Amy Lu's View

“Pura Vida” is emblazoned on t-shirts and a plethora of other souvenir items in Costa Rica. It’s a popular saying/greeting/slogan/mantra/catch phrase/philosophy that literally means “pure life.” To pay tribute to the popularity of “Pura Vida,” I want to reflect on my Costa Rica experiences through that lens.

“Pura Vida” usually has a connotation of being relaxed and care-free, but for me it’s more meaningful to think about experiences that were pure and unadulterated by distractions. Experiences where I came closer to being in the present.

When I think about Pura Vida this way, what comes first to my mind is my adventure in zipling: Pure Terror/Exhiliration.

Before we went to Costa Rica I was relatively set on ziplining, something I had never done before and that I found moderately scary. It had the appeal of novelty and excitement. Since I had been very casually toying with ziplining for years, how cool would it be to do it in Costa Rica? It seemed the perfect stretch activity for vacation, something new that would challenge me but not paralyze me with fear. (AND something that didn’t involve water…as I can’t swim— yes I know, gasp, gasp, what?!— I can’t swim so even snorkeling— which I did do in Belize and am glad I tried but don’t really want to do again— is too scary).

Wisely, we committed to a zipline tour early on in our vacation (Day 3) so I didn’t have a chance to chicken out or get too hungover. And it was everything I hoped for: I WAS scared, but as I was ziping through the trees, I was mostly in the moment (beyond the relatively quiet internal voice chanting “You’re going to die, you’re going to die” and then, as I got more confident, the voice chanting “This is going to make an awesome Facebook post/blog!”).

We had the choice of a zipline that would be one long, high zip over the ocean, or a series of shorter, lower zips through the trees. We chose the series of short zips (11?), so I had the chance to freak out during the first few (the downside being that at one point early on I wanted to walk away and I didn’t want to do any more) and then to settle in and enjoy the later zips.

In addition to fear, I had to push through my embarassment: embarassment about my fear, and embarassment that I couldn’t reliably remember from one zip to the next what I was supposed to do. How was I supposed to jump up and get on the line? Why was it so hard for me to jump up—okay, I’m not a body builder, but shouldn’t my upper body strength be more or less in proportion to lifting my body? Why couldn’t I remember which hand was supposed to go where when only 10 minutes had elasped between zips? I even did one of the last zips with my hands in the wrong position, so that I was breaking with my left hand instead of my right (obviously not a fatal mistake).

And why did it make me even more embarassed that the the staff were young, cute, nice men—Young enough to be my sons? Probably because no matter how old I get, I’m always going to carry the awkward 13-year-old girl I was around inside myself, and honestly, I’d miss her if she went away. Despite my/our embarassment, my 49 AND 13-year-old selves really appreciated how patient and competent the zipline tour guides were. Most importantly of all, they were very willing to take photos of us.

The guides also imparted the key lesson of ziplining: It’s important not to go to fast or too slow. It seems obvious that going too fast would be a problem, as one doesn’t want to smack into a tree (okay, more likely a guide, but still not cool and definitely embarassing). But I had to fight my inclination to go to slowly because I was scared and overcautious.

Although going slowly sounds harmless (at least to me), it turns out that in ziplining, it can lead to getting stuck. You could literally end up “trapped” on the line between your starting point and your destination and have to climb backwards up the line. I can’t even imagine how scary, difficult, and embarassing that would be.

I don’t think one has to be an English or Religious Studies major to see the possibilities to turn this ziplining wisdom into an analogy or life lesson.

“We had joy, we had fun, we had seasons in the sun”–Seasons in the Sun, Terry Jacks

How can those profound words from that classic 70’s song of my childhood NOT run through my head when I think about our recent vacation to Costa Rica? (I’m slightly worried that I’ve already used this song as blog material, but it IS so profound and poignant, and I think I just referenced it in a photo caption: https://wordpress.com/post/amyluedtke.wordpress.com/144. But I promise, I won’t blog about this song again!…at least for 6 weeks.)

Okay, we didn’t have a season exactly, we had a week, but it was a glorious, sun-drenched, booze-infused week that felt removed from our ordinary time and space. So in some ways, definitely a season.

And did I write “booze-infused”? Why yes, and let me explain with three word: ALL-INCLUSIVE RESORT. Three exhilarating and dangerous words. Happily, we made mostly relaxed but wise choices. I gained 3-4 pounds over the week, which I think is evidence that I indulged enough not to feel deprived/stingy but not so much that I now need rehab/detox/fasting (at least not too much more than I usually do).

I can’t possibly experience a week of buffeting (NOT buffering) without thinking about another profound song, “A Little Bit Of Everything” by Dawes.

“I want a little bit of everything,
The biscuits and the beans,
Whatever helps me to forget about
The things that brought me to my knees,
So pile on those mashed potatoes,
And an extra chicken wing,
I’m having a little bit of everything.”

Wow. I almost DID have a little bit of everything (not chicken or other meat besides a ton o’ fish) on the buffet and as much as everything of the week that I could–sun, pool bar time, people watching, ziplining, looking for monkeys and sloths, enjoying awesome and cheesy dance shows, trying to give as much love to the bands that were performing without being stalkers as possible, karoake. AND “downtime” with Chad (at least time I didn’t plan out TOO much).

I actually did NOT have a little bit of every available alcohol, mostly because I’m a snob and calorie phobe (so no-fruity drinks or bacardi) but did have PLENTY of Costa Rican rum (with and without Diet Coke–trying to order Diet Coke in Costa Rica, what an Amy hardship), guaro sours, red and WHITE wine, and gin and tonics.

While I love the Dawes’s song, all this reveling in a little bit of everything wasn’t to forget things that have brought me to my knees out of pain and sadness (or at least not primarily that) but to remember the things that have (okay, metaphorically, or else I would need knee pads) brought me to my knees in wonder and awesomeness. And to experience more of those things.

Now back to a song…I just can’t quote the Terry Jacks’ song without including my brother’s version of it:

“We had joy, we had fun, we had seasons in the sun, but the cops had the guns, and they shot us in the buns.” –-Seasons in the Sun, Charley Luedtke

Which of course is just a really brilliant, metaphorical way of saying all good things, in fact everything, including time at all-inclusive resorts, end (did I mention we spent a lot of time by and in the pool drinking and discussing “Why Buddhism Is True” by Robert Wright?) Luckily no cops, no guns, but my butt was really sore from an extreme water-taxi ride.

Today turned out to be a self-improvement day. Sort of.

• I ran my “long run” (2 hrs, 15 minutes) for my half marathon training plan. But…it really sucked. My pace was the slowest it’s ever been on such a run, the weather was rather crappy, my heart rate monitor wasn’t working, and I’ve got blisters on my toes (a new ailment).
• I tried to learn a little Spanish using the app Babbel, but my performance was pretty abysmal. I am hopeless when it comes to learning the forms of “estar.”
• I’ve been eating chips nonstop ever since my run, negating any health benefits, and probably not helping with learning Spanish.

Pissed off Sprouty B

Chip debris

Hmmm, I guess a list of three failures doesn’t seem all that noteworthy afterall…and I DID spend some quality time with Sprouty B (one of our poor neglected cats) and caught up on some old saved Facebook posts. (OMG so many recent memories that I’ve already forgotten in addition to profound feels, like the Rolling Stone article about the Best Buffy episodes that reminded me of how Buffy’s mom died just a few month’s after mine).

So did tonight bring me closer to my “Best Self” or send me further away? In my faith community of Unitarian Universalists, we’re a ltitle obsessed with our Best Selves. It’s both inspiring and annoying.

The popular culture (at least in liberal circles) also seems obsessed with “authentic selves.” I’m ambivalent about embracing and embodying my authentic self, too. Is my authentic self my best self, or are they in fundamental conflict? Creative tension?

What if my authentic self is just a bitch?

And then there is the whole idea of “whole self,” or “bringing your whole self to work.” (Have I blogged about this before?) I was super skeptical of this idea when I first heard it. Now I have more understanding that it’s potentially really important for people who have felt they’ve had to hide part of their culture or identities to fit in with the dominant white and straight culture at work. That’s definitely NOT cool.

But really, no one probably needs or wants ME to bring my whole self to work, or anywhere else. I don’t even want that. Yes, I love the idea that you (anyone) would love my whole annoying-ass self no matter what, but still, some self-censorship is good. If you want unconditional love and acceptance, get a pet. (Perhaps not Sprouty B).

How did this rant spring from my self-doubt stemming from a bad (really a series of bad) runs? I don’t know, but the Beatles song “Getting Better All the Time” keeps popping in my head. (And yes, this is a song that takes a light-hearted approach to being a domestic abuser, definitely NOT cool).

“I’ve got to admit it’s getting better (Better)
A little better all the time (It can’t get no worse)”

Well it could get better, OR worse, and vary from day to day. Both the little and the big things.

Maybe what’s most important is that I try to get better, whether or not it’s my most authentic or best self driving the bus. And luckily, I probably don’t even need my whole self to do it (most of me can probably even stay home and eat chips).

I really don’t want to be one of those stereotypical Midwesterners that’s obsessed with the weather. I even manage to (mostly) refrain from Facebook posts about it.

BUT COME ON. THIS FREAKIN’ WINTER. I mean, how many times can a woman run out of salad and/or wine and survive?

So our recent week-long vacation in Cape Coral, Florida, with our wonderful friends the Frasiers, was a gift, a reprieve, a restorative blessing. We experienced warmth, and sunshine, and saw our exposed skin. I even had so much salad that I was frantically trying to finish it off the morning we left by eating it for breakfast. (I refrained from having wine for breakfast).

The only downside of a lovely vacation is that it doesn’t necessarily provide good blog material. Maybe sunblock also blocks writing inspiration. And yes, I continued my tradition of poorly applying sunscreen so that I had sunburn in strange shapes. Perhaps a correlation with how my thoughts take strange shape in writing?

Maybe unhappiness is just more interesting than contentment, or at least many of us have learned to think so. The greatest art is always about tragedy and grief, right? My only vacation tragedy is that I was attacked by f#$%in sand fleas, by merely standing on a beach for 30 seconds.

And I don’t what the deal is with sand fleas, but their bites get worse over time and last forever (mine are finally fading after a week). Sand flea bites are way worse than mosquito bites, and I am a connoisseur of mosquito bites. Even Chad was bothered by the bites and noticed they got itchier days after the initial attack. It’s like the fleas were gaslighting us.

(OMG in “researching” sand fleas for this I just discovered you can get SAND FLEAS THAT BURROW INTO YOUR SKIN TO HATCH EGGS!!)

Oh yeah, and we couldn’t get into a Tiki Bar. Well, actually we got in, but they ignored us and wouldn’t even take our drink order after 10 minutes. To paraphrase an awesome John Hiatt song, “Thank god the tikki bar’s still open, but screw them for ignoring us.”

So except for being gaslighted by sand fleas and dissed by a Tiki Bar, our vacation was wonderful.

Chad has pointed out that I’m not very good at relaxing and doing nothing, but I was pretty close to not doing much on this vacation. I ran, I drank, I ran some more. And yes, this sounds just like my normal life, except it’s basically all I did.

And this vacation drinking was no normal drinking, it was DAY drinking. That relaxed, luxurious, indulgent, “I’m drinking at 2:00 in the afternoon because I don’t care because I’m not responsible for anything” drinking. No one here is responsible for keeping the dog alive or shoveling drinking. Day drinking followed by evening “It’s okay if I go to sleep at 10:00 p.m. drinking” because why even pretend anymore?

I actually DID almost accomplish one very vacationesque activity: I almost READ a whole physical book. This is in contrast to the fact I normally only listen to audiobooks, which I am not at all ashamed of, but it is nice to mix it up a bit sometimes.

We also branched out into some new touristy territory, and visited the Shell Factory and Nature Park with our friend Ken (thanks, Ken, for introducing us to this amazing place!). I can’t do the Shell Factory justice toward the end of a blog post (lots of shells, a huge tacky gift shop, weird creepy taxidermy), except to say that their website aptly describes the place as “dizzying.” It really made me want to revisit another cultural mecca, The House on the Rock. I was also really glad Chad didn’t go look at the snakes in the “nature park” because they looked like they could escape from their “aquariums” at any moment.

“I’m coming for you….”

Check out the cobwebs and peeling ceiling

I really do love being a Midwesterner and am proud to live in Minneapolis, and I even think there are some benefits to being emotionally repressed and passive aggressive. But thank god the Tikki bar’s still open, even if they won’t serve us, and I’m glad we have our Florida vacation home booked for next February!

I basically missed New Year’s this year. We were deeply immersed in “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof” rehearsals and even had (much needed) rehearsals on New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day.

So I’ll use Chinese New Year’s as an opportunity to do a little reflecting and pondering. One month into the 2019 calendar year, resolutions or goals just don’t seem like the most useful approach. Rather, 2019 is inspiring many questions, including:

• What will running look like for me in 2019? In 2018, I ran TWO marathons and logged 1700 miles. That makes me feel pretty bad-ass, and a little sad because I just don’t think that’s feasible (or even physically and mentally healthy) for 2019. There’s no question that I’m going to keep being “a runner” (barring unforseen calamity) but how will that play out? I was hoping I would have decided on some goals by now, but I’m still trying to be open to how things unfold. I do have a goal of running at least 1200 miles this year, which is only 100 miles a month, and I’m definitely on track for that. But do I want to run the TC Marathon in October again? Maybe more half marathons? Just try to figure out the Doctor Who running club or just get my past medals properly displayed?
• How awesome will it be to get to play the character Claire again in the new, full-length version of “Broken Hill”? In June I get to reprise the role of Claire, which I’ve played in three different iterations of “Broken Hill” by local playwright and friend, Jim Lundy. Claire is a character near and dear to my heart (she’s hyperactive and talks a lot and has dead parent issues), so I’m terribly excited, and nervous, to bring her to life again. It’s always so hard to say goodbye to a well-loved character, so the opportunity to play Claire one more time is wonderful and a little terrifying. What if I’m not as good at being Claire as I was before? What if having Chad be my director and play my love interest causes too much backstage drama? Should I crimp my hair again to play Claire, and can I still find my 1980’s-era hair crimper? What if I’m just too old to be Claire again? Mark your calendars for June 13-15 so you can catch a performance and find out for yourself. (And Bonus: I also get to act in another, brand new, Jim Lundy script and play Laura at the end of this March!)

• Should I have a “party” to commemorate the 10th anniversary of my participation in community theater? This is an idea I’ve been kicking around for a while…actually, my first non-high school theater adventure was in 2007, when I was in our church’s production of “Our Town,” but obviously I missed the boat on celebrating in 2017. And I think I can justify a 2019 celebration by saying that’s the anniversary of my first non-high school, non-church production (with Duck Soup) and that’s when I really started this theater thing in earnest. I definitely need to celebrate and take stock of this milestone in some way…perhaps just myself with some good wine and bourbon and some blogging, and/or some type of communal activity. If I go the social route, I want it to be a fun acknowledgement of all the awesome people I’ve met through theater, without being a big whoo that is in anyway stressful for me or participants. But as theatrical endeavors make me so wiggy because I have very little control over them (that is, I can’t make people cast me) and full of self-doubt because I never know how good I really am, I think stopping to appreciate what I have done will not only be fun but a good mental health exercise.
• Speaking of self-doubt…what about this new job, promotion thingy? And can I SFW blog about it?
• Will I become a successful pet owner with a well-trained, sleep-through the night puppy and cats who aren’t hiding in the basement?
• Will I ever use Babbel regularly enough to learn at least a little Spanish before we go to Costa Rica in April?
• Will I ever remember that Chad and I DON’T have the same Chinese zodiac sign, and that he is NOT the Year of the Dog? He’s the Year of the Rooster.
• Will I ever stop consuming so many empty calories from chips? I don’t consider wine/bourbon/any alcoholic calories to be empty–they always at least have a story. (Actually, a bag of chips usually has a story, too).

There are many things I never thought I would do in my life. Buying a pregnancy belly band is definitely one of them.

To be more accurate, I could never have even imagined that I would buy a pregnancy belly band because not only did I never want or plan to be pregnant, but until a week ago, I didn’t know such things as pregnancy belly bands existed. But like so many things that I’ve learned during the past ten years, my invovlement in a community theater play was the catalyst for this discovery.

In the play Chad and I were recently in, “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof,” I portrayed Chad’s very pregnant (and very bitchy but that’s not necessarily related to being pregnant) sister-in-law Mae. So I knew when I accepted the role that i was going to need to wear a fake pregnancy belly. But I didn’t know that my “pregnancy” belly would actually just be a “fat” belly.

I’m very thankful to the other theatre company that loaned it to us, but my fake fat belly was very challenging to pass off as a covincing pregnancy belly. It wasn’t properly proportioned and it was lumpy and uneven.

(It also didn’t include any fake boobs, which I feel I definitely need to be a healthy looking pregnant woman–perhaps any woman but that’s another issue. Yes, I DID try to create fake boobs but that could be a whole different blog post and was also very challenging. It wasn’t simply a matter of stuffing my bra with socks, although socks and my very ancient, highly padded “Magic Bra” were involved.)

Fake pregnancy now = polka dots

And fake pregnancy then also = polka dots!

And my fake fat was itchy and annoying and strangled me and was a pain in the ass to put on. Oh how we suffer for our art!

Now, this wasn’t my first time in the playing pregnant rodeo. I proudly played Lilly the mouse’s pregnant mom in “Lilly’s Purple Plast Purse” at Lyric Arts back in 1963 (or something like that). But as Lilly’s unamed mom I was only pregnant on stage for about a minute and there was an in-house actual pregnany belly that I got to wear. (Looking back at the photos, though, I still seem to be lacking in pregnant boobs…it seems to be all about the polka dots, though!)

Anyway, how ever could I make THIS fake belly less lumpy and more secure? Would Spanx work? I made a special trip to Target (yes, I realize a trip to Target is hardly special for me but I was in a time crunch and wasn’t about to go too far afield) to see what I could find, but I was dubious. How would something fit my regular body and my special asset?

As I was mulling it over, revelation struck: THAT’S the whole point of maternity clothes! AND I had a dim memory of accidentally stumbling across maternity undergarments at different times in the past…I would just need to check out the maternity section.

Now where the heck WAS the maternity section in the recently remodeled Friday Target? I was short on time, short on time…I couldn’t wander around Target forever…I would…gasp…HAVE TO TALK TO A SALESPERSON!!!

As a rule (and there are always exceptions), I dread and fear talking to salespeople. That’s why I shop at Target.

And I really did not want to ask anyone, including a Target employee, about maternity clothes. This is NOT a judgement on anyone else’s life path, but for me, presenting the possbility that I was an almost 50-year-old pregnant woman was absurd.

“Oh, get over yourself,” My inner sensible person said. The salesperson is NOT going to be interested enough in you to 1) scrutinize your age and fertility prospects and/or 2) consider why you want the maternity section. You could be looking for a gift.

So I asked, and I found, not only the maternity section but the wonderful inventions of pregnancy belly bands that were intended to hold and support (and smooth?) pregnant bellies, real or fake, of various sizes and circumstances.

I was still too self-conscious to go through the checkout line of Scott, a long-term, regular Target Fridley employee with my pregnant belly band.

Yes, my biggest takeaway from this whole experience may be that I’m a little too familiar with Target Fridley.

When I think about being in a play, I usually think about what my on-stage experience is going to be like.

Of course, much of an actor’s theater time is spent off-stage. This was especially true for me in the recently closed “Cat On a Hot Tin Roof,” a three-hour (with intermissions), three-act play where I played the supporting character, Mae. (Fondly known as the very pregnant, very bitchy sister-in-law). As Mae, I spent about 2 hours of the show (most of Acts 1 and 2) NOT on stage but backstage.

Being backstage can be quite a unique and unusual experience. Simultaneously boring and  nervewracking. I’m not talking about any backstage drama (at least not on-the-record) but simply what it’s like waiting for your time to take the stage.

I don’t know how actors of yore did it without smartphones. I used my smartphone primarily to peruse the Facebook, while I saw other of my fellow cast mates play Solitaire and text friends and family.

Of course there are dangers to killing backstage time with smartphone-zoning. This hasn’t happened to me, I swear, but I’m worried that I might get so engrossed in Facebook that I’ll miss a cue. Or, more likely, I won’t miss a cue, but I just won’t have my head in the game because I haven’t been fully present and I won’t give my all to my scene. So I try to give myself plenty of transition time from smart phone to stage to focus.

There are also still times when having a smartphone backstage isn’t an option. This was the case for me during a signficant portion (20 minutes? 30 minutes? 3 days?) of the second act of “Cat,” as light from a backstage smartphone screen might have been visible onstage.

So in effort to pay more respect to a part of the theater experience that usually gets ignored, here are some of my top “Backstage During Act 2 of ‘Cat’ Thoughts:”

• What am I going to eat tonight when I get home?
• What am I going to wear tomorrow?
• Holy Sh$% I can’t believe I’ve got a new job/promotion!
• (This only happened the night I was offered new job): Wish I had a chance to talk to Chad about job offer before rehearal started. When will I finally get to tell him? What will he say?
• Am I insane for accepting promotion?
• What am I going to eat tonight when I get home?
• Damn, it’s cold back here.
• Did I rub the makeup off my tattoo?
• I really want to take a nap.
• I CAN’T take a nap! I MUST STAY AWAKE!!!
• Did I fall asleep? Did I miss my cue?
• I can’t wait to eat and drink when I get home.
• What are my lines for the next act?
• I really hope we don’t f%$k up the next act.
• Wow Chad sounds amazing.
• Did Chad really hurt himself? (Chad’s character, Brick, fell onstage)
• I wish I was as good of an actor as Chad is.
• Big Daddy (the character) probably has colon cancer just like my mom did.
• My died when she was 64, a year younger than Big Daddy is.
• My mom frequently said she had a spastic colon, just like Big Daddy.
• Damn, this show is depressing.
• When am I going to wash my hair next?
• When am I going to dye my hair next? I want to time it well with upcoming Florida vacation and my birthday.
• How long until I am home and able to drink and eat?
• Argh, my fake boobs are slipping again.
• The tag in my pregancy belly really itches.
• I have to remember to walk like I’m pregnant when I’m on stage.
• How goofy is StanLee B going to be when we get home? How late will he let us sleep tomorrow?

It’s the first miracle of 2019: Our trivia “team” Ed’s Angels won first place last week at Wander North’s Trivia Mafia’s trivia. (And YES, to answer my husband’s first question, there were other teams there, including ones that usually win).

Let me state clearly that we mostly go to trivia to drink. And to hang out with each other, of course, in a nice, mellow and comfy environment (the most awesome Wander North Distillery) that serves tasty drinks. And the Wednesday night trivia host, Colin, is simply the best.

We aren’t even able to go all that often, unfortunately, because of other commitments and life. In fact, this was our (it turns out TRIUMPHANT) return after a long absence. Among other things, it was the first time I was play-rehearsal free in weeks!

My point is just that we are NOT hyper-competitive die-hard trivia afficianados. Sure, we do our best, and we celebrate our small victories in the individual questions we are surprised we get right, but we don’t expect to WIN. The most we can usually hope for is third place (and the weird prize, like one ticket to something or one notebook that really doesn’t make sense for a team). A team of Millennials (or even younger folkers, members of Generation Z?) usually takes home the first spot and the coveted Wander North gift certificate.

We actually didn’t think we did all that well on our night of victory. In a wonderful life lesson, there were some rounds we were pretty confident about and others where we were totally guessing at.  Our answer “Woot Moot” seemed indicative of the night:  a complete guess (or was it “Moot Woot”) that was totally wrong but we liked how it sounded. (The question is way too complicated to explain, not sure I even understood it at the time). So we certainly didn’t think we were nailing it or were in first place.

Maybe I should take some space to clarify the life lesson I think was illuminated: Sometimes you don’t know how you’re doing…you may be doing better or worse than you think, but you should just do your best and have fun. And you just might win. I think there is even a connection here with a Hindu principle the Law of Action and doing what you need to do without being attached to the results. (Pretty sure there is less drinking in the Bhagavad Gita then on a typical trivia night).

In another emodiment of a life lesson, we probably won precisely because while there weren’t any rounds that were in our typical sweet spots, nothing was a total blowout for us, either. The middle of the road served us well. And Wanda knew most of the answers.

(Not speaking for the whole team, but my personal sweet spot of categories seem to be author, geek, mythology, and even history-related. I completely suck at questions about celebrities, unless they are celebrities for geeks, sports, anything related to geography, and life after 1990).

When we found out our final score was “46” I think we all harbored secret hopes of placing third. I actually was afraid that we would tie for third or second and I’d be forced to participate in the tie-breaker. This is always some numerical guessing game (think of the Price is Right) which I totally suck at but I’m the only Angel who will go up front.

Thankfully, no tie-breaker was necessary. Victory was clearlyours. We got to experience the unaccustomed thrill of victory, but can we gracefully transition back to our status quo? Can we savor our triumph while still maintaining our healthy attitude to trivia? That is, can we go back to having fun while we lose? Can we still appreciate the occassional third place?

Studying Hinduism might help…and there is always socializing and alcohol to carry us through.

It’s Epiphany! This means it is still technically “The Holiday Season” so I can still share my Christmas Letter without it being tremendously late. I can even make a thematic tie-in, as an “epiphany” can mean a sudden realization, and learning is a type of realization, and the theme of my Christmas letter (which I wrote long before I knew I wouldn’t get around to posting it until the last day of the Twelve Days of Christmas) is “learning.”

Random fun fact: The gift that the protagonist recieves from their true love on the Twelfth Day of Christmas in the song “The Twelve Days of Christmas” is TWELVE DRUMMERS DRUMMING! But you really only need one drummer, ME. And I even set my drumset back up tonight (finally, after our Dec. 20 show). 

So as the holiday season officially wraps up, here is my Christmas Letter that I mostly sent to loved ones not on the interwebs, repurposed as a blog post.

Happy Holidays! I hope this finds you happy and well. It’s tricky to sum up a year, so I’m going to concentrate on some things I’ve learned in 2018. I’m also going to refer quite a bit to other posts in my blog where you can read even more about our year!

Things I learned this year:

I really love inspirational quotes about running (especially as temporary tattoos). This year we ran two marathons, Grandma’s Marathon (Two Harbors to Duluth) in June and the Twin Cities Marathon in October. Grandma’s Marathon was my second and Twin Cities was my third. (Chad’s been doing the marathon thing longer). I’m still insanely, and yes, annoyingly, proud of running these two marathons. The experience of running each marathon (26.2 miles) was intense and emotional, but it was the training that I did to prepare for each marathon that was really profound (and hard and boring and time-consuming). As one of my favorite running quotes says, “If you want to change your body, exercise. If you want to change your life, become a [marathon] runner.” I also really love writing about running, so please check out my blog if you have even the slightest desire to find out more of my thoughts about running. Exciting posts include Ultra Asinine, Kooky, Etc. and Not Your Grandma’s Marathon. Our marathon completion times:

• Grandma’s: Amy–4:02:48, Chad–3:35:11
• Twin Cities: Amy–4:03:55; Chad–3:34:03

Playing a character that does horrible things is really fun. This summer Chad and I got to be a very dysfunctional (one could perhaps even say “despicable”) couple in the one-act, ‘The Body Politic,” written by local playwright Terry Newby. Our characters drank way too much, shamelessly seduced each other, and then blackmailed each other as the socio-political environment around them devolved into chaos (NOT autobiographical, really!) I got one of the best acting compliments I’ve ever received for my portrayal of my character, Stacy: “I didn’t like anything about you, not one thing, except how you looked in that red dress.”

It actually may have been my year for playing “bad” girls. Chad and I played gangsters in our spring Duck Soup show and played John Dillinger and his girlfriend moll for a Halloween haunted gangster tour. I also played a bad girl, or at least a sassy and really mean lady, when I played a dying elderly woman this fall in “The Shadow Box” (Don’t Let Those SOBs Pass You Buy). I did not get to wear a sexy red dress but I did get to sing a bawdy song and yell “Put some balls into it!” (perhaps my favorite line from a play, ever). Chad and I even tackled Hamlet and Ophelia in an excerpt (and Chad was AMAZING) and while Ophelia isn’t bad, she’s definitely disturbed. I did portray one somewhat “normal” character in a short one-act about middle-aged parents dealing with their daughter, literally, flying the coop.

I can still rock out with a smaller drum set. I’ve had one and only drum set—my red Ludwig Rocker set—since the summer of 1987. So it was a big deal when I got a new Questlove Breakbeats glittery silver set in February that is much smaller (but still mighty, or at least mighty enough for me) and easier to transport (Retro Rockin’). Drumming is one of my favorite things in the world and it energizes me without making me that stressed or filled with self-doubt (I believe others might call that being in “The Zone.”) I think Chad really enjoys playing guitar because he only swears occasionally when he plays and likes to spend a lot of money on guitars. We are extremely lucky that we get to continue to play and perform with our cover band Clusterflock. (People often ask what type of music we play…basically whatever we want to and can figure out, so everything from Amy Winehouse to David Bowie to Jason Isbell).

We also get to “stretch” ourselves by being in another band, Pigeons From Hell (we’re stretching because I play keyboards and sing a little and Chad plays a fair amount of bass). Pigeons started as a Pretenders cover band a couple of years ago but has morphed into doing mostly original songs.

If you want to take a crash course in patience and humility and cuddling and sock-saving and feeling guilty about your cats, get a new puppy. Just a month ago, we adopted a new dog, StanLee Booker. He’s a small (dachshund/min-pin/corgi?) mix, about 6 months old. He’s wild, adorable, chews EVERYTHING (including a bookshelf) and really wants to chase the small angry puppies (formerly known as the cats) who now permanently live in our basement. (To All the Pets We’ve Named Before).

I’m counting on StanLee to give me lots of blog inspiration!)

We got StanLee about two months after our dog Olive died from old age and a rare form of skin cancer. Olive was the last of our first cohort of pets (Poopie, Rogue, Jube, and Oscar) so her death was the end of an era. We’ll always miss our treasured furry companions and they will never be replaced, but we apparently can’t go too long without pet-fueled drama and hijinks. (Thanks to all my friends for NOT laughing at me for getting a new dog so soon after declaring how I was going to revel in the freedom of a dog-free life for a long time).  

It’s cool that I have a job where I’m always learning new things and I do work that I didn’t even know existed 10 years ago. I didn’t just learn this in 2018, but I wanted to assure everyone that I’m still employed as an online service librarian for Hennepin County Library. This means my job has lots of variety and flexibility, I don’t work directly with the public, and I’d be happy to talk to you about website usability or children’s books.

Please check out Chad’s law firm’s website for confirmation that he is doing well on the job and career front: http://rubriclegal.com/).

Everything I ever needed to know I’ve learned from Doctor Who. Again, I didn’t just learn this in 2018, but it was confirmed/reaffirmed by farewell speech of the Doctor as played by Peter Capaldi. So for those of you that aren’t Doctor Who geeks, that’s where the saying “Laugh hard. Run fast. Be kind” on our Christmas cards come from.

Hope we all keep learning in 2019!

Just a few weeks ago, I had no idea Top the Tater was a real thing.

It was only on my radar because it was the “jail name” (name assigned by Animal Control) of the little dog we wanted to adopt.

When a friend suggested that “Top the Tater” sounded like an “adult” party game, it sounded plausible to me. So I was relieved and bemused and a little disappointed when I finally learned that it was, obviously, a topping for potatoes. Maybe it’s more a Minnesota thing?

Regardless, we had committed ourselves to adopting “Top.” We hoped he wasn’t actually attached to the name “Top the Tater” and that we could change it (as another friend said it would be the worst pet name ever), but we were prepared to adapt.

We didn’t have to adapt, though, at least not when it came to our new little dog’s name. He didn’t know his jail name, and his foster mom had been calling him “Eddie” which he hadn’t learned yet, so he was open to whatever.

Which meant we had to decide on a name! Choosing a pet name is fun and exciting, but hard. You want something cool, and unique, and fun, but yet something that will actually work. Something you can imagine yelling at your pet when you want him to come in or stop doing something annoying.

So, drumroll (which I can really do) please…we settled on the name “StanLee Booker.” “‘StanLee” in tribute to Marvel comics god Stan Lee who died just 10 days before we adopted our new little guy, and “Booker” as an homage to one of Chad’s favorite bourbons. We actually thought about just calling him “Booker”, or after one of our other favorite bourbons (including “Michter” or “Russell.” We contented ourselves with calling his first, and very short-lived, toy “Russell.”).

We had many good options, but “StanLee Booker” felt the best. No, we didn’t expect to use his middle name for everyday use, but we definitely wanted to get bourbon in there somewhere. We also like how “StanLee Booker” sounds like an old blues singer. (We do have aspirations we’ll eventually be inspired to write and perform “The Blues of StanLee Booker.”)

With StanLee, we’re returning to our Marvel comics roots of pet-naming. Our very first Chamy pets were our cats Rogue and Jubilee, named after X-Men. Our first dog, Oscar, came to us from the resuce organization pre-named, but we stayed literary with our next dog. We got Olive at Christmas time so named her after the book “Olive the Other Reindeer” (ditching her jail name “Nutmeg” as fast as possible. I think that’s way worse that “Top the Tater”).

When Rogue and Jubilee left this mortal coil, we really agonzied over what to name our next cats. A mother-daughter duo, we wanted names for them that went together. We were stumped, until we were both hit by inspiration in the middle of singing “Jackson” for our student Johnny Cash tribute band. As we sang “we got married in a fever, hotter than a pepper sprout,” we thought, hey, let’s call our new cats “Pepper” and “Sprout.”

Not sure how successful we were with their names, though, as they usually get called by their nicknames more than their real names. It’s not terribly creative, but as Pepper is Sprout’s mother, she usually gets called “Mama.” And it’s probably rather offensive, but I started call Sprout “Kitty Boo Boo” which has been shortened to just “Boo.” Yes, I was “inspired” by watching Honey Boo Boo with my brother’s family so for some reason thought that was a good name for my cat. And lately, I have unintentionally started calling Sprout “Jube,” the nickname for our long deceased cat. I may have just officially lost my mind.

We haven’t started using a nickname for StanLee yet, and maybe we won’t. Rogue was always Rogue. We’ll actually, Rogue Kitty, but I think that was because we realized she needed a longer, more formal and serious name. As I mentioned, Jubilee usually got shortened to “Jube” because she needed a shorter, less formal name. (Chad just reminded me that’s NOT entirely accurate. We often called Jubilee “Jube-a-loo-who” or “Jubester-whoo.” So not a shorter name, but definitely more goofy).

Oscar quickly became “the Dude” which had absolutely nothing to do with “The Big Lebowski” (I’ve never even seen that move although people often assume that was our source material). And Olive was frequently referred to as “Wife,” because she was Oscar’s wife (of course). I wonder if that got a little confusing and weird if anyone heard me yell “Wife” or “Wife, shut up!” out our backdoor. And for some inexplicable, and adorable, reason, Chad started calling Olive “Olive Magoo” or “Olive McinsertadjectiveherePants.” This may be the only time Chad has ever celebrated his Irish heritage.

Hmmm, I think I’m realizing that we’ve often found our pets have needed longer names, so we may me on the right track by starting off with a two-name moniker for StanLee Booker. We are trying REALLY hard NOT to call him “Dude” out of respect for Oscar and to save our remaining sanity and tend to go with “Little Man” when we need to.

Okay, okay, okay, but how IS StanLee? He’s just about so-cute-we-can’t-stand-it adorable, and also a little shithead. He’s hyper, he chews EVERYTHING (including  a freaking BOOKCASE), and the cats are traumatized and living in the basement. And we already can’t imagine life without him.

And maybe someday I’ll actually have some Top the Tater. I will definitely have some Bookers.