Amy Lu's View

Friend: “Have you ever had your bone density tested?”

Me: “Not by a medical professional.”

Yeah, sometimes meaning gets lost as it travels from my brain to my mouth.

The women at our breakfast table who heard this exchange were, unsurprisingly, a little alarmed, perhaps even flabbergasted.

But there’s no need to worry, I haven’t had a bone density test conducted by a car mechanic, or a palm reader, or dog trainer, or some random or unqualified person (professional or not). What I meant to say is that I had a bone density test but it wasn’t done at a doctor’s office or a clinic–it was part of a work wellness fair. So it probably was administered by a qualified nurse, but I’m skeptical that it was as rigorous or reliable given the wellness fair setting. 

The woman who asked me about the test was one of my fellow hikers on a recent REI trip and we were with our group having breakfast at the lodge before the day’s excursion. Once I realized how ridiculous my response was, I did make a clumsy attempt at clarification. I’m not sure my explanation fully convinced them of the soundness of my life choices, but they did seem entertained. 

I was a bit embarrassed to have said something so silly, but I also enjoyed basking in the breakfast table spotlight. That’s the complicated life of being a desperate attention seeker–sometimes you have to embrace embarrassment if it leads to good content. 

I also got to enjoy the metaphorical spotlight a bit while telling the ladies a treasured family tale involving a Burger King fish sandwich and an artificial Christmas Tree (if you ask me I’ll tell you the story in person, but I’ll refrain from sharing it on the interwebs since it’s not really my story to tell). The ladies were a captive audience as we were all in the van taking us back from a winery visit. I felt a bit like I was channeling my mother (although I wouldn’t claim her prowess as a storyteller) and had flashbacks to a van ride where she regaled fellow passengers with story after story, including one about vacuuming up Hummel figurines. 

My story seemed to entertain my audience, which made me happy, even if my perception (and their enjoyment) was influenced by the winery experience. I hope people enjoy my tales, and I do try to be somewhat conscious of not dominating social spaces with my amateur theatrics–or at least not dominating conversations with boring stories. I try to leave some room for others to talk, or to just enjoy some quiet without my constant yammering. 

As much as I like attention most of the time, I do not like it when I’m demonstrating my lack of physical coordination. The hiking group learned this when I screamed “Don’t watch me!!” when I was crossing a stream on our trail. Okay, I didn’t literally scream it, but I broadcasted that message with every nonverbal cue I could give. (I did grudgingly acknowledge that the guides could watch me as they were literally being paid to keep an eye on me). 

Our guide told us we had three options for crossing: a flattened log bridge, some big rocks, or just walking through the stream. This stream crossing wasn’t something out of an Indiana Jones movie, but for our group, it was a little treacherous and dramatic, especially as it had been raining so the log bridge and rocks were a little slippery. I opted for a combo of the rocks and walking in the stream. 

If I had been by myself, I probably would have opted for the log bridge as most of the ladies did (it was even a flattened log) but as I am super klutzy, I was nervous to try it with others watching. Not because they would have mocked me if I fell–everyone was very kind and supportive–but they would have felt bad for me. Having people feel bad for me when I do something stupid is the worst. Okay, not the worst–that would be running out of wine–but it’s up there. 

Although…if I had fallen in the stream, that would have been fodder for a fantastic story, one that I would have no qualms about conversation monopolizing to tell. 

Then again, if I had fallen off the log or the rocks, I may have needed to see an bona fide medical professional. 

If you had asked me a month ago to sing the theme song to the X-Men cartoon from the mid-90’s (and I don’t know why you would), there’s no way I could have. I couldn’t have remembered it to save my life.

But when Chad and I recently watched the newly released updated version of the X-Men cartoon that featured the same theme song from the original 90’s series, I got chills. Chad and I both teared up and grabbed each others’ hands. 

Turns out, I DID remember that song. It was buried in my bones, and hearing it unlocked the memory. More than a memory, I was transported back in time almost 30 years, to the dumpy but beloved little house Chad and I rented in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. 

“That’s our courting song,” Chad said. “Well,” he amended, “we were already shacking up by then.” 

Nostalgia aside, this moment made me realize that we’re not the young geeks in love that we once were–and yet we are. It made me ponder how each individual is actually a plurality of people–not just across time, but at any moment in time. 

Or at least that’s how I’m going to craft the anecdote as I think about our monthly worship theme of pluralism and our service theme of love, and think about how I can connect the two. 

Certainly there’s value in loving pluralism, or loving different things and different people in different ways. But I find it most interesting (at least right now)  to think about loving the plurality of the same person or thing. To acknowledge, and maybe even accept and embrace, that there are aspects to every person that we will never fully understand or know, or like. This plurality applies to everything–from the natural world, to our jobs, and our church communities. And not only is everything a plurality right here, right now, every person and thing is constantly changing. 

Of course, that includes us. Each one of us is a big old mess of complexity. To quote Walt Whitman (and yeah, I can quote Walt Whitman and reference the X-Men in the same piece; that’s pluralism): 

“Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudes.)”

So we’re all a pluralistic multitude, and loving anyone or anything means we’re loving another multitude–so what? As Chad and I often ask ourselves and each other, how does this little nugget of wisdom change how we move in the world? 

On an interpersonal level, thinking about plurality and love might make me more compassionate and curious, about others and myself. It might make me more present and appreciative. Instead of just getting annoyed that someone gives me unsolicited tips about doing strength training, I can recognize that someone is both a nagging self-appointed personal trainer AND a loving spouse who wants me to be as healthy as I can be so I can be around as long as possible to watch superhero cