Amy Lu's View

I am trying to imagine the version of the Multiverse where my mom is alive and we’re celebrating her 85th birthday today. In this reality that we’re currently in, my mom died when she was 64 and I’ve spent her last 21 birthdays without her. (Disclaimer: I’m sure I deeply misunderstand the science of the multiverse and am going to make many infuriatingly wrong statements about it).

“I’ve come to find that traveling the multiverse produces the same effect as a gnarly hangover induced by tequila, very distinct from one brought on by wine or whiskey. I have some experience with the former, more with the latter”*

― M.K. Williams, The Infinite-Infinite

What would my mom be like at 85? Assuming she was healthy, and able to still do the things she did before she died, would she still faithfully watch “Days of Our Lives”? (is that even still on…Googling…Yes! I think it is). Would her favorite food still be cheap gas station donuts? Would she still love to read Harlequin romances? Would she still go on day-long shopping excursions for no real reason? Would she still iron all her t-shirts and sweatshirts? Would she still dye her hair? Would she still constantly ask me what my work schedule was?

Yes, I’m centering myself in my mom’s story. I find it almost impossible to imagine what my mom would be like without the context of how she would be relating to me and my life.

And what would I be like if my mom was alive now? What would I be like if she had been an active presence in my life for the past 20 years instead of a beloved memory? What new things would she have taught me? How would it have changed me if she had been alive to share the past 20ish years with me? Who would I be without this huge whole in my heart?

Of course I can’t know what I would be like, or what my mom would be like, or what any of the people whose lives she would have touched would have been like if she was still living–even if I did have a scientific understanding of the multiverse. I’m sure in some ways I would be a “better” person and in other ways, “worse.”

What I can do is to try and be my best self in this version of reality. I can be inspired from my thirty years of knowing my mom to be feisty and strong and loyal and generous and loving and unabashedly delighted by small joys such as unremarkable donuts. I can be inspired from my twenty years of grieving her loss to be more empathetic and compassionate.

And if I’m feeling particularly bold and weird I can try to imagine that version of 2021 reality where my mom is alive and on Facebook. (I’m not sure if I can even fathom her texting).

*No, I have not read this book, I just Googled quotes about the multiverse. But now I am rather motivated to read the book…and to try more tequila. I AM well-versed in both wine and whiskey hangovers.

I’ve done running streaks and writing streaks, so this year for my birthday, I tried a “fashion” streak. I wore my birthstone color, aquamarine, for 15 days in a row, starting the week before my birthday.

There was no higher meaning to my streak, besides that I’ve always been a little obsessed with theme dressing, especially in honor of my birthday, and I like taking selfies.

And I really like birthdays–my birthday, but your birthday, too. I love a little unofficial holiday and how birthdays are always popping up. I love the inspiration to celebrate all of the little things in life that bring us joy and to be reminded of how lucky we are.

Being intentional about appreciating small blessings seems especially important this year around the anniversary of widespread awareness of Covid and lockdown. My 50th birthday will always be somewhat linked to the pandemic onsent as the Chamy 50th party was the last big social outing I and many of my friends had in 2020.

This year my birthday was obviously very different and pretty lowkey, but it was also really nice–sincerely, in the true sense of the word. The weather was lovely (at least for early March) and Chad and I did an outdoor Happy Hour at a local distillery, got takeout from a favorite local restuarant, and watched the movie “Coco.” (Watching a movie is special for us because we usually watch episodic TV. And yeah, maybe a movie about mortality was a little too appropriate for my 51st birthday but it was beautiful and short and I stayed awake during it–even after Happy Hour).

So I had special drinks and food and entertainment and clothing. (Okay, not really–it was all my own “regular” clothing, but I needed some type of segue).

The “rules” of my streak were rather haphazard and developed along the way:

• I got to define what qualified as “aquamarine” and I’ve always been very inclusive for my birthday color–everything from teal to blue-green fits.
• I had to actually wear the outfit for at least part of the day–no just putting something on solely for a selfie.
• There was no minimum amount for how much of the color I wore, as long as it was noticeable (althought it did need to be more than just jewelry/and or eyeshadow), and I did not need to be monochromatic.
• I had to wear something different every day–I could include something I wore previously, but I couldn’t wear the exact same outfit twice.
• I could only include one selfie per day (choosing the “best” was not easy! And while I do like taking selfies and am super thankful for my new phone’s portrait filter, some days I just did not have selfie-mojo so committing to one every day no matter what involves throwing out some self-consciousness).

