Amy Lu's View

I couldn’t stop watching the elderly lady who was dancing so vigorously that her white pants seemed in danger of falling down. 

The song ended, and her pants did NOT fall down. And it looked like she had a great time dancing (she was definitely very good at it, this lady had moves) and I had a great time watching. 

In fact, I was so moved by seeing a gathering of people together, dancing, taking joy in music and movement and community at the Salsa del Soul concert at Silverwood OnStage in St. Anthony (a nearby Minneapolis suburb), that I almost cried. 

This would have been a beautiful experience any year, but after the isolation and restrictions of COVID (which yes, in many ways, I also enjoyed, #Contradictions) it was precious. 

Not only did I take joy in watching the Lady in the White Pants, I loved watching all the dancers–the young, the old, the sexy, the awkward, the skilled, the goofy (not mutually exclusive categories). 

Yes, I know various signs and mugs and tsotchkes exhort us to “Dance like nobody’s watching,” but sometimes someone IS watching (me) and I’m very appreciative for those who put their freedom and exuberance on display. 

May I sometimes laugh at the dancers? Yes, but not to be intentionally mean or critical–but to appreciate the silliness and playfulness of the moment.

Do I wish that I wasn’t just a bystander, and that I had the courage to join in, even though I would most certainly look like a dork dancing by myself (or with anyone, really)? Yes, of course, but there is also a unique pleasure in being in the audience–of having the perspective of the perimeter. 

And of course, the biggest pleasure is just being a part of the whole, in whatever way.

I hope to make more time in my life for dancing–whether publicly (doubtful), or privately (possible–shouldn’t this be one of the advantages of working from home, impromptu kitchen dance breaks?) I was recently very inspired by a reading Chad chose for a church service:

“A party of one is sometimes the best time. Dance by yourself, anywhere there is room in your house. There is something, even a bit magic, to music, to movement and a touch of laughter. Go ahead: dance.”

From “Lean Forward Into Your Life” by Mary Anne Radmacher

These words are like a time machine transporting me all the way back to the summer of 1988, when I rocked out by myself to the song “Sweet Child of Mine” at my sister’s apartment. For some reason, I had her place entirely to myself and when that song came on the radio, I felt free and able to shake loose any sense of self-consciousness. It wasn’t even really one of my favorite songs, but that didn’t matter. Thirty-three years later and I still remember that feeling of release. 

So, Dance Like Nobody’s Watching…or…Dance Like Everybody’s Watching….or Dance Like Only Someone Special’s Watching…or…Dance Like Your Dog’s Watching…or Watch Other People Dance…or…Watch Your Dog Dance…

Just be part of the dance. (Don’t necessarily get a sign for all of these ideas, though–#ProgressivesDrRick).

Once upon a time there was a small stuffed bear named Munson.

Well, he didn’t start out with that name–Munson got his name when he was adopted by the Middle-Aged Lady* one warm August day in 2016 from the MPR booth at the Minnesota State Fair. 

Munson wore a hoodie with the logo of the radio station “The Current” on it. The Middle-Aged Lady was a big fan of the Current and thought Munson was cute and squishy and would be just the right size to cuddle with. 

Munson had a great day at the Fair with the Middle Aged Lady and her Friend Wanda. They had a surplus amount of adult beverage and we’re very giggly and almost ran into a locally famous musician and Current radio personality John Munson. As they were in a giggly and silly mood they thought it would be funny to name Munson the bear after Munson the Musician and that is how Munson got his name.

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Munson saw many interesting sights at the Fair–beer, cheese curds, live music, crowds of people, beer–but when he went home with the Middle Aged Lady he happily settled into a calm life. Munson spent most of his days peacefully in the Middle Aged Lady’s bedroom. 

Some people think that only children or puppies can love and need stuffed animals, but these people are confused and/or not fully informed. People of all ages, including Middle Aged Ladies, can love stuffed animals.

Munson was happy and content with the Middle Aged Lady, and he had a VERY IMPORTANT JOB. He had to cuddle with the Middle Aged Lady every night so she could sleep. No, she wasn’t afraid of monsters (although sometimes in the middle of the night the Middle Aged Lady seemed afraid of spreadsheets and weight gain) but she didn’t know what to do with her spindly arms if she wasn’t hugging Munson. Without Munson, she would be extra flaily and restless while trying to sleep (which would also disturb the slumber of her beloved Middle Aged Man).

The Middle Aged Lady loved Munson, and she also loved a new puppy thing that she and her Middle Aged Man brought to live with them one day. They called him StanLee. This puppy creature was cute but very excited with lots and lots of energy, and he didn’t know quite how to love things in the right way (without causing bodily harm).

One time when the Middle Aged Lady and her Man weren’t paying attention, StanLee showed Munson how much he loved him by chewing his arm until it almost fell off. 

This didn’t hurt Munson but it did feel funny. The Middle Aged Lady continued to love Munson and sleep with him every night–sometimes even with StanLee, who could be an accomplished cuddler when he wasn’t chewing–but from then on she made sure to keep an eye out for StanLee’s overexuberant demonstrations of affection. 

Munson’s fur grew a little tattier and rattier each night as he got hugged and squeezed and he had that whole barely attached arm situation, but the Middled Aged Lady (and Man) thought he was adorable.

The Middle Aged Lady and Man were home almost all the time, especially in a time called “2020”. But then one day they went on an adventure and took a trip to visit family in the wilds of a mysterious and magical land called “Wisconsin”. 

The Middle Aged Lady decided to bring Munson along to help her sleep in a place that was not her home. She thought Munson would be especially helpful since her spindly arms would be extra flaily after hours of anxiously hoping that StanLee did not chew on any other puppies or plants or people (particularly small ones) in Wisconsin. 

Munson enjoyed snuggling in a different bed in a different house. It was new and unusual! But, when the Middle Aged Lady went home with the Middle Aged Man and StanLee, she left Munson buried in the bed and forgot to bring him home!

Munson is patient and can hang out at the Ancestral Home of the Middle Aged Man while he waits to see how his story unfolds. He knows through the mystical psychic connection that stuffed animals share with their owners that the Middle Aged Lady, and especially the Middle Aged Man, felt very sad and guilty about abandoning him. They hope they are reunited with him when they return to visit the magical land of Wisconsin. 

As the Middle Aged Lady’s spindly arms at night continue to resemble those of a dancing Muppet, she has enlisted the service of a recently discovered stuffed Curious George to hug. (This is not his story). 

Munson is not jealous of Curious George as his stuffed heart is just full of love (even for the Krakenesque Tazmanian Devil Beast known as StanLee) and knows the Middle Aged Lady (even as she becomes the Old Aged Lady) can wrap her spindly flailing arms around them all if given the chance. 

Until that day he will dream of hugs and cheese curds.

(*Yes, a perhaps unsuccessful riff on the “Man in the Yellow Hat” from Curious George. It’s not as good because it’s not as specific–the world is full of Middle Aged Ladies–but I’m not ready to commit to wearing just one color…)

Last month, on May 27 to be precise, Chad and I celebrated our twenty-sixth anniversary. 

I would like to make some clever reference to what anniversary this was in terms of traditional gifts, but I’ve learned that the twenty-sixth anniversary isn’t anything. There’s no special gift or title or theme assigned to it. That feels rather dismissive and deflating, especially since we missed having a big to-do on our “Silver” anniversary because of COVID. (Perhaps those in charge of anniversary etiquette thought they were doing folks a favor by not having a theme for the twenty-sixth, as they were probably imagining spouses still worn out after celebrating the big silver anniversary). 

I guess I should have known there was no traditional twenty-sixth anniversary theme/gift,  because the traditional gifts stop at 15 and then are only assigned in 5 years increments after that. The other anniversary designations I’ve seen must have been referring to the “modern” gifts. 

So, under the modern gift schematic, the Twenty-Sixth Anniversary is…the “Picture Anniversary.” Yeah, we didn’t really celebrate that, but we did go out to eat and we did sit down and have a meal inside a dining establishment. It was our first such experience since lockdown started in March of 2019, so that definitely felt special. And I did make Chad be part of some selfies so we do have some pictures from the evening. 

Although there is no traditional gift to guide my thinking or writing about our twenty-sixth anniversary, I’m definitely pondering what it’s been like to spend the last year in lockdown with each other. 

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It’s easy to joke about how amazed we are that we haven’t wanted to kill each other after spending so much time together this last year. But we are amazed (really, how easy is it to live with anyone under such circumstances) but more importantly, grateful. Grateful that we’ve had each other to help us get through the scary times, and grateful that we’ve been able to slow down and spend more time with each other, and grateful (and sometimes exasperated) that we still have so much to learn about each other, and how and who we are together. 

They stayed there for a long time, just feeling very brave together.”

from “Dragons and Giants,” Frog and Toad Together

That line is a pretty good summary of our twenty-sixth year of marriage: We stayed “there” (home) for a long time (over a year) feeling brave, or at least trying to act like we felt brave, together. 

Because just like Frog and Toad in the story Dragons and Giants, we actually didn’t feel very brave. Frog and Toad question their bravery after reading fairy tales where the heroes courageously face Dragons and Giants. (YES! I AM working in a Frog and Toad story, so another step of the blog challenge achieved!) So Frog and Toad go out in the world and encounter all kinds of dangers like birds and snakes and avalanches, scream “We are not afraid” and run home.

We were scared, or at least very anxious, not just about COVID and civil unrest and the presidential election, but all of those things on top of normal life. We are extremely blessed and the world is amazing, but also scary. So we’re still often a little scared/anxious, (and so fortunate that because we’re white and middle class we actually have little to fear compared to so many) but we get to pretend we’re brave together. 

It’s not simply that we’re in denial–we’re making a choice, or rather, a series of small choices, to be more optimistic and hopeful and confident and calm than we are inclined to be. 

So bring it on, dragons and giants and pre-pandemic pants that are now too tight…we’re ready for you!

Thanks to the badge that popped up on my phone today courtesy of my Garmin watch, I know that today is Global Running Day. 

Surprisingly, I did not know about this holiday through social media. Just like back in 2018 when I also blogged about it, I was oblivious: https://amyluedtke.wordpress.com/2018/06/07/happy-global-running-day/. 

I did go running this morning, but it was a short run and, more surprisingly, it was one of the few runs that I did NOT document/celebrate with a selfie. 

I have blogged so much about running that I am a bit stymied about adding anything to my body of running blogging. Do I have anything left to say?

Probably not, but I do still think it’s worth taking some time to reflect on running today. Out of all the things I’ve felt and experienced and written about running, what feels really relevant to me now, today?

Gratitude.

I’m so grateful that my health and my schedule continue to allow me to run. I’m grateful that I don’t have to worry about my safety when I run because of my race or where I live (although I still have to worry about falling and geese/turkeys). I’m grateful for how my body can move even when I don’t treat it as well as I could and it doesn’t look quite like I want it to. I’m grateful for the beautiful weather when I run and (in theory) the crappy weather that makes me appreciate the beautiful weather more. I’m grateful for audiobooks and podcasts to listen to when I’m running. I’m grateful for having more opportunities to wear all my race shirts and running attire afforded by lockdown (I did spend extra time deciding what to wear for Global Running Day, deciding on my Grandma’s Marathon Finisher Shirt). I’m grateful that I can occasionally indulge in the body and mind depletion that comes after a long run (amplified by some celebratory festive beverages which may relate to the not treating my body as well as I could #ProcessNotPerfection). 

I’m grateful for the “global” aspect of running–of realizing in some small way that I am part of a larger community that even goes beyond my social media connections. Through running I have a shared experience with extremely diverse people across the world. 

People often ask me if I’m in training for anything. Right now, I’m kind of, sort of in training for the virtual, incremental Grandma’s Marathon. Yeah, that’s a lot of descriptors and qualifiers. I am signed up to run the Grandma’s Marathon, BUT I have a two week period (June 19 through July 5) to complete the 26.2 miles and I can run them from anywhere (so I will not be going to Duluth). So this is not anywhere near as demanding as running an actual marathon. I do intend to make it somewhat challenging by running the 26.2 miles over three days, with one of those days being a Half Marathon. 

I have not been very focused or strategic about my training (in other words, my training has been half-assed), so while I’m pretty confident I can run 26.2 miles in three days, I don’t know how speedy I’ll be. I’m sure I’ll be disappointed in my performance in some way, but it will also be a good lesson in adaptability and embracing where I’m at. 

That’s definitely an insight to be grateful for.

It was the smallest of things, it was the biggest of things*: I went to a neighborhood grocery store last week for the first time since COVID quarantining. 

It felt normal and extraordinary. 

I’ve made no secret about being ambivalent and anxiety-ridden about returning to a Post-COVID life. Most of my angst revolves around my potential schedule commitments. (I’ve been greatly comforted by reading and hearing more and more people express such concerns). 

Setting these time and energy constraints aside, what do I want my new normal to look like? What daily or common activities or environments do I want to experience again?

I’ve purposely avoided spending too much time on this question–it’s just felt overwhelming. But on the fateful day in question I was on my way home from my new routine of a “park adventure” (this time Theodore Wirth Park) and I wanted to get eggs so I decided to stop at a grocery store and shop in person.

This was my first time inside a grocery store since March of 2020. The only store that I have regularly been in since the pandemic is a liquor store–I just couldn’t make alcohol delivery work well for us, I figured I could get in and out quickly and the liquor store was never crowded, and well, #Priorities.

Being in this grocery store felt weird, but good. It felt like I hadn’t been in there in forever, and also like only a week had passed. Now that I’m fully vaccinated, it’s nice to know that I can now just comfortably pop into a commercial establishment and buy something I want without worrying about catching COVID. (I may have to worry about awkward or irritating social interactions with strangers, but again, that’s normal). 

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Since the pandemic, I’ve been buying our groceries almost exclusively online and having them delivered or picking them up. I’ve been doing almost all our shopping online (except for the already disclosed booze runs). This was mostly motivated at first by wanting to avoid any COVID exposure, but then I just grew to like it. Once I figured out the idiosyncrasies of using Instacart and Imperfect Foods, I loved–and continued to love–the convenience of it. 

Even before the pandemic, I wasn’t a big in-person shopper (at least not since my mother departed from this mortal coil). Yes, I know there are many ethical problems with using Amazon, (and I’ve been trying to cut back, really!) but there are few things in my life that I need to see in-person before I buy. We even got most of our groceries from Simon/Coburn Delivers when they were still operating in the Twin Cities. 

Shopping at a store just didn’t fit in my schedule. When people would say to me “Oh you can just go to so-and-so and pick up that” I would usually cross whatever that was off the list of things I needed in my life. 

There is a huge exception to this: Target. In the Before Times, I spent a lot of time at Target. A LOT. I got most of my essential purchases at Target–groceries, clothes…okay, groceries and clothes. But I browsed at Target. I dreamed at Target, and had aspirations of a better me at Target. I worshipped at the altar of consumerism at Target. Target brands are the only brands I reliably know (or knew). 

I can definitely say I have only been to Target once since March of 2020. In some ways this is astounding to me. Several years ago I participated in a boycott of Target because of their financial support of Tom Emmer and it felt like such a sacrifice. 

As life has started to return to normal, I have intentionally refrained from going to Target. I’m just not ready. I think it’s going to be a “Big Deal” and I want to be emotionally prepared. I want to properly observe the event. I want to make sure I have time to blog about it. 

I want to be thoughtful in how I reintegrate Target into my life. Or, more accurately, Target has become a symbol for how I want to thoughtfully resume post-Covid life. I keep thinking about a time when my friend Pat saw me at Target after church and couldn’t get my attention to say “Hi” because I was in such a daze. Now, that wasn’t just the fault of Target, but I don’t want to just immediately return to that overstressed, overcommitted, overcapitalized self. 

Yeah, I’m still a highly materialistic consumer when I show online at home, but it does feel a little more relaxed. At a minimum, I can aspire to be stressed and frazzled from the comfort of my home (at least I’ll gain travel time).

(*Yes, this is a play on the famous line from a “A Tale of Two Cities” as I just heard the story on “Wait, Wait Don’t Tell Me” of Michael Steele saying his favorite book was “War and Peace” and then quoting “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”)

My mom got fired for getting pregnant with me. 

This story has always been part of the lore of my life. I don’t remember a time when my mom was alive when she didn’t tell this story. It’s seeped into my narrative DNA. 

It may or may not be true, or entirely true, from a “reality” standpoint, but it’s a story that’s conveyed a lot of truth to me throughout my life. 

I’ve recently been inspired by Mother’s Day to try and share this story of my mom in her honor. It feels like a complicated story to explain, though, so I decided to try it as a script (not sure for stage or screen) to make it easier to tell. 

Although my mom frequently told this story, I sadly didn’t pay close attention to it. I make no claims about the factual accuracy of this story (anything that IS accurate is thanks to my sister re-hashing this with me). 

Without further ado, I now present: 

The Ballad of Colleen (a short play)

SCENE 1: (Superintendent’s office)

DASTARDLY SUPERINTENDENT (DS): MRS. LUEDTKE!!! You are pregnant with your THIRD child? The third?! This is unseemly! Elementary teachers should NOT show such an obvious sign of having engaged in sexual activity. PLUS, your husband is rarely home, as he works out of town on a construction site as Fred Flinstone. How do we even know that HE is the father of this baby?! In light of this scandalous behavior, your career here as a teacher at (REDACTED) Elementary School is over! When you go home at Christmas break, do not return. You may re-apply for a position next fall, and we will see if you have seen the errors of your ways and repented. We may, may rehire you…now go! You are dismissed! 

[Close-up on Colleen. She looks strong and determined. She does not dignify this buffoon with a response and strides out of the office]. 

SCENE 2: (Superintendent’s office, later that day. DS is on phone)

Hello?…Yes, Principal So-and-So…I have fired Colleen Luedtke and I do NOT want you to hire her, got it? I am blacklisting her! Yes, goodbye….(hangs up and dials) Hello…Yes, Principal So-and-So Number Two, this is Dastardly Superintendent and you are NOT to hire Colleen Luedtke because I have said so, goodbye!…(hangs up and dials again): Hello, Principal of Halmstad Elementary, do not hire Colleen Luedtke, she is a woman of ill-repute, and I have spoken! 

(Cut to PRINCIPAL of HALMSTAD ELEMENTARY in his office): What?! No one tells ME who to hire! If that Colleen applies I will hire her!

SCENE 3: (Years later, early-mid 1970’s.. Colleen Luedtke is a successful and much-loved  teacher at Halmstad Elementary in Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin. A celebratory ceremony is underway to recognize the innovation of Halmstad Elementary, featuring a speech by Dastardly Superintendent.) 

DASTARDLY SUPERINTENDENT: As a very important person renowned in my field of Elementary Education, I want to say how impressed I am by Halmstad Elementary, an OPEN school with NO INTERIOR WALLS separating classrooms. Yes, people will look back at us and marvel at how impressive we were in the seventies. Now I will welcome each teacher at Halmstad Elementary to come on stage and be recognized and blessed by me for being part of this amazing endeavor. 

(Teachers file past the Dastardly Superintendent and shake his hand, like a graduation ceremony, until finally COLLEEN LUEDTKE takes the stage, approaches the DASTARDLY SUPERINTENDENT and shakes his hand).

COLLEEN LUEDTKE: Thank you for firing me. Escaping your inept clutches and coming to work at this beacon of enlightenment known as Halmstad Elementary where I am loved and respected was the best thing that ever happened to me. 

[CLOSE-UP ON DASTARDLY SUPERINTENDENT WHO LOOKS MORTIFIED AND WILL OBVIOUSLY SPEND THE REST OF THIS DAYS WRACKED WITH REMORSE]. 

SCENE 4: Also mid-seventies. Colleen receives a phone call from a representative of NOW (National Organization for Women). 

NOW REP: MS Luedtke! We at NOW have learned how you were screwed by THE MAN and we want to take your case to court! We will represent you and get justice and smash the patriarchy! And we will get you money!

COLLEEN LUEDTKE: Thanks, but no thanks. Where were you when this wrong happened? I don’t want to spend years in court, and I think you are more interested in making a political point than in me as a person. I will continue to happily teach at Halmstad Elementary and live out on the tundra with my three children and teach them to always stand up for what’s right. 

THE END (Fadeout to “I Am Woman” by Helen Reddy”)

I did wish that my mom had let NOW sue on her behalf, but I also understand why she didn’t. I think this also taught me there ways to “fight” and triumph that might be less obvious.

I learned so much from this story: Patriarchy and injustice are real and formidable (okay, I didn’t actually have a word for “patriarchy” until college); women need to be resilient and strong; having a career can be important for women. I don’t remember my mom every saying “I’m a feminist’ or even talking about feminism, but I think she taught me to be a feminist by this story and how she lived her entire life, whether or not she intended to.

Most importantly, I learned “Don’t Mess With Colleen” and how lucky I was to have Colleen in my corner. 

My race Bib says that I’m running for “My dad” but I really ran the Foxtrot Half Marathon for me. 

I ran for 10-year-old Amy whose family learned, after weeks and weeks of time at Marshfield Clinic, that dad had Parkinson’s. Um, okay, whatever that is…so he’s going to move more slowly? That doesn’t sound so bad. Are we going to be going to Marshfield less often? Definitely won’t miss hospital visits, but the mall in Marshfield is way cool and has the best Empire Strikes Back cards. 

(And my dad was only FIFTY when he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s–super early, and younger than I am now, #HolyShit. And who knows how long he had it before being diagnosed?)

I ran for high school Amy who was completely freaked out when dad totally froze at Hardees, as in he literally could not move or get out of the booth, so we had to call an ambulance. But dad and I sat in the booth and casually chatted while mom took care of things because that’s what we did. 

I ran for Amy at all ages who thought it was pretty damn funny (even though I felt guilty about it) when my brother did an excellent impersonation of my dad’s jerky movements (caused by meds and not actually Parkinson’s, I think. And to be fair, my brother did an excellent job of making fun of all of the family). 

I ran for 23-year-old Amy who was terrified that dad was going to fall when my parents came to visit me when I had moved to Cedar Rapids and I was showing them the mall where I worked and it was the first time I saw dad really not be able to walk. 

I ran for Amy in her late twenties who worried about how mom and dad were going to survive living out in the middle of nowhere with dad’s Parkinsons getting worse. 

I ran for 30-year-old Amy who was so grateful (and amused) that my brother was able to pull my dad up by his suspenders when he started sliding down out of the pew at mom’s funeral. 

I ran for 30-year-old Amy constantly stressed and wracked with guilt that dad was going to fall at home all alone now that mom was dead and he was living out in the middle of nowhere all by himself.  

I ran for Amy in her early 30’s learning that her dad had hallucinations caused by his Parkinson’s meds that made him experience a whole plethora of things including the dog talking to him. 

Of course, I just centered myself in my dad’s story of life with Parkinson’s. Besides these moments I specifically remember (or think I remember, I make no claims of accuracy) I wonder how much my dad’s having Parkinson’s through much of my childhood shaped me. Is it one of the reasons I’m so anxious? 

I know it affected my mother and significantly contributed to her stress. I’m guessing it affected my brother and sister, and my niece, Kate, too, but #NotMyStory. (I’m also running for my current friends who have Parkinson’s but I don’t feel it’s my right to name them). 

My family didn’t try to keep my dad’s Parkinson’s a secret–in fact, we probably talked about it too much. We definitely adopted my mom’s “radical honesty” approach: Our dad has Parkinson’s, we live in a shack, mom and dad can’t stand each other, etc. etc. (editing here for and not delving into the “etc.” out of respect for other family members. Let’s just say mom was NOT reticent about telling the world about family problems. I would relish telling you about those problems in person/via Zoom, etc). 

BUT, I’m not sure that how we talked about my dad’s Parkinson’s was very helpful. I also don’t know what we could have done differently. In the eighties and nineties, we didn’t have the interwebs to learn about diseases like Parkinson’s. We didn’t have support groups (real or virtual) and probably wouldn’t have participated even if we could. We didn’t think about diet or physical therapy. We got through the best we could, and I don’t fault us for that. 

So I’m super grateful for everyone who has contributed money to my fundraiser to support research to end Parkinson’s. Because it sucks, not only for the person who has it but all of their loved ones and/or family members (which may not be the same). 

And I ran for Amy Today, grateful I had a good reason to do a virtual Half Marathon that let me channel my narcissism in a positive way. So yeah, now it’s time for Running Talk: I was super stressed about this run, mainly because I’ve been having blister issues. I probably should NOT have done this run because now I’m going to continue to battle blisters for days/weeks but it wasn’t too uncomfortable during the run. 

My biggest issue during the run was an extremely runny nose. Sorry, not something you probably want to read about but the truth. My constantly running nose is also nostalgic as I think about my brother saying he has never NOT seen me without a kleenex. 

My ego is definitely taking a hit because this was probably my worst Half Marathon ever as far as time goes, but it also wasn’t as bad as I feared it could be. I haven’t really trained and blister, see above. 

I am proud that I creatively dealt with a wardrobe issue. Per usual, I underestimated how hot I was going to get and two miles in wanted to ditch my arm warmers. But, of course, that is environmentally sucky and I like these arms warmer. So, I TIED THEM INTO MY BUN! And they stayed there for the entire 11 subsequent miles and looked festive!

And the run was ridiculously beautiful. So green. And I’m  still amazed by those flowering purple and pink and white trees we didn’t have on the tundra where I grew up. 

I miss my dad. More than I thought I ever would (he died in 2013). But I’m relieved I don’t have to worry about him anymore, and that my biggest Parkinson’s related concerns these days are blisters. 

As the great sages The Eagles told us, “You can’t hide your lyin’ eyes.” 

I offer that you also can’t hide your big scary eyes. Or maybe you can, but why would you? I recently gave myself big, scary eyes on purpose for all the world to see as part of our church “Art Challenge.”

Simply put, an art challenge involves people recreating a famous work of art in some way. The possibilities are just about endless–the art can be recreated with food, toys, another type of art, and of course, photography. I don’t know if they originated with COVID-19 lockdown but I think they have flourished with folks having some extra time and pent up creativity and needing a socially distanced outlet. 

When I learned my church was doing an art challenge, I pondered for weeks about how I could participate. I certainly wasn’t obligated to make an entry but I just couldn’t pass up on an opportunity to “create content” (as it’s referred to in our favorite podcast/cult “TBTL”). I couldn’t miss the chance to perform/sing/write/etc. some thing that would (potentially) be viewed/consumed by (forced upon) other people. 

Taking a  photo that copied a piece of art seemed the easiest route. But what in the world could I recreate? I needed something that only required a simple costume and background, and didn’t involve nudity on my part. Working StanLee into the photo would be an added bonus and an easy way to pander (there was no way I was going attempt using the cats–dubious at the best of times, but the poor girls have StanLee-induced PTSD these days and are particularly skittish and dangerous). 

As the deadline to submit an entry loomed, inspiration hit–could I do one of those “big-eyed” painting recreations?

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I’m only aware of the Big Eyed paintings because of my friend Amy. During lockdown I have seen the Big Eyed painting she owns hanging behind her during numerous online meetings. 

I knew the painting that Amy owns wouldn’t work for me to do as a recreation, but she informed me that it was by the artist Margaret Keane. It didn’t take me too much Googling to find a Margaret Keane painting called “Beach Bums II” that featured a dog and a simple outfit and background that I thought StanLee and I could reasonably recreate. I was especially happy to find a dog with coloring similar to StanLee’s, as many of the dogs in Margaret Keane’s works are white. 

I’m not going to try and tackle the works of Margaret Keane or the whole genre of Big Eyed artwork. I’ve barely scratched the surface of learning about it, but I highly encourage my readers to explore it and learn more. It seems fascinating and weird. I will say that you may be familiar with Margaret Keane from the movie “Big Eyes” and know that her husband tried to take credit for her work. Why were/are these creepy, depressing, disturbing, and scary pieces popular? Art truly is subjective. 

Once I had a piece to re-create, my biggest factor was timing–when would Chad and I both be available so he could take the photo? (Yes Chad was only willing to be involved because this theoretically benefited our church). When would StanLee be relatively chill? And then we had the logistics of determining where we would stage the recreation. A-ha!–we have a blue wall in our hallway outside of the bathroom! Would it be hard to take the art down that was already hanging there so I could stand in front of it? Would Chad have to stand in the bathtub to take the photo (he did not). 

The submission was due Friday by noon, so we rather spontaneously decided to take the photo late Thursday morning before Chad took StanLee to daycare…Yes! I found the blue sweater I thought I had without too much digging in my closet. Yes! I was able to find and slather on some deep blue eyeshadow around my eyes. Yes! StanLee looked at the camera for one photo without wiggling too much.

No! I wasn’t fully able to remove the eyeshadow before I had an online video meeting with colleagues who didn’t know me. 

Yes! I was able to enter something in the church art challenge that was funny and creepy and slightly disturbing (it disturbed us anyway, and not just because my chin seems to be disintegrating). Chad even made a valiant attempt to be meta and take credit for the work (just like Margaret Keane’s husband) during our artists statement at the reveal party but I think it went over all of our heads (it certainly went over mine. Maybe StanLee got it). 

And not only did I get to MAKE CONTENT, I got to be part of a fun and amazing community event that featured extremely creative works by my fellow church members. Once again, I was blown away by the ingenuity and talent of these folks–not to mention the attention to detail. 

It’s enough to make my big eyes big in wonder (rather than terror or dread or despair–or at least in addition to). 

“April showers bring May flowers”–definitely a saying made for a cool and rainy April day like today. I’m no gardener or botanist, but I have faith that flowers are coming and have even noticed a few blooming already (like the phlox and perhaps even the dandelions–setting aside a “weed or flower?” debate–in our very own yard). 

Spring feels like an elusive season, especially in Minnesota: Here one day, and then the next day it’s summer and then back to winter. That’s definitely how it’s felt this year. 

This spring seems like a good metaphor for my feelings these days: sunny and hopeful, then rainy and moody. I want to go out into the big wide world that I’ve been denied/been avoiding for months, but I also want to stay in and hibernate forever. 

Many days, I feel like Toad in the story “Spring.” I want to stay in my metaphorical (and sometimes literal) bed with my covers over my head, even as my dear friend Frog tries to coax me outside. 

When I decided to finally continue my “Frog and Toad Blog Challenge” with the Spring story, I was only vaguely familiar with it. I had no idea it was going to be so appropriate to my feelings concerning a return to our new normal, post-COVID pandemic life. 

Yes, I’ve blogged about this ambivalence before, and since that post, I’ve been affirmed and comforted by many more stories and columns (especially in the New York Times) about people having anxiety and fear and confusion about adjusting to a different life. With apologies to John Lennon: “You may say I’m a weirdo, but I’m not the only one.”

I’m seriously trying to ponder and accept that my life doesn’t have to look exactly like it did. It may be hard to make choices, but I can re-evaluate my priorities. This can be a process that I don’t have to have figured out all at once. 

And really, while it will probably never feel quite so dramatic or pointed or urgent as it does now, shouldn’t I always be doing this, even without a pandemic?

In “Spring,” Frog employs a little bit of deception to coax Toad out from his bed. He pulls all the months off Toad’s calendar until he gets to May (even though it’s really only April–Toad has declared he sees a big difference between April and May). 

I’m not opposed to being my own Frog right now. I’m in favor of a little self-deception of the “Fake it ‘till you make it” kind. 

And not to throw any shade on April, but there is something special about May, “When May is rushing over you, like desire” (“These are the Days” by 10,000 Maniacs, and yes it would be awesome if I could learn that song for church Zoom coffeehouse). 

Desire for what? Safety? Connection? Variety? Theater? Sunshine? Bourbon? Rest? Challenge? Excitement? Noodles? Music? Joggers? (the pants–not people–because they are RUNNERS!) Cheese?

My problem and blessing has always been that I have desire for all these things, and so much more, but having these things all at once isn’t usually very successful. Or it may be more or less successful, but it’s usually exhausting. I want to feel the rush, but don’t always want to be in a rush.

10,000 Maniacs do actually answer the desire question, and tell us the desire is “To be part of the miracles you see in every hour.” 

Of course, Frog and Toad end “Spring” by going outside together–and isn’t being together (whether physically together or emotionally, spiritually, etc.) one of the biggest miracles (besides cheese?)

I do get a little tired by all the “adulting” jokes. Yeah, cute, but overdone.

But I sincerely have thought that there would come a time when I would feel like an “adult.” Now that I’m over 50, I think I need to accept that time isn’t necessarily going to happen. Yes, if I look back over my life, I do feel different now than I did when I was twenty, but the changes have been subtle and gradual and don’t necessarily mean I’m more mature. 

One small way I thought I might feel like an adult is in my experience of possessions. For example, I thought I would someday just magically want and understand having matching towels.

But more often than not, having what I consider “adult” possessions just feels stressful. It’s not that I’m not materialistic–I am. I like things. I like owning things. I like having things. But buying things–at least things that aren’t clothes–can be time-consuming and angst-ridden. Making decisions about what are the best things for us to have just takes too much thought and consideration. Plus, I have just enough awareness and liberal guilt to be weighed down by the environmental and social justice consequences of my purchases. 

While I like the idea of having “adult” things, I like the things I have. For example, I love dishes, and think I would like having new dishes, but I like the dishes I bought almost thirty years ago at the dollar store. And I bought them with my mom. Why/how would I get rid of those?

“My possessions are causing me suspicion but there’s no proof”

–“Don’t Dream It’s Over” by Crowded House*

So Chad and I joke about living like college kids–not that we can’t afford “better,” but we just don’t have the motivation to attain more. But sometimes, inertia gets the best of me and has a real downside–like living with a broken dish drainer for ten years. Did we get this thing for our wedding?! Not sure when it actually stopped functioning well, but it’s been a half-assed nasty thing taking up way too much counter space for years.

It’s not like I don’t use a dish drainer. Even with a dishwasher (also extremely old and not working well) I eat a lot and drink a lot so have a LOT of dishes–even in the Before Times. Being quarantined and spending so much time at home and liking to shop online during  online meetings finally motivated me to purchase a new dish drainer. 

It’s been a life changer. Seriously. When you consider how much I use this thing versus how much I spent on it, it’s kind of astounding I didn’t buy it sooner.

Is it the perfect dish drainer? I’m sure it’s not. I’m sure I could have found something more attractive and functional at a better price. But that may have taken me another thirty years. My friend Mark’s motto of “Right is good, done is better” can also apply to shopping. 

I finally decided that I am the kind of person that needs a decent dish drainer. That question, “Am I the kind of person who owns this?” is at the heart of many of my possession dilemmas. What does owning this or that say about me? What does NOT owning it mean? Like it or not, I think our possessions are often more about our identities, our hopes, our aspirations, that what we actually want or need. 

Another possession question I’ve wrestled with during pandemic times is “Are we a decanter household?” The answer is a hesitant, slightly embarrassed, but enthusiastic “Yes.” 

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Is having decanters rather ridiculous when we basically live like college students? Yes, except we don’t drink like college students (it would be much cheaper if we did). I’ve been intrigued with decanters for years (mostly inspired by TV, especially “Lucifer”), and several years ago we acquired a really awesome vintage 70’s decanter at a second-hand shop for the play “Orion” we were doing. 

This awesome decanter languished in our basement until I decided, “What the heck, I really like alcohol, so why not drink it out of a totally pretentious and silly but pretty decanter?” And then, I got Chad a decanter for Christmas engraved with “Chamy,” because, if you’re going to be preposterous, you should be all in. 

And yes, we actually use it. Not always, but more often than not. I’m not sure it makes drinking any better but it certainly doesn’t make it any worse. The only real downside is that I occasionally waste some alcohol if I spill it while pouring it into the decanter, and it’s sometimes hard to remember what booze is in the decanter–as we only have two decanters we don’t have one for each type of booze we regularly consume (but that’s certainly something to aspire to. Unfortunately, most of the decanters I’ve seen come with glasses and I love glasses but we definitely do NOT have room for any more glasses). 

So am I the kind of person who uses a decanter? Yes (even if I’m using it while wearing sweatpants). Do I appreciate a functioning dish drainer? Absolutely. Are my plates from the dollar store? Uh-huh. Are my towels matching and free of snags caused by cat claws? No way. 

I don’t know what deeper meaning this conveys about my essence: I’m silly, lazy, materialistic but feel guilty about my environmental footprint. I like to think I’m unconventional (no country duck decorating aesthetic for me) and artistic. I’m sentimental. I’m cheap. 

I’m not sure what I thought adult me would look like, but this isn’t quite it. My possessions do often make me confused and suspicious, but I’m not sure why.

Just don’t let me get buzzed and shop from the Hammacher Schlemmer site, or I may end up trying to figure out the existential meaning of a giant pepper grinder:

*I loved this song as a teenager, and saw the band in concert and got a t-shirt with this quote on it. I got extremely self-righteous/annoyed/defensive when my friends asked me what it meant.