look. In. The. Drawer!”  US became a tad rude, because, as my biological child, he felt entitled to be disrespectful and surly on behalf of the group. He threw a few “we just woke ups,” “we don’t have time in the mornings,” (hello, get up earlier!), “it’s not that easy” and a “the stupid bus is coming 5 minutes earlier!” just to make his point logistically sound. Denmark rolled her eyes and caught my annoyed grimace, as China asked for the umpteenth time if he could eat the chicken I bought for lunches.  Note, she was still sitting at the counter, not making lunch. I think that’s when I said, a tad louder than they anticipated: “yeah, I’m grumpy too and I wouldn’t even need to be up, if people knew how to take care of themselves.”

Way to silence the UN.  “Umm, oh oh, ma’s cranky, now what do we do!” was written all over China’s face, Denmark looked even more amused, but got up and put together a quick lunch and US sulked to the toaster to get his breakfast going, as we all looked at the clock and realized the bus was probably five minutes out, if it was in fact coming five minutes early.  US and Denmark had a brief debate over what time the bus would arrive as the District sent a vague message to all households that  some bus routes would be running earlier, due to new riders. US was “certain” that these effects, IF there were going to be any, would not happen until tomorrow and Denmark was “certain” that they went into effect today. US snarked, quite clearly snarked, a response to Denmark and then quickly added, “sorry, I’m just a little grumpy this morning.”  (Points for well time, if cranky apology).  “Sounds like we all are a wee bit grumpy today,” I added. They continued the debate until the now increasingly unloveable ma said: “It doesn’t really matter. You can each go out whenever you want, but know this: if you miss the bus, you ride a bike to school today. So it will only matter who’s right if one of you, on the bus,  passes the other on a bike.”  Silence.

Suddenly lunches were made; the nations came together in their resolution that ma should not be tangled with on grumpy mornings and they headed out, on Denmark’s bus schedule, as US would rather die than ride his bike to school. Ahhh. I made my latte and noticed, finally, that my sweet dog Luke was still waiting for a proper greeting. I had to smile as I heard the bus go by five minutes later than usual and could almost hear US call out to Denmark, across the bus: “See!  I told you!  We didn’t need to be out here so early!” And I could see Denmark roll her eyes and smile.

It looked like maybe it was turning around? They were gone and I could relax a littlle… Until, hubby (who seems to be sleeping in later than me most morning these days!) came up and wanted to discuss new furniture options (at 7:f’ing20 in the morning?) and felt the need to correct the amount of ground coffee I had in the scooper:  “You need a little less than that. I’ve noticed that when you put too much in it spills out and the machine doesn’t work as well.”  (Cue Charlie Brown adult speak). I made my latte (no grounds spilled, for the record) and shuffled to my computer in my space, the dining room, away from his space, letting him know as I departed, that I was getting a “little grump… ier.”  He glowered through the wall, I could feel it.

Eventually, he left for work and I sat down and took in some glorious silence.  And some good things began to happen. Two friends, who live far away, were on line and I got to (silently) “chat” with them for a while. It was clever banter, sprinkled with sarcasm that I need, humor and a no nonsense approach to any whining I might have been compelled to do, at that point. It brought me right around and made me smile.  Thank you friend. Then, I looked up and there it was:  the sun cutting through the fog and sending golden rays through the evergreens around our house. I ran and got my camera and went out in my pjs to capture it, and I came back and started this post. There it was, the inspiration to write. Long, glorious exhale.  ( ^^ View from the front of the house and of the water, socked  in with fog –>)

I was clipping away on the post when I noted that it was 9:12 and yoga begins at 9:30; perhaps I’ll skip and get this done; I’m in my groove. Nope, I had vowed I was going this week and I ran down, threw on tights and tank and was out the door in five minutes flat. The drive was gorgeous, as I watched the fog break over the water and the blue sky pushing in. Pink’s Sober was playing and it just speaks to where I’m at lately. (Ok, pause:  No, I am not revealing a substance abuse problem here, it’s a metaphorical thing. The lyrics fit my current travels perfectly.  And, I sing Pink, loud and well… especially in Vegas… so it added to my diminishing grump and added to my rising bliss).

I arrived at yoga before the start of class but not before 40 other people. The “Back to School” crowd has arrived and all those people who think they’ll try yoga, or want to start a new routine had filled every space in the room, including MY space in the back corner. But, bliss had begun to soak in and I just smiled and chose a spot, front and center. Not where I live to be, but at least I was there.  As I took my shoes off to set up my mat and get ready, I looked down and realized that I’d grabbed two shoes of different colors. Principessa makes the point that I don’t need two pair (let alone more) of the same shoes, in different colors and for this one moment, she had a point. Generally, I figure that’s none of her business, but that’s another day, another argument. Instead, some other woman stepped up beside me and said: “Wow, that’s so cute and creative, the two colors! I wouldn’t have the courage to pull that off.”  Ha!  I went in and spread out my mat, with a bigger “shit eating grin.”

The heat was nice for a change. My tights and tank felt like a second skin and the air was warm enough to kiss the skin but not overwhelm. That would change as we all started to really move, but it worked at the start.  And there I was, on the floor and I just felt so good!    I felt removed from things and grounded, yet totally inspired by every color and sensation I had. The light from the window was beautiful and the peek of blue sky inspiring. Bring on that sun! The people moving around me added to my energy, instead of distracting from it. Of note, hot yoga guy was not there, but I’m pretty sure I could have done it even if he’d been there, today. I just felt strong.   I took on each advanced pose, and while I may not have looked like Amy doing it, I did them. I breathed through Dying Warrior (the name alone sent many to Child’s Pose) and I felt that out of body zing that comes from really being tuned in and connected to the experiences you have, yet detached from the outcomes. As I lay on my back, the sheets across the ceiling and the colors dancing off the walls just made me want to cry, for the simplistic beauty of it. At one point, I saw a fine piece of lint floating down through the beams from the window and I followed it all the way down, as I held Pigeon Pose. Oh to capture that with my camera.  (All this lovin’, coupled with the Pink song, is probably fueling more rumors of my addiction, but alas, it was just me being “hippie”).

   

  

(My feet, the room, Ganesha, the ceiling, window, Amy’s mat with singing bowl)

Driving home, I put the windows down, sang some more Pink and came home feeling stronger and more inspired:  I will accomplish things today; I can feel it. Grumpy is gone and Bliss has filled the space.  And there, when I got home, as the reminder that we all need sometimes, was the note to take a shower… sweaty mom needs one now too!  A note written in a totally different frame of mind, but reminding me that  things shift and change, in either direction.  I’m prepared to balance both now. I’ve worked my body and my mind and the rest of the day is open for interpretation. Bring it on!

What moves you?  What turns around a bad day and makes it a kick ass splendid one?  Leave a comment and share your thoughts.

If you enjoyed this article, please hit Like and/or use the Share button to pass it along. If you want to get the latest posts, Subscribe and you will get an email each time I post a new entry. You wont get any other mail. And if you’re new to this site, check out some of the older posts, by hitting the Archive button.

Posted in Beauty, Daily Observations, Musings, My world, Parenting, Women's issues, Yoga | Tagged , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Ode to Birthdays Missed…

Posted on September 16, 2011 by Dawn Quyle Landau

(September 16th)

Today is my mother’s 68th Birthday.  She lives in a nursing home near me and is in the final, agonizing stages of Huntington’s Disease. When I called her, to wish her happy birthday, she was really happy.  She “didn’t remember it was (her) birthday, but she was glad to hear (my) voice.” She’s been in the nursing home since she was 64 and has been unable to fully care for herself for nearly 6 years now. That is far too young to be living like this, but then, there is nothing fair about Huntington’s Disease. It’s a heartless, kick you in the head, genetic disease (called by many scientists “The most devastating genetic disease known”), that does not discriminate and is devastating for everyone involved. If you have the gene:  you will get the disease, you will get sick and you will die a horrible death. There are no maybes. All of your children, will have a 50/50 chance of getting it as well. Those are odds that would be much more appealing with say, the lottery. We’d all line up for that ticket!  There are no silver linings here, no bright side. Sadly, in my family, we have not had good numbers. My grandmother died of HD; my aunt (mom’s younger sister) died at 49 of it, three years ago; my mother is in the final stages; my younger sister has it and we believe my brother has it. I do not. There is reason to suspect that my great-grandmother and great-uncle had it as well, but it was only diagnosed in our family, when my grandmother, a social dynamo in the community where I grew up, started displaying signs that she had a drinking problem. It was Huntingtons, but is often mis-interpreted as alcoholism, because HD patient frequently appear drunk.  She lost her job and some friends, before we all knew what it was.

It has loomed like a dark shadow over us since we got that news. While I get it when people say “you’re so lucky you don’t have it,” it doesn’t always feel or look that way from where I’m sitting. I will not get HD and my children are safe from it (the greatest blessing), but I have watched two people I loved, deeply, die; I am watching my mother wither and disappear daily; I will lose my sister, who I love dearly; I’ll lose my brother, and I will be left to worry alongside my incredible nieces and nephews as they face the decision to get tested (spin that roulette wheel), and grieve for their parents. I will be the keeper of memories. The average age of death from HD is 51-57. Lucky? I guess I am lucky that I’ve had my mother and had  grandmother longer than that, but some days, frankly, that doesn’t feel so lucky either. Sitting with my mom and repeating each question, each thought and not knowing which days she gets it;  which days she can’t remember that she has a grandson named Middle Man (we use his real name with her!); which days (recently) when she is anxiously waiting for a helicopter to arrive and which days she will tell me she misses me and would like to go out, something that happens less and less. Which days will I feel compassion and handle this well, and with grace, and which days will I resent her for not answering or get frustrated that she can’t buckle her seat belt and I have to get out and help her.

My mom was 19 when she had me, an age that now seems younger than I can actually imagine, for having a child. My daughter is 21 and I can no more imagine her a mother than I could imagine me a grandmother.  In 1963 it wasn’t that unusual, but mom was still young… considering that many of her peers were getting involved in the Civil Rights Movement, becoming hippies or just watching the world change. My mom fell in love with a handsome boy: “wearing a beautiful camel colored sweater, loafers and standing across the bar from (her),” got pregnant, dropped out of college and started her life as a young mother.  In a life that, frankly, has had an awful lot of tragedies and unfair sadness, she once told me that meeting my father and having me was one of the happiest times of her life. Pictures from that time show two very young people, with an orange haired little girl, who was always surrounded by people who loved her. My parents look happy in those pictures, and for a while they were.  (My mother, very pregnant with my sister; my dad, in a camel colored sweater; my grandparents and aunt, and my brother with balloons. Circa 1968. My mother was 25.—>)

That didn’t last however, and my mother was a widow by 28, with three small children… me being the oldest, at ten. She worked hard to make her life one that she thought had meaning, though that was defined by things that I felt then, and feel even more now, were neither tangible nor affirming. She wanted the nice car, the fancy trips and things… it meant something to her: that she’d arrived or was successful. But those things were often fleeting and when lost, left her feeling unfulfilled and worthless. She wasn’t worthless, but she seemed to chase an image that didn’t mirror reality.  In the small town where I grew up, my mom felt that looking well-off meant something, while early on I realized that it only made you look like you didn’t fit in. She didn’t fit in but she just kept spinning her (sleek Black Thunderbird) wheels. She chased after an illusive something that would make her feel like she was worth noticing, that she was better than her true finances and means were.  As a kid, I watched my single mom with a fancy car, her own business (that she could barely hold on to) and stylish clothes that were better suited to a city, in a town where large families with middle class values prevailed.  Silently, I wished we could just blend in. Her sadness, her drive to be shiny and different, and her palpable inability to be happy were a mystery to me, one that I wanted to solve … and then fix.

That was my role as oldest child: my mother’s partner, other parent to my siblings, fixer of all things. It’s taken me a very long time (way too f’ing long) to figure out that not all things can or should be fixed and that I can’t always be the one to do it anyway. As a kid however, I just wanted to see my mom happy, really happy. Later, I would truly understand the depths of her struggle and that the scars from her childhood and youth, followed her and left her feeling unlovable, helpless and hopeless sometimes, but as a kid, I just wanted to make it better and see her smile. And let me paint this picture with all the colors that apply; it wasn’t all grays and blacks. Mom could also be vibrantly full of reds, blues, greens and yellows. My mom had a wicked sense of humor and had a silly and playful side that made her the life of many of our (extended) family gatherings. She was a beautiful dancer and definitely passed on her love of music to all three of her children. I can still remember hearing the Woodstock album, on an old record player, when I was only nine. She loved Barbara Streisand, Jane Oliver (one of her favorite songs, appropriately), especially drawn to those beautifully sad songs that she probably connected to because she felt that way herself. I didn’t know that then, but I knew that my mother was always listening to music. For a while, she would play the piano for us and I would sit there listening, rapt that my mother could make such stirring music. When my grandmother gave away the piano, I never heard her play again, nor did she express an interest.

She dressed to the nines where ever she went, and she made us do the same. I longed to wear Levi’s straight leg chords, like all the other girls, but she insisted on gauchos and outfits that I thought were better suited to the models in the magazines she read. When she finally let me buy my first pair of powder blue Levis, I walked in stiffly, the tight chords rubbing together, and she said: “hmm, those look comfortable.”  They were horrible, but I wore them just to prove her wrong. They got softer, with about 15 washes. She became a hairdresser and we had every new and conceivable hair cut or style before anyone else. Bouffants for Christmas and pixies when every other girl had long hair. My bright red hair would be twisted, shagged and “ratted” in to all kinds of shapes, and my brother, sister and I thought she was so glamorous for being ahead of the local curves… until we were teens, and then we hated it.  Her business, Salon D’Carole (which she thought was elegantly French sounding) was wiped out in the Blizzard of 1978 (<–check out this video), and she soon gave up on our small town and moved with my brother and sister, to Florida. I was a Junior in high school and stayed behind, to break free and stay near my boyfriend, if truth be told.

(<– My sister, Mom and me. Dressed for a wedding, 1986)

She married again, briefly, when I was in Graduate school, but he was a jerk and she was a fool; it didn’t work out. He was very wealthy, and she loved him, but I think that ever-illusive desire to really “make it” blinded her to all his short-comings. Once again, she had chased and fallen into the trap of looking happy (things) versus being happy, for real. Aside from those few years of marriage, she has spent most of her life single. There are so many crooked roads my Mom traveled down, and as I got older and eventually sought a very different outcome for myself and my family, I vacillated between adoration; enmeshment; distance; resentment; anger; righteous indignation; hopefulness; judgement, and eventually, when she was diagnosed with Huntington’s 12 years ago, acceptance: that I would never really see her content and I would never really get to resolve and untangle the enormous ball of emotion that ties us together. (Photo: Just after her diagnosis, Halloween with Principessa, in disguise; Middle Man and Little Man– they adored her!)

She has slipped away from me, from us, in bits and pieces. Her movements are a tipsy turvy crap shoot.  When will she break another rib, her back, her hip again? This month alone, it has been three broken ribs, head lacerations, leg and arm injuries and numerous painful bruises and “skin tears.”  My sister spent a couple of years living in the same apartment complex, checking in daily and panicking when mom didn’t answer her phone. It was a broken back that landed her in assisted living, finally. Mom’s ability to communicate has slowly disappeared, to the point where most of our phone calls involve me talking into the phone, and occasionally asking her if she’s still there. Our visits are generally her staring at me/us, while I try to manage my frustration and sadness in losing her right before my eyes.

She has become a hugger, as the illness progresses. When we greet her, she wraps her rigid arms around our necks, pulls us close and holds on for life. She often plants wet, loud kisses on our heads or cheeks, that make my kids cringe. They roll their eyes at me as she holds tight, but they know it is the only thing she can still do to tell us she loves us, and they love her back. (<–Mom hugging Little Man, a few years ago, before she was wheel chair bound)  This is not something she did before the illness, but now you have to work to get free of the those hugs.  Some days I linger a bit longer, but often it is hard not to feel a little suffocated, as if I might catch the disease, or my emotions might be squeezed to the surface.  I am aware that lots of emotions are still there, pushed down, and I wonder what will happen when she finally dies and they make their way up. I am working to tame them now, in the hopes that I don’t drown when they bubble up later. Other times, I can see her looking at me and whether or not I just imagine it, I believe I can see her still in there.  I may be having an argument with one of my children, or she’ll see me upset, and I can feel her eyes bore into me, as if she is stroking my hair, like she did when I was a teenager and didn’t get asked to dance. Her face still frozen by the HD, but her eyes talking to me.

Once a year, at Christmas, when she agrees to stay over, I wait until she is sleeping and I go to her bedside. When she is sound asleep, her face relaxes and the chorea and tension that the HD brings to her while awake, melts away, and I see my mother: whole and at peace, there before me. I imagine her opening her eyes and talking to me. I want to hold on to that moment as long as possible, knowing that when she actually opens her eyes, she will be gone to me again. It is always brief, but so sweet, when I can see my mother and not her illness.

So today is her birthday. I took her shopping a couple of weeks ago and bought her new clothes. She no longer cares about things, an irony that is not lost on me.  The vain woman she once was, who cared about each label and piece of jewelry, each detail, has been replaced by one that often looks like a harried, homeless women: with food stains on her outfits, her hair sticking up and her face confused and lost.  She is drawn to the same outfits over and over, regardless of whether there are cleaner, nicer items in her closet.  I told her that we would throw out all of the really stained items and she would wear these new ones, and she agreed. So today, I put name tags on each of the things we bought, so that they don’t inadvertently disappear in other nursing home residents’ rooms.  These are simple clothes, bought for comfort and easy on and off. She wants to dress herself still, but it is very hard, and often leads to falls. Long gone are the expensive designer names and perfect hair and make up, but now she’ll look clean for a while.  I still take her, once a month, for a manicure and pedicure but while she likes her nails to look good, it is more for function now: she needs them short, so she doesn’t scratch her fragile, paper-thin skin.  I’ll head over early, to help her put on one of her new outfits and make sure her hair looks nice, for her birthday dinner out.

In this final stage, I have let go of most of the previously unresolved feelings. I am not looking for her to own that she wasn’t really there for me when I was young. I don’t judge her the way I did for so long, or try to work it all out. I see her for what she is: a 68 year old woman who did the best she could, given the true limitations she had. Her life was not easy, and she was barely an adult when she became a mother. That made for lots of possible mistakes, and plenty were made.  That was a long time ago. I can’t truthfully say that I don’t still have days when I wish it was all different or resent that it’s not, but mostly I see her for where she is now and I feel love, compassion, release from the past and enormous empathy, for her.  My sister and I, and our families are all she  has. My brother is far away and unable to be here, for many complex reasons. Her only sibling, her brother, has not called in ten years and they did not speak for several years before that. She didn’t know it was her birthday when she woke up this morning, but she will when we take her out and sing to her. She doesn’t care about material things anymore, so for my gift tonight: I will let her hug me, for as long as she needs to.

    Happy Birthday Mom!  (<—On her 68th Birthday. The waiter bought her a 2nd  drink and it made her very happy!  And I took all those old, crappy clothes away and filled her closet with the new ones.)

Posted in Daily Observations, Mothers, Musings, Parenting, Women's issues | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 15 Comments

The Middle: Head To Your First Period Class!

Posted on September 14, 2011 by Dawn Quyle Landau

Note:  I’ve gotten numerous requests for more posts (a positive thing, and thanks to those who’ve asked), but I’ve been trying to figure out how to best make that happen and not lose my mojo here. As I’ve said before: my Big Picture (BP) goal is to focus on my novel right now and get it ready for an agent/publisher to see and finally figure out, once and for all, if I can get it published. The blog, has turned in to a wonderful, “come hither” temptress that calls to me each day and teases me to punch out something about the things that are currently accruing on my: Blog Posts List. It’s exciting to be writing this much, and the instant feedback and gratification of posting the blog is fun and motivating. However, each post takes anywhere from 2 hrs to 2 days to write, depending on the topic and where I’m at… so three longer posts per week, could become a real time suck, that keeps me away from that BP.  So, I’ve set a new goal:  I will produce 2 longer posts per week (which has been my average thus far) and will consistently post a shorter post, each Wednesday, called The Middle. These will be on various subjects, but brief (a challenge for me!) observations or thoughts.  That should allow for daily efforts to edit the manuscript, work on the blog posts and still make sure there’s milk and essentials in the frig.  We’ll see how this goes…

Head to Your First Period Class:

Just came back from “Parent-Teacher night” at my son’s school. I should say: my son’s and my two foreign exchange students’ school.  We didn’t plan to have any exchange students this year, and how this occurred,  transpired over 48 hours. We got an urgent call; we met as a family to discuss it; agreed to “welcome” two kids in “urgent need” (theoretically, a temporary arrangement) and two and a half weeks later I am back to three kids at home. The nest barely got cool. Admittedly, these weeks have been wonderful, and they are now mine, as it would be very hard to turn either child over to another family at this point. For the sake of continuing privacy, I will call them China and Denmark. China is a 16 year old boy and Denmark is a 16 year old girl. China is struggling with English and is clearly over-whelmed by all the enormous cultural changes, and trying to adjust to not having to go to school for 15 (yes, fifteen!) hours a day. That is actually a thing he is trying to work on: not studying so much!  Denmark’s English is excellent; she is savvy and sharp; she loves American humor and sarcasm (thank God!) and is mostly missing good Rye bread. Not the rye bread you might imagine, but a heavenly bread that Danes make like no other… I miss it too. We agreed we’ll share my final loaf (hand delivered from Denmark by dear friends, a while ago) for Christmas.

So I went to the high school tonight to meet EIGHTEEN teachers!  (<–By the way: just try and figure out that bell schedule. English, Chinese or Danish, it’s a bitch.) Of course hubby was out of town, over night, for meetings–which involved an awesome restaurant in Seattle, lots of wine and a nice hotel… free of all kids– while I ran from room to room introducing myself, checking in and explaining the situations of each of “my kids.”  I went with all three schedules printed out; I organized my time so that I could speak with the necessary teachers and I tried to at least touch base briefly with all of them. From past experience, I knew that two were not worth my time, and several I was very grateful to see or meet!  For the first time in ages, Little Man has AWESOME teachers: ones that are passionate, devoted, straight forward and interested in seeing my boy succeed. With his learning issues and ADHD that is a tall order, but these amazing teachers warmed my heart with their assurances and insights. Sniffle, sniffle.

I felt the same anxiety that I imagine many students (especially foreign students?) feel trying to find all the class rooms, in the odd labyrinth that someone thought was a good idea in 1966, when the school was built. I felt over-whelmed as they laid out the endless assignments, due dates and expectations for this coming year and I noticed all the things my children must see each day, and wondered how they feel when they see some of it: posters that various teachers choose to display; slogans on the board or walls, long lists on white dry erase boards (there are no chalk boards today); family pictures displayed; school spirit posters in halls… all of it. It takes me back and turns me inside out, all at once.

The English teacher that Little Man and China both have, spoke so fast and so “highfalutin'” that I was confused in minutes, not sure I could pass the class and totally exhausted when I left. I came home and asked China what he hears and feels when she is talking and he admitted, with his sheepish grin, that he can not understand “MOST of what teacher says.” I promptly wrote a note to his counselor and suggested a change. We laughed as we realized this will be his 5th schedule change, as he tries to find a comfortable fit between his actual abilities and what he can understand when those subjects are in English (ie: the kid can do AP Calculus, easily, but can NOT understand the English math terms and was spending hours just translating. Now he’s in Pre-Calc). At the end of this fast and furious night, racing from hall to hall and teacher to teacher, the most important thing I came away with was the sense that this is really tough:  High School.  Remembering it through the somewhat rosy lenses of old friends and “good old days memories,” I forget sometimes how hard it was to keep up with the assignments and demands of school, knowing that it was all leading me toward an even bigger challenge: college and “real life.”  Tonight I came home with a bigger dose of empathy and compassion for all three of my kids (as well as the two already in the college trenches) and the realization that they need as much support as I can offer. Guess I learned something at school today.

Posted in Daily Observations, Foreign exchange students, Humor, Mothers, Musings | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

Me, in the Chord of…

Posted on September 11, 2011 by Dawn Quyle Landau

Play me a song, and I’ll sing it back for you. I remember songs, lyrics, tunes… they haunt me, chase me, comfort and exalt me, they define me.  As a little girl, I would sing the songs I heard on the radio, after hearing them 2-3 times, or long before I really knew what most of those lyrics meant. When I look back on my life, there is music in every scene. There are songs that shimmer and shine throughout my life. There are so many things that I could give up, but don’t take my music.

I remember holding my pink parasol at the Japanese gardens in San Francisco, when I was four or five years old. I went with my father and paternal grandparents. Somewhere, there is a photo of me in a yellow dress with the pink umbrella, standing near a lilly pond, “posing” as young girls do, believing they are princesses. I sang “Hey there Georgie Girl” and Petula Clark’s “Downtown“…  I too was fancy free and oh so cool, downtown.  When I was young and missing my father, after my parents separated, Peter, Paul and Mary soothed me and sent me to sleep believing that all would be well and our family would be whole again. To the sounds of “500 Miles and Leaving on a Jet Plane” I would drift off, hoping to see it all turn around. When that didn’t happen, PP&M kept me company any way; I knew I was safe with them.

How did Jim Croce know that all I wanted was “Time in a Bottle,” when I was ten and grieving the loss of my father, who was killed in an accident. To Jim’s mournful voice,  I realized that my family would never be whole again. I sang it over and over, hoping to make the words true. The video to the song, made long before special effects and slick technology, is poetry. It’s also ironic, given that Jim Croce died not long after recording that song, a young man with a family, like my father. I imagine his child watches that video too and feels the poignancy I feel when I first saw it.  There is no doubt that there have been heart breaking songs throughout time, which speak to the musician’s thoughts, pain or joy… but some times, those songs seem like they were written just for me, when I needed them most.

Then there are all of the happy, dance ’til my feet hurt and sweat makes my hair slick songs. There are the “remember when we…” songs:  Michael Jackson singing Rock With You every time  I walked in to Ronnie Shones’ General Store in my home town of Scituate, MA, as  a Jr. in High School. When I fell in love for the first time, with the boy who worked there (or, I finally noticed that he liked me!), that had to be “our song.”  The Doors pounding Break on Through, as we partied at J’s house, when her mom was away. Could Jim Morrison have been more sexy? Did I know what sexy really was then? The way he gyrated and growled sure looked like it to my 17 year old brain. Driving in a red convertible to Lake Tahoe, just after graduation from high school, with my good friend Kelly, as Cindy Lauper sang Girls Just Wanna Have Fun; that’s all we wanted to do! In that car, in those bikinis, with that song blaring out: weha had the world by the balls! Two years later, a sophomore in college, I heard  Midnight Oil sing US Forces, the first time I left home for real and traveled to Australia for three months. I had no idea that not everyone loved Americans, but Midnight Oil told me why in that song. They came back a few years later when I was on fire over indigenous peoples and made us all wonder how we could “dance when our earth is turning and Beds Are Burning.”  I came home with The Cure, Midnight Oil and Tears for Fears, groups that had not broken out in the US yet and I’ve held on to them, as they never fail to nail the songs that still make me sing out loud and dance around my kitchen.

When I got married, we may have played My Sunny Valentine at our wedding, but my husband and I knew that  U2’s With or Without You was and always would be “our song.”  Not the song most love struck people would choose, but it’s lyrics still apply and we always stop to dance to it. Principessa would stop whatever she was doing, each time R.E.M sang Losing My Religion, to move her sweet two year body in her unique style. It was my favorite song at the time, and she is still (more) her mama’s girl when it comes to music! Just yesterday, I heard Enya’s Caribbean Blue and tears sprang to my eyes remembering holding Middle Man as a baby and dancing around our tiny Chicago apartment. He would giggle and coo and nestle his baby face into my neck, his breath still rich with the smell of breast milk and that indescribable goodness that only babies have.  My beautiful baby boy is now a nearly grown, beautiful man, but oh to have one more of those dances with him. I refused to enter the hospital, as Little Man, ten days late, pounded my stomach and I doubled over with contractions. I wanted to hear Ripple one more time, to stay calm and centered for his arrival. I sang it through gritted teeth and then then waddled in. Once he was here, Little Man was a Talking Heads boy and he would bounce and rock to pretty much any song they sang. Today, he still loves This Must Be The Place, and while David Byrnes is just plain electric to watch, I will never tire of listening to that song. It’s meaning has changed as I have. While I first heard Cat’s in the Cradle in high school, I didn’t really understand it until I became a parent. Now, there are days when it brings me back to what really matters.

Four years ago, when my 49 yr old aunt Pam– who was like my big sister growing up, only five years older than me– died “suddenly” of the Huntington’s Disease that chases my family, after only eight months from diagnosis to death, and then two weeks later, my 43 year old cousin John– who I was mad about for most of my youth–  was killed in a plane crash and then a colleague and wonderful doctor we knew died in an accident only two months after the other two deaths… only Peter Gabriel’s I Grieve spoke clearly to me. I was shaken to the core and I played that song over and over and over again, until the hardest part passed.  I still come back to it when I need to, but it isn’t as raw and powerful as it was in those first days and weeks. Watching this video now, on the eve of 9/11, is potent. I didn’t know that Peter Gabriel wrote this in response to 9/11 and performed it on the one year anniversary, until I found the video tonight. This man sings what the entire nation felt.

“Precious and fragile things, need special handling.”  This has and always will be true, but now I really get it.  I play it to remind me of that fact and I sing it differently, than I did when it just seemed like a good dance song. Lately, Arcade Fire’s The Suburbs sums up so many things I feel at this stage in life, and the entire “album” moves me deeply. I started singing my songs when they were on 45’s and albums, then CDs, and now I can simply download them. But singing the songs is still what I do most when I am driving my car, in the shower, walking by the lake or in the woods, cooking dinner… every day.  Music is always with me. I listen to the lyrics and melodies, the grinds and the lullabies and I am still moved. I am still grounded. I still seek the songs that speak to me and about me, or that touch me for some inexplicable reason. And I play them, over and over.

What are the songs that move you, good or bad? Or is music just back ground for you? Tell me what you think. If you enjoyed this article, please hit Like and/or use the Share button to pass it along. If you want to get the latest posts, Subscribe and you will get an email each time I post a new entry. You wont get any other mail. And if you’re new to this site, check out some of the older posts, by hitting the Archive button.

Note:  I’ve found myself Googling songs a lot recently, to see the videos. Without thinking much about it, this post began to write itself… not the post I’d been planning, but it pushed it’s way to the front of the line. Have some fun here and click on the links (colored words for you non-techies) and you can watch these videos too, or in some cases just enjoy some neat stuff. The Jim Croce and Cat Stevens videos are bound to make some of you misty, bringing forth those sweet baby thoughts. The Peter Gabriel video stunned me when I came across it tonight, on the eve of 9/11. It is moving beyond words.

Check out some more of my favorites (I plan to keep adding to this list):

Arcade Fire: Wake Up (this entire album speaks to childhood, memories of youth)

Arcade Fire: Ready to Start

Arcade Fire: Sprawl II

Deathcab for Cutie:  Soul Meets Body  (I love EVERYthing about this song; but I particularly relate to the Greyhound Station in my mind line… I take that bus often.)

Kansas: Dust in the Wind (this song will always move me deeply)

Howie Day: Collide  (love, love, love. So often true.)

Counting Crows: Mr Jones (Drive, drive, drive, windows down and singing. Or dancing in my kitchen)

Metric:  Gimme Sympathy (Sing it, sing it, sing it again!)

Counting Crows: Perfect Blue Buildings (Hell, all of this album!)

Deathcab for Cutie: Soul Meets Body  (ANYtime, anywhere!)

Crowded House: Distant Sun (yep, pretty sure they wrote this for me!  And one of my favorite groups of all time.)

Crowded House/Neil Finn: Fall at Your Feet  (beautiful to distraction)

Crowded House (live): Fall at Your Feet (worth repeating)

Howie Day: Brace Yourself

Radiohead: Reckoner (simply exquisite)

Deathcab for Cutie: I Will Follow You Into the Dark  (oh, how beautiful…still remember first hearing it)

Plain White Ts:  Hey There Delilah (Principessa… “and I’d walk to you if I had no other way”… always for you)

Crowded House: Four Seasons in One Day

New Order: Blue Monday (oh baby, we have such strange songs…)

Hoobastank: The Reason (Middle Man is my reason)

Jason Mraz: I’m Yours (Oh Little Man, dancing to your Bar Mitzvah. I will always think of YOU when this plays)

Sting: Ghost Story  (I must have loved you…)

Fleetwood Mac: Landslide  (High School graduation song, gets more with passage of time.)

Fleetwood Mac: The Chain (live- this album was the first I ever owned, and still rules!)

Playing for Change: Stand By Me (our family will always love this song, but this version rocks!)

Ben E. King: Stand By Me (but this will always bring me back to watching the movie Stand By Me with our kids, over and over!)

Playing for Change: War/No More Trouble  (spectacular! mixed with Bob Marley, just beautiful!)

The Go Go’s: Our Lips Are Sealed (Freshman yr college. This and Billy Idol;  I threw away my dean sweaters and shaved my head to a punk cut… grew a “tail” and never looked back.)

Crystal Castles (with Robert Smith!): I’m Not in Love

The Cure: Just Like Heaven (live)

Mode: Personal Jesus 

Johnny Cash: Personal Jesus (amazing how the artist can change a song entirely!)

Depeche Mode: Precious  (still listen to this all the time)

Red Hot Chili Peppers: Snow (hey oh)

”     ”  Chili Peppers:  Otherside

Chris Isaak: Wicked Game (this man can sing anything and rock me) Peter, Paul and Mary: The Kid  (this song, more than many, speaks to ME. This is not he version I listen to, but there is no video by PP&M)

Israel Kamakawiwo ‘Ole/Iz: Somewhere Over the Rainbow (dancing around our orchard, after a hard rain, with a rainbow, with my 3 small children… the song blasting from my “boom box”)

Michelle Shocked: The L&N Don’t Stop Here Anymore

Michelle Shocked: Anchorage

Bon Jovi: Living on a Prayer  (who doesn’t sing this out loud? And oh, the hair takes you back!)

Metric: Sick Muse

Bon Jovi: You Want to Make a Memory (just beautiful)

The Mamas and Papas: California Dreamin’ (will ALWAYS take me back)

Railroad Earth: Mighty River (Little Man’s fishing song, I adopted it too)

MGMT: Kids

Billy Idol: Rebel Yell (I hear the first few chords, turn the volume up and growl my way thru’, cheesy version)

Billy Idol: Rebel Yell (Just to show that this dude still looks amazing… 2009!)

Eddie Vedder: No Ceiling and Society  (Thank you Eddie:  for two weeks in Yellowstone this summer, he brought me great joy, while I looked for myself.  Love this album: Into The Wild; the music moves me deeply)

The Fray: How to Save a Life (says too much, love this)

Ozone: Numa Numa (one magic night, driving through puddles with Principessa and Middle Man, and blaring this song. It was one of the best nights ever!  It’s worth including just for this cheesy Russian video)

Pink: Who Knew (Vegas! Let me say for the record: I can belt out this baby! As a select few know)

Joan Baez: Stones in the Road (beautiful song, that covers the time when I was growing up)

Joan Baez: Diamonds and Dust (First love, sad end… beautiful song, that I sing well and often)

Posted in 9/11, Daily Observations, Honest observations on many things, Musings, My world, Parenting | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 15 Comments

Om, Om, Omygod! (Or, one crazy day on the mat!)

Posted on September 7, 2011 by Dawn Quyle Landau

Note:  Once again, I must warn my kids to not read this one. I just don’t think kids and their parents’ sexuality works. You’ll have the heebies for days!  Frankly, some of my friends shouldn’t read this. Maybe, only my yoga teacher should read it… or anyone who can appreciate one crazy day on the mat!

Today was yoga. It is one of the things I do just for me. It is my time. I go there to ground and focus, breath deeply and clear my head. I’ve been going to 3 Oms Yoga since it opened and have been a fan of my teacher, Amy, for ages.  Amy radiates calm, centered, good intentions and I love being around her and in that space. On days like today when I can barely drag my sorry butt out of the house, let alone slide that butt in to lycra and plan to stretch it, I almost always leave class,grateful that I did. Today  was a different story.

I got to class a few minutes late, as I was busy trying to organize the two exchange students who currently follow me around like ducklings with loads of questions and needs. My own duckling, Little Man, just tries to catch me in between their stuff.  So, while I was tired and unmotivated, I really thought this would be a good thing for me… something I would be glad I did. I’ve been having trouble sleeping for about a week now. I get in to bed each night and my brain is on fire, racing at warp speed and making more lists of things I should try and do the next day. However, that’s if I can remember what I thought as I tried to go to sleep. So, while yoga sounded good, I was tired and knew the rest of my day would be rushed and full… I’d be sacrificing my only 2 free and clear hours. But I pulled out those Lulus, grabbed my mat and headed to yoga to undo the craziness that I allow in all the rest of the week.

Again, I arrived late, but my favorite spot in the back by the wall was free and I quietly set up, and began deepening my breath. I tried to edit the negative thoughts: My legs burn, my arms are weak, I’m out of shape, my “edge” is child pose today. I tried to aim for positive, focused breathing. I held my poses the full breath counts and I took on every extra vinyasa (shortened sun salutation, a flow) offered. My muscles did burn, but I start to feel stronger and I worked to regain some calm. However, I was aware that my mind was still racing. I was thinking all the things I just noted (negative) and I was also noticing the bright sunshine hitting me from the window, the nice colors in the room, the strong arms on the beautiful girl in front of me…  My point?  My mind was not quiet. I was not finding that sweet spot that yoga usually delivers, when my mind actually goes silent, I feel calm and peace descends.

I breathed deeper. I held that Warrior longer and tried to focus. Then, we began a flow that involved going in and out of (<–) Downward Facing Dog. My mind started racing again and so I looked to my feet. In Down Dog, you can’t help but look at your feet, and there, clear as day, were dirty feet!  My feet: filthy!  I am a very clean person, THIS, this was totally unexpected. I tried to examine the dirt, from Down Dog, to figure out how on earth my feet could be that dirty. I began to follow Amy’s voice intuitively (I know what will come next, I reasoned) but was really focused on trying to rub off the dirt  and figure out why it was there. Should I go to the bathroom and just wash them? No, then I’ll miss a segment. Shit!  My feet are filthy. “Deep inhale and right foot forward to high lunge.” Thanks Amy. Now I can see them better.

However, in lunge I suddenly noticed several new freckles that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere on my lower legs. Damn!  Those freckles don’t look right. The color is totally off and they’re not shaped right. Could they be melanomas? Oh my God, they might be melanomas! What the hell do melanomas look like again? I need to Google this! I stretched further in Lunge and tried to examine the freckles more closely. What the hell is going on! Dirty feet and melanomas! My mind raced and focus was diminishing rapidly.

If you Google Melanoma, this is one of the images you will find.   —>

As if all of that were not distracting enough, unlike nearly any other day in this class (which I’ve attended for 2+ years), today there was an absolutely beautiful, distractingly magnificent man, right in my line of vision (no way of looking around or past him), practicing with no shirt on. I want to say here: it does not seem right that any man should be that sexy and beautiful AND not wear a shirt, in yoga class! And while they make funny videos about creepy guys who come to yoga to ogle women in their tights, there I was trying to figure out whether to clean my feet, make an appointment with the dermatologist or stop all together and just ogle wild haired, perfect body, yoga God.  The possibility of calm quiet mind was gone all together.  At least I wasn’t thinking (any more) about how to explain AT&Ts monthly cell plan and all its complexities, to my Chinese exchange student or worrying about the bell schedule at school.

Back to Down Dog and the feet and freckles. Each time we flowed back in to Down Dog, I tried to clear my head of Yoga God and seek some focus. Then, I really looked at one of the freckles. Hmm, that is odd. It is almost orange.  I reached back and rubbed the spot. (If you are adding this up, you have now realized that I was in a one armed Down Dog, it was pretty bad ass!) The freckle came off.  Then we flowed to lunge and I realized that I could wipe off each melanoma. Suddenly I remembered that the night before, while cooking BBQ chicken for 6 teens, some had spilled on the deck and splattered on my feet and shins. I’d intended to go clean it right off, but if you’ve ever been cooking for the masses, while NO ONE helps and things are burning, timers are going off and the dog is trying to lick up the BBQ sauce, which you know will make him sick all over your kitchen later… The BBQ sauce dried on and I went to bed with dirty feet. Maybe I should clarify: Usually I am a very clean person. Today, I went to yoga with dirty feet. A few more lunges and all evidence of faux freckles or dirt was dabbed clean with a little spit to the thumb. Yes, ewww, but I held that  (<— ) Warrior right through it all!

The rest of class I was totally free to practice yoga and ogle beautiful yoga guy. I can not sugar coat this, I was distracted to absolute levels of insanity.  He had this amazing tattoo that ran from the waste band of his shorts (which highlighted a dark brown tan line) on his back, wrapped around his stomach and up his chest and lower neck. I like the occasional tattoo and want a small one myself, but in general I am not a tattoo girl. This would not be a good look on most men. However, this tattoo was amazing on him. Each time we stretched forward I tried to figure out what it was, thinking it was a gnarled tree for much of the class. Then he turned and we were facing each other, directly across from each other, (mercy!) and I realized it was a stag. Hell! I went directly to Child Pose an took some breaths.

Tongue to roof of mouth, cleansing breath in, deep exhale. When I came up, there he was, his tanned back stretched in Warrior and then through a vinyasa. I seriously thought about stopping right there. Just sit down and pretend to meditate. I admit, it entered my mind. Instead, I went in to a difficult partial handstand, with legs on the wall (90 degrees), something I will only do under duress, and with an assist, and faced away from all sexy distractions.  I breathed deeply and closed my eyes. When I finally came down, the amazing beautiful yoga guy was going in to a perfect Camel Pose. If you know this pose and you can imagine sitting directly across from someone like this, maybe you can appreciate the effect it had on me… I felt entirely undone. CHILD POSE! And for the record, there is just no need to keep the temperature that hot under such conditions! It’s hard enough at my age to deal with temperature changes!  (Seriously, Better than this… that’s how amazing he was!) –>

At the end of class, we bumped in to each other getting water and I made every effort to maintain composure… having maintained none for most of the hour and half of class! “Great class” he said. “Yes, amazing.”  When he’d gone, I shared this experience with my yoga teacher, Amy,  and we laughed hysterically as I told her how completely un-yoga this class had been for me, but how glad I was that I came!  I went home no more grounded or calm than I came in, but I was smiling and I don’t have melanoma!

Another note:  Of course NONE of these images are of me or my classmates. I’m not a fool. But if you Google the yoga poses, this is what you might find.  Also, I am not making light of melanoma. I take it very seriously, but I am making light of my ridiculous thoughts!  Share your thoughts in return. Ever have one of those days in yoga? Glad you went, but not because you came away grounded?  Make a comment.

If you enjoyed this article, please hit Like and/or use the Share button to pass it along. If you want to get the latest posts, Subscribe and you will get an email each time I post a new entry. You wont get any other mail. And if you’re new to this site, check out some of the older posts, by hitting the Archive button.

Posted in Daily Observations, Humor, Musings, Parenting, Women's issues, Yoga | Tagged , , , , , , | 12 Comments

Kick Me; I’m Down.

Posted on September 3, 2011 by Dawn Quyle Landau

 Warning: This post is not intended for younger viewers. Ok, I mean my kids. My kids: don’t read it, you wont agree with any of it. You’ll probably feel mis-quoted or call to tell me I got it all wrong. So, save us both the stress and just skip this one. However, you are nearly adults, so what can I really do? Ground you? Yes, I will ground you. Don’t read this. Go back and read Prissy Butt or Fair is Fair, they wont bother you so much.  Also, I’ve photo shopped the rock painting photos, to remove Principessa’s name.

Middle Man and Principessa have now gone back to college, and as I anticipated, I am feeling reflective. It was inevitable; it’s just how I roll. Honestly, the entire summer was reflective, but now that I have a little space from them specifically, to ponder some of the complexities of being a mother in the various stages that I’m traveling and try to look at it all a little more clearly. While they were here, a storm tossed us around, and now that some calm has returned, I miss the opportunities we squandered.

I was talking to another mom today about raising girls versus boys, and our rolls as women at this stage in life. She figures she’s in her final third of her life, and I had to admit that I’m probably not far off that either, statistically. Ok, maybe I’m just beyond half way, but that’s splitting hairs. I’ve had this conversation so many times, and each time I take something fresh away, but the general dialogue has common themes. She was saying that now that her daughter is a mother and nearing her late thirties, she thought:  they would have more in common, more to share as women (not just mother/daughters), that the playing field might level out a little and she might finally be able to share more with her daughter reciprocally. She thought that maybe now, they might talk more as two women, both sharing equally. Not so. I’m sure there are women out there who will say that they are “best friends” with their daughters and that their relationships are free of competition, double standards, conflict–aside from the odd disagreement … that things are great. (Frankly, as a former social worker, when I hear a kid say “my mom is my best friend,” I shudder… but you get my point).

I know those mothers and daughters (mother/sons) exist.  However, personally, I find this whole territory ripe with soul bruising, at times crushing, complexities.  Principessa put it so poignantly before she left:  “When I’m away, I can see all of your strengths and all of the wonderful things that I admire in you mom. I compare you to friends’ mothers and I’m always glad you’re my mom. I tell my friends how great you are all the time. (sigh) But when I’m home, I just keep thinking: ‘I hope I don’t do that to my kids, I can’t stand that, and I notice all the things that drive me nuts.”  Fair.  To give her further credit,  one day as we finished a long walk along a local trail, she said (and I told her I would quote this): “I want you to know something mom: One of the most important things you taught me in life, is the ability to believe in the unbelievable the magic in the world. You instilled in me that there are things in this world that can’t be explained.” I promptly burst in to tears and hugged her close. If I could give any one of my kids a gift, that might be it: the gift of magic and wonder. It was a beautiful moment with my girl.

Yet, I then stumble back on the list of thing she told me she hoped to avoid, the things about me that make her cringe, or worse.  I’m glad she can express this to me and trusts our relationship enough to be honest. But, ouch. I’ve said in previous posts:  this summer was a record breaking difficult summer for us, as a family. I should also clarify that this point I’m touching on here, is not just about my daughter, or mothers and their daughters only… it’s being a mother and striving to be the woman that I want to be, and coming out whole in both ventures. I suppose boys are just a bit easier in this particular area, but they certainly bring other bruises. There are conflicts with my sons as well, but my boys seem to be much more direct, honest and less defensive in their reactions and counter-attacks. Middle Man does not generally hold on to things the way Principessa and I do, so while he might say some pretty mean things when he’s angry (I mean OUCH), the next morning he’s all “good morning mom” and it’s done.  Not a lot of apologies, but he does move on.  I could learn from that; but apparently I’m slow on the uptake in that department.  Little Man tends to get very angry quickly (often, more frustration) but then feels badly and is quick to apologize and seek rapprochement. My daughter and I however, tend to skirt around issues more, slip in passive aggressive gestures and comments and walk around licking our wounds for… well, the whole summer!

So many emotions and outcomes to navigate through! I just find this whole mother thing such a complicated ride. The love we feel for our kids is so beautiful, and big and all encompassing, that it’s hard to see the forest for the trees some days. When the trees are little, you can see through or over the forest, but it’s harder to actually move through the crowded underbrush that small trees make. Little sunlight and lots of bushwhacking. However, when the trees are bigger and you can move through the forest easier, you can no longer see through or over and it’s so easy to get lost. Bet you wondered where I was going with that?  The responsibility for raising human beings is enormous and it’s just plane scary some days (weeks, months, years even). Their survival, their well being, is so compelling, that it’s difficult to always see around the issues. Add to the equation, what you bring in to the woods with you and the whole thing can be so much more complicated. I’ll say it: I didn’t have great modeling and I’m sure that plays a significant part in my personal struggles.  BUT, it seems to be a twisty path for plenty of other competent woman who I talk with, so I’ll reframe from extended self flagellation here.

Principessa and I have had a wonderful relationship for so long that it was truly a shock to find myself in conflict with her for so much of this summer. She was abroad for an entire year, and our our skype relationship was good; we missed each other but spoke often and got along well.  You “younger parents” (those with younger kids) may laugh at me now, but one day you’ll have a skype account too, and you may meet boyfriends, room mates and more, via the internet too!  Whole life events may play out without ever actually having live contact, and then you’ll get it. Anyway, we both missed each other terribly at times and it never occurred to me that we would have anything other than the slightly bumpy re-entry that parents expect when partially grown kids arrive back home from college or time away. I even painted our local I5 rock to herald her return, a rad move for this mom.  Still, since Middle Man was due back from his first year at college around the same time, I knew there would potentially be a few more stumps on the path, than usual. A few bumps: manageable, right?.

     

NOPE, endless fucking mine field all summer and I’m apparently one of those giant rats who finds every land mine… only I’m the rat that steps on them.  Add to that mix the fact that I was already in the midst of my own personal struggles: figuring out what I want to do when I’m really grown up, figuring out how to feel excited and positive in a role other than the one I’ve played for most of my adult life: “mom” (not my real name), and then working through all the emotions that go with seeing my own mother fail and get sicker and sicker. I might as well have painted a big sign that read: Kick me, I’m down, and put it on my back, ’cause that’s how it felt. Oh woe’s me.

Oh to have that time back and just get it “right”. All those clichés about how fast it all goes are dead on. They’re little and then they’re not and in each stage, I wish I could be more clear and get it better. It doesn’t matter that I knew there would be bumps this summer, or that I understand that my daughter needs to separate and that might involve some bruises, that my son means nothing personal when he’s out all night… However, it’s hard being a mom and not feel some of it’s personal. We’re so close to the subject. Again, it’s all so compelling, that to look away and wait it out, is nearly impossible.  This all feels like amazing, sweet, difficult, terrifying, new territory for me– a journey I have little or no reference point for, based on the examples I grew up with and the models I looked to. I wanted to be a different parent than the one I had and I’ve felt so much responsibility to make up for all the things I longed for as a kid. And it’s just not possible. There are far too many places that I can pause and judge myself too harshly, when really all of us moms are just trying to do the very best to see our kids through to happy, competent, grounded adults… even if we’re not entirely sure about our own status there sometimes.

More and more I know that it’s my connections to other women that really sustain me and help when I feel the most uncertain, the most lost in the woods. Lunch with a friend, a good cup of coffee and a chat, the times when another mom , another woman, says exactly what I’m feeling and I realize that I’m not alone in it. It’s so easy to look at other moms and their kids, compare, and find myself lacking. How wonderful when I hear that this is how lots of us feel, and most of us are just working it all out too. At this rate, by the time I’m a grandmother, I should be pretty kick ass!

Join the conversation; are you raising teens, young adults? How’s it going?  Have you found your groove, or do you still stumble? Share a comment and let me know what you think.  Thanks for reading!

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Posted in Daily Observations, Honest observations on many things, Humor, Mothers, Musings, My world, Parenting, Women's issues | Tagged , , , , | 9 Comments

Call Me Prissy, Butt…

Posted on August 27, 2011 by Dawn Quyle Landau

 (Note to reader: I sweat sarcasm. If it sounds like sarcasm, it is. Also, check out some of the links here, there are some kick ass articles about the sexualization of young girls and the history of underwear. I had a blast “researching” this rant.)

Lately, I’ve noticed a lot of butts and they all appear to be naked. They’re not, but that’s the point:  they’re trying to look naked. Ok, odd enough way to start this, but my brain works that way, and as I’ve said, this is where I talk about how I see the world around me. So, no doubt, I am about to set off all kinds of responses, but I’m up for the challenge; bring it on. That said, I’m just going to say right up front, for the record:  I do not think panty lines are such an evil thing, AND, I’m beginning to really question why and whether it’s ok, that things have moved so, well, left of naked.

For most of my life, women/girls would rather be caught picking their nose than have people think they didn’t wear underwear, look naked under their clothes, or have  their underwear or bra straps hanging out. Ok, picking your nose is a stretch, but it was once really a major no no to be viewed as that woman who was at best “loose” and at worst “asking for it” by putting your ass out there for everyone to see. For most of my life the idea was: underwear should be pretty, sexy even, comfortable, perhaps controlling, but not absent. Sure you had panty lines sometimes, but no one was trying to hide the fact that there were underwear under that dress, those jeans, whatever you were wearing. That, however, was before the thong. Today, it seems that nearly everyone is parading around with accentuated buttocks, all to avoid (cue drum roll) The Dreaded Panty Line.

To begin with, it really wasn’t that long ago that thongs were a sandal. Thongs were what we now call flip flops. That’s right kiddies, all you young thangs, we would say to our moms “have you seen my thongs?” and it wasn’t embarrassing. Actually, the terms are not entirely set in stone yet, though my kids would argue that “No one calls flip flops thongs!” However,  in other places thongs are still shoes, flip flops doesn’t mean much and people aren’t as confused.  The jury is still out, on the international scene. Just a few years ago, when the term flip flop was just taking hold and thong was still morphing in to tiny underwear, I was in our local Old Navy and I heard a grandmother call out to her teen grand-daughter, who was a couple of isles away, “Susie (not her name), look at these adorable thongs, they’d go perfect with that dress!”  Susie groaned and hid (as did Principessa, who heard it too), while Susie’s mom, chastised grandma and told her that “those were flip flops and that thongs were underwear”, with that ‘you are so lame’ tone that is usually reserved for teens talking to their parents. Poor granny (who wasn’t actually that old) looked mortified and utterly flabbergasted. When she looked my way, I shrugged and told her that I ‘knew exactly what she meant,’ with a roll of my eyes. Principessa and I had a brief debate about the wording and I was sanctimonious in my certainty that  this too would pass, and we’d be back to slipping thongs on our feet, with no more flip flopping about names, in no time.

Today, thongs make up 30% of all underwear sales, conservatively, and up to 90% of sales in some stores that sell to women only. They make thongs in sizes for young girls (I have personally seen them sold in size 8, children’s department); many moms, of all ages, are wearing them, and middle age and older women have embraced the trend as well. Bottom line: thongs are worn across age, size, ethnicity and cultural lines. It seems that virtually any woman may be willing to put up with a wedgie, to have that nice, clean, naked bottom look.  I know, many of my friends have told me that their Hanky Pankies are so comfortable, but I’m just not feeling it. They may be more comfortable than others, but I still see the goal as trying to look naked.

The way I see it, the entire idea of modesty around this subject, has changed. Let me be clear here, I am pretty far left of prude. I’m pretty comfortable with sexuality and the human body. I can appreciate a beautiful body, male or female, as much as the next left of prude person. I don’t squirm when people are naked in a movie, or in art. Hell, as many of my friends know, I celebrate the first and sometimes last day of school each year, with a naked brunch with friends. In a private place of course, but still, I’m not afraid to sit with friends and bare it all. Still, it still takes me aback each time I see some beautiful woman, and then realize that her butt appears totally nude in her Lululemons, her slacks, or skirt… or someone bends over and the top of their thongs rise above their jeans or clothing. I can’t help it, it feels like catching a glimpse of something private.  It just seems weird to see a Dr’s thong line; the waitress’ thong line; a friend’s line, under a thin summer skirt; young girls at school lifting their arms and there’s the thong. I can’t seem to get used to it, it just seems wrong to me.

I know, it sounds like I’m just walking around checking out butts all day, or that underwear has become a focus for me when I’m out in the world– that perhaps I’ve fallen in to a prude vortex. Ok, maybe I have a little. But mainly I just find myself wondering when it became the norm to try and look naked under our clothes, and where is all this naked headed? Or, as Pricipessa so passionately stated, when we discussed this post: “When did it become a bad thing to be modest?”  Pardon me while I now make a rant of hypotheticals:  How far can we push the boundaries?  What on earth could any parent be thinking when they buy these underwear for that size 8 girl? Why does any thirteen or fourteen year old girl need to hide her panty lines? Isn’t it hard enough for thirteen and fourteen year old boys to concentrate without being able to see the outlines of 13-14 yr old girls’ buttocks? I think it was bad enough when they were just imagining it. Has it really become ok in our society for even very young girls to be so sexualized and displayed in that manner? What other message is there when we try to so hard to make it clear that our underwear is not there, or, in the case of bras, part of our outfit. Instead of trying to pin back loose bra straps or find the right bra for an outfit, now women choose bright colors, sexy lines, straps that are meant to be shown. More flirtation, more suggestive.

I feel like The Church Lady here! Am I sounding more prudish by the moment? Am I simply becoming a middle aged woman who’s gone from liberal and free about things to old fashioned and prissy?  I actually wonder sometimes. I’ve had this conversation with plenty of other women, most my age, but some Principessa’s age (21) and I know there are other possible prudes out there with me, but the widespread media, the fashion and celebrity world all seem to laugh in my face. When Vogue is marketing a cover with a ten year old girl (yes, you read that right: TEN years old, that’s fourth grade folks!) as a very sexy model, in numerous pictures and people are buying it, what does that say to women of all ages?  Look naked, be sexy and put it out there baby! Plain and simple.  It’s creepy says this priss,  plane old creepy. I remember when it was a REALLY big deal that Brooke Shields, then fifteen, posed for Calvin Klein jeans and it was front page “news” everywhere: magazines, news, talk shows . When you look at those adds now and compare them to some of what is out there today, it’s really eye opening. Am I just digging my “you’re getting old” grave deeper here? Should I throw in “and I had to walk ten miles to school in the snow!”

Check it out for yourself.  Note: for me, both of these images (above) are concerning. Brooke was still only 15 in this ad (left), but when you compare the two, it seems even more shocking that Thylane (right) is only 10! When you see her in a picture with her mommy, with no make-up, no sexy stilettos, hair or make-up, she is a baby!  A baby selling a very sexy image.

I can’t help it; I squirm; I cringe; this bothers me.  How can young girls not feel pressure to be sexy and exciting (only a few steps away from actually having to act on that image, I believe) when so many mothers are dressing more like their teen daughters, models and sex symbols are in middle school or younger, and they actually have to worry about whether people might (God forbid!) think that they’re actually wearing underwear. And while I have no problem with women trying to look good at any age, or wearing clothes that flatter their figures, it just seems that we’ve moved so far off what was once “proper” that the lines are completely blurred. Oh, that’s right, there are no lines!

I have to admit, each time I put my Lululemon yoga pants on, these things run through my head. Perhaps not all of them, but more than I’d like. Admittedly, I knew when I bought the Lulus that they gained fame for making any woman’s butt look good. They do.  So I bought in to that even before worrying about the underwear. However, it’s a slippery slope.  Now, when I put them on, I also think: what does good looking mean, and will my underwear show? Is naked part of the equation? Will all the other yoginis in the class look better in their tights, because they’re wearing thongs? Should I wear mine, so my butt looks good too?  Right, these are the very principals of yoga that are most important!  Right after each Sun Salutation, my yoga teacher is certain to say: “Be sure to breath and please make sure your underwear are not showing, fix those panty lines ladies.” (sarcasm)

Share your thoughts. Do you think this isn’t really a problem and underwear is underwear?  What do you think of the trends in advertising that use young girls to sell sexy images. I’d love to hear what you think. Thanks for reading!

If you enjoyed this article, please hit Like and use the Share button to pass it along. If you want to get the latest posts, Subscribe and you will get an email each time I post a new entry. You will not get any other mail. And if you’re new to this site, check out some of the older posts, by hitting the Archive button.

If you’re interested in this topic, You might also enjoy:

http://roughdraft.typepad.com/dotmoms/2003/12/tween_a_thong_a.html

http://www.rollingstone.com/culture/news/kiki-kannibal-the-girl-who-played-with-fire-20110415

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Social_impact_of_thong_underwear

http://abcnews.go.com/Health/10-year-models-mom-defends-racy-vogue-pictures/story?id=14262329

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2022305/Thylane-Lena-Rose-Blondeau-Shocking-images-10-YEAR-OLD-Vogue-model.html

http://abcnews.go.com/Entertainment/WolfFiles/story?id=92696&page=1

Posted in Beauty, Daily Observations, Honest observations on many things, Humor, Musings, My world, Parenting, Women's issues, Yoga | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 29 Comments