When I started my streak, I had no plans for how long it would last, and it’s just luck (NOT fate!) that I ended up with 15 days, which turns out to be a even number of selfies to fit in a WordPress photo gallery.

I am a little sad that I have clothing that did NOT make the streak, but I ran into limitations caused by weather and working at home–some of my clothing was just too chilly or “fancy/dressy/not comfortable” to wear while working at home in early March. I also had to leave out an old beloved aqua zip-up hoodie that would have been perfect that I can’t find.

I said there was no profound significance to my streak, but is there meaning in the color aqua? Of course…if I consult the interwebs:

The color aqua soothes your soul and creates an instant sense of home and belonging for you. You are highly creative and likely discovered at a young age that you are gifted with many talents. Multiple talents are both a blessing and a curse because at times you may have difficulty choosing which one to focus on or pursue…People gravitate toward your warm and confident demeanor paving the way for you as a natural leader and communicator. You present a pulled-together vibe that attracts attention in all the right ways. Perceptive, intuitive, and sensitive you are a good judge of character and can quickly size-up any situation.

https://thelandofcolor.com/my-favorite-color-is-aqua-meaning/

I don’t know if wearing aqua for 15 days soothed my soul, but it certainly didn’t agitate it (well, okay, I did get a little stressed about what I was going to wear). I didn’t really need a sense of home since I was actually at home pretty much the whole time.

Perhaps my aqua streak is most illustrative of how I can create a sense of having a project or a mission out of almost anything. I know many have struggled with boredom during lockdown but I’ll never truly be bored as long as I have to make clothing decisions.

Winter has never been my cup of tea (although I have consumed many, many cups of tea this winter).

Not only do I not like being cold, but most outdoor winter activities seem to require a level of grace and coordination that I’m not confident in trying to demonstrate. Ice is not my friend, or even my benign companion. Yes, I know many runners successfully run in the winter on icy sidewalks and trails, but that’s just not a risk I feel comfortable taking.

I’m also not really into activities that involve speed in any way. Not surprisingly, because of the combination of cold and “danger” (at least perceived), I’ve only been sledding once or twice in my life. So I completely get Toad’s resistance to going sledding in the story “Down The Hill”–he would much rather be safe and cozy in bed.

Toad is eventually coaxed into going sledding by his friend Frog because Frog promises to be on the sled with him. And with his courage buoyed by the presence of his friend, Toad ends of up having a great time sledding–until a bird points out to Toad that he is actually sledding all by himself (because Frog fell of the sled a ways back).

Thanks, bird.

Once Toad realizes he is on the sled all alone, he freaks out and crashes. But before that, he DID have an awesome time sledding, and maybe he even will try it again someday?

Like Toad, I have often found courage because I have backup–from friends, family, bandmates, co-workers, castmates and friends from theater, fellow MSUS church members, fellow TBTL podcast fans, my Facebook running group, and Chad.

Knowing that I’m not alone has inspired me to try everything from ziplining (okay, one “adventurous” thing I’ve done) to singing a solo to taking a promotion.

Knowing that I’m not alone can also be a little stressful–while I love having the support of others, I also don’t want to let them down. This is especially true when it comes to performance, when everyone in a show or a band is supporting, and relying, on everyone else.

If I had the skills and patience, I could try and create a Venn diagram to show how all my various communities of support overlap. Or maybe a web of connection holidng me in its center would be a better visual.

Our theme at church for February is “Beloved Community.” When I started this post, I didn’t think it would be about community–I thought it would be mostly about courage (and a chance to complain about winter). But as I’ve been writing I’m discovering how much “community” IS about “courage.”

Not only does community give us courage, it also takes courage to be in community. This can happen in profound and important ways, as in MLK’s idea of “Beloved Community” that calls us create a just society. But “beloved community” with a small “b” is important, too. Sometimes we need those mundane times when we’re nudged to get out of our comfort zone (to go sledding, either literally or metaphorically) or just do something we’d rather not because it’s important to someone who is important to us.

So go ahead, try something new or scary or uncomfortable–someone’s got your back. Just watch out for naysaying birds.

Sometimes all it takes is a trivial accomplishment to make me feel quite proud: I felt rather successful recently when I made my hair really big. 

I have aspired to “big” hair in some incarnation throughout my life (I WAS a teenager in the 80’s). Of course “big” is relative, especially in regards to hair, and varies greatly by time and place. My definition of Big Hair probably wouldn’t even get on Tammy Faye Bakker’s radar (yeah, I could have gone in a lot of directions with my choice of a Big Hair Celebrity icon but decided not to spend too much time agonizing over my selection so please just accept it and move on). 

Most recently, I have sought a version of Big Hair that is some variety of messy hair “bun”. Perhaps part of me is trying to embrace the librarian stereotype. 

My attempts to construct this look are usually thwarted–I don’t have the skills or hair texture to achieve my dream. Or maybe I’m just too lazy–I’m sure I could get lots of bun creation tips on YouTube, but I really resist doing research or following directions. I also don’t want to use too much hair spray. 

But somehow, all the hair stars aligned recently and I experienced Big Hair Triumph and created a big (at least for me) “bun” for my Zoom coffeehouse performance. (Disclaimer: I am using “stars aligned” with artistic license and NOT to imply that I believe in fate, destiny, true love, or double spaces between sentences). 

My best guess at the hair bun equation looks like this:

Unwashed hair (X 3 days) * 2 minutes of teasing + a smidge of hair spray = maximum Amy Hair Bun Height

Hmm, maybe a recipe would have worked better to capture the process. Or a haiku. Either way, I doubt I’ll be able to recapture the glory. 

At least my unicorn Bun can live on in selfies. 

Which leads me to another quasi-mathematical/artistic/spiritual mystery: Why am I so frequently wearing my one and only plaid flannel shirt in my best selfies? I DO like the shirt (it sports a big She-Ra Warrior Princess design on the back) and it is in some of my favorite colors, but plaid flannel is not my usual look. (I did deliberately choose it for this particular coffeehouse performance because I felt flannel fit the hoe-down feel of my song, “Home” by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros).

I guess my She-Ra flannel shirt is just so awesome that donning it increases the chances that I’m going to feel snazzy and be more likely to think I look stylin’ in selfies. (I won’t say wearing the shirt makes it more likely for me to take selfies because that would be like saying the shirt makes me more likely to breathe).

Happy Chinese New Year!

It’s the Year of the Ox, so I celebrated by finishing my latch hook of a…llama? 

Um, yeah. Okay, it was just a coincidence that I finished this llama on the day that Chinese New Year’s Festival began. I really only know that Chinese New Year started because Garmin gave me a badge for doing a workout. 

And I mean no disrespect to Chinese New Year, or Oxes, (I’m woefully ignorant of both–well, I don’t know anything about llamas, either, come to think of it) but right now I’m willing to grasp at any chance to celebrate anything (and to have a blog post topic). 

I also learned from my mother, an elementary school teacher, to “celebrate” (or at least put up tacky decorations for) whatever holiday was at hand. Now, I’m pretty sure she was unaware of Chinese New Year (at least for most of her life–we’re talking rural Wisconsin many years ago) but I think she would still appreciate seizing the opportunity. 

Although…I’m actually a little annoyed with February for going overboard with the holiday action: Chinese New Year, Valentine’s Day, Presidents Day, AND Mardis Gras all in one week…slow down there February! Don’t be such a festive overachiever! Ration those holidays a bit so they last a little longer.

Okay, I wasn’t actually likely to celebrate Presidents Day (besides being happy to have a day off and thrilled that Trump is no longer president–hmmm, maybe I SHOULD celebrate! Well, I did wear my Wonder Woman sweater which looks very patriotic) or Mardis Gras/Fat Tuesday (another holiday that I didn’t know about until my 20’s and although it’s a cliche, every day feels like “Fat Whatever” day in lockdown), but still. 

I also want to give a little love to the much maligned Valentine’s Day. Yeah, I get it’s super commercial, and the emphasis on romantic love and heteronormative coupling can be pretty damaging (or at least annoying). Sending nothing but peace and love to single folks and those who just aren’t interested in the whole Valentine’s Day paradigm, but it will always hold a fond, sentimental place in my heart way beyond its “romantic” connotations. I remember loving Valentine’s Day, and finding it a hopeful sign that winter was actually winding down, way before I was praying for a boyfriend. I do certainly like a little “romance” but I also just love the whole Valentine’s Day aesthetic–hearts and pink and purple and all that. And I love getting and sending Valentines. 

But back to Chinese New Year (which I appreciate for lasting 12 days so I have more or a window to get a more or less timely post in). 

When I think of what an ox represents, the first thing that comes to mind for me is “strength”–as in, “strong as an ox.” 

Strength seems like a good thing to pause and appreciate–the strength I get from friends, and Chad, and the podpets. Strength I get from online socializing and entertainment and church, and latch hook. The strength to keep going through these strange days and and the strength to NOT drink the whole bottle of wine (okay, that’s a bit symbolic because I am usually drinking wine out of a box right now and/or drinking bourbon) and/or eat the whole box of crackers (#lowbar). 

One of my favorite tank tops that I frequently work out in is a Women Run the Cities shirt that sports the motto, “Where strong is beautiful.” I am far from embodying this sentiment (I’m physically not very strong and I usually hope for thinness rather than strength) but I still aspire to strength–physically and symbolically. (MAYBE by this summer I will have a bicep or two to show off when I wear a tank top).

AND of course, being vulnerable and admitting you’re grumpy, cranky, or just in general a bit of a mess, can be strength (OR just self absorption–it’s a fine line that I struggle with).  

AND if there is ever a cute colorful latch hook kit of an ox I am all over it. Or a latch hook kit of Joe Biden, as long as the colors are purple and pink.

AND if there ever is a Year of the Llama, I am all for a year of extreme adorableness (although, again, being totally ignorant of llamas other than seeing them at the Minnesota State Fair they could actually be total bastards). But I’m also all in for a Year of the Cute Bastards. Cute Strong Sentimental Bastards. 

Send me a card for that.  

Oh, and in case you are wondering…according to the Chinese Zodiac, my sign is the Year of the Dog. I’m not sure how closely I fit the traits of someone born in The Year of the Dog, but 2020 was definitely “The Year of StanLee.” 

We’ve all misheard song lyrics. When I was a bookseller in the mid-90’s I peddled countless copies of “’Scuse Me While I Kiss This Guy: And Other Misheard Lyrics,” and I’ve had some doozies of misheard lyrics myself. I even had a little blog post about it in the early days of the Pandemic. 

But I think Chad wins for the cutest misheard song lyric ever. 

When Chad was just a little Chad (about seven or so) he thought the line in the song “Jet Airliner” by the Steve Miller Band was “Big Old Chad and the Rhino” instead of “Big Old Jet Airliner.” 

“Oh Big Old Old Chad and the Rhino, Don’t carry him too far away.

Oh, Big Old Chad and the Rhino, ‘Cause it’s here that he’s got to stay.”

–“Big Old Chad and the Rhino”

The Rhino is the least ridiculous part of that, as Chad was neither big or old in any sense. 

As a birthday present for Chad this year, I thought it would be a hoot to surprise him with a rendition of “Jet Airliner” as “Big Old Chad and the Rhino” for our church Zoom coffeehouse. 

I was inspired by our friend Polly recently doing a kickass version of the song “Amy” by Pure Prairie League. Of course I love that song because it’s called “Amy”*–even if the sentiment expressed towards the Amy in the song is ambivalent at best. My enthusiasm for “Amy” led to a discussion about how we didn’t know any Chad songs, and I thought, “Ah-ha! I know ‘Big Old Chad and the Rhino’ “. 

Fun idea, but as usual, execution of my plan was harder than I thought.

It was really hard to keep the song a surprise during quarantine when we’re both always home and to find a time and a place to practice when Chad wouldn’t hear. Eventually on Saturday (coffeehouse day) he asked what I was doing that night and I said I couldn’t talk about it. He then purposely wore headphones and hung out in the basement so I could practice. So I guess the surprise itself was ruined–he knew he had a surprise–but he was genuinely surprised by what it was. 

And, as frequently happens, the song itself was harder to perform than I expected it would be. Mostly I was stymied by trying to sing the melody, which was more complex than I thought a goofy 70’s tune had a right to be. In the end I decided to just barrel through with the assumption that my audience probably wasn’t all that familiar with the song beyond the chorus.

I also decided at rather the last minute–Saturday morning on the day of the show–that I couldn’t just change the lyrics to the chorus. No, for the song to have any chance at lyrical cohesion, I would have to also rewrite at least some of the rest of the lyrics for the song to create a narrative whole. 

Um, yeah. Copyright issues aside, as we’ve learned from some of our theatrical experiences (including a recent show at the Landmark Center) coming up with new lyrics and making them fit into the existing melody and rhythm of a song can be awkward at best. 

Still, I forged ahead, and transformed “(Big Old) Jet Airliner” from a song about a 70’s rock star deciding he needs to give up life on the road to a song about Chad always being very happy to be at home in Minneapolis with me.

I even worked in a reference from our beloved podcast “TBTL” about Chad spending time with his “Eleven” (spouse) in quarantine. Original lyrics: “But my heart keeps calling me backwards, As I get on the 707.” My lyrics: “But his heart keeps calling him backwards, in lockdown with this Eleven.” Yes, I was pretty proud of this bit of lyrical acrobatics. 

“Big Old Chad and the Rhino” is an ode to domestic bliss…as long as you don’t think too hard about it, or wonder what is up with the Rhino. I’m sure it’s a metaphor for something really profound and deep. 

*OMG I just learned from Googling that the song is actually called “AMIE”!! I tried to spell my name “Amie” when I was kid but my mom told me to knock it off because that was pretentious. Okay, I don’t know if she actually used the word “pretentious” but she definitely conveyed that sentiment. And I’m not saying it’s pretentious for people who actually were given that name to use that spelling but I agree with my mom that it was/is/would be pretentious for me. 

On an unseasonably warm Sunday afternoon in early November, I had my last sticky bun at Smith and Porter, one of our favorite local restaurants/bars. (Yes, we were enjoying our Biden/Harris election victory drinks and sticky buns outside on their patio for COVID safety). 

I didn’t realize then I was having my last Smith and Porter sticky bun. That’s the way it usually is with “lasts”–we don’t know the end is coming or that things are going to change until after it happens and we’re looking back.

Recently we learned that Smith and Porter closed permanently.

Damn.

I’m not a good enough writer to accurately describe these sticky buns or what made them so wondrous. Certainly part of the attraction is that they were vegetarian. I most loved the amazing texture of the buns, but words escape me…were they Gooey? Fluffy? Spongy? The buns were filled with a cauliflower mixture that was just the right balance of spicy, sweet and tangy. (There’s the extent of my career as a food blogger).

We’re saddened not just, or even primarily, by the loss of the sticky buns, or even the smoked Old Fashioneds, we would order there. We’re missing a space we could go and unwind and reconnect (they were right by Chad’s office and StanLee’s doggy daycare so super convenient location for us). We’re missing the chance to connect with the staff who knew us as regulars and the other patrons. (And of course the closure is a huge loss for the staff and we hope they’re okay).

People have lost so much during this Pandemic–everything from loved ones to jobs. So many restaurants, bars and music venues have closed. I’m so fortunate that some of the most significant losses for me have only been the ability to order sticky buns and to wear my pre-pandemic pants.

While we are so blessed not to have experienced any big losses, it does seem right to pause and acknowledge our small ones. 

Yes, we can probably find another place that makes good sticky buns. We will certainly find another place where we like to drink.

But I would like to have as a takeaway from all these losses–big and small–to more fully appreciate what I have now. To appreciate every metaphorical sticky bun as the last. Not to encourage morbidity or hedonism–Not “Extra sticky buns and a double shot!” (well, okay, sometimes that)–but to encourage presence and gratitude.

Ideally, realizing any sticky bun could be my last will lead to paying attention to said sticky bun and the people who create and serve them.

I’m certainly not the first person to espouse the nugget of wisdom that “You don’t know what you’ve got til it’s gone.” From a quick Googling it may indeed have been Joni Mitchell in “Big Yellow Taxi” who expressed the sentiment with those exact words, but I’m sure humans have wrestled through the ages with how to really appreciate the transient joys of life. 

While I’m inspired by the idea of the Last Sticky Bun to be more intentional about fully embracing life, I think it’s more than likely I will continue to take delights–both big and small–for granted. 

Still, I’m going to try. 

And I’m going to fondly recall those sticky buns of yore. I’ll savor every delicious memory of them, as well as all the good times and good conversations, and even just okay times we had at Smith and Porter. Thank you, Smith and Porter for your sticky buns, and the whole lovely milieu you created for them. 

Here’s to you, bygone sticky buns. I’ll raise a glass (likely repeatedly and not metaphorically) to you and in hopes of discovering and appreciating “sticky buns” (perhaps metaphorical) of the future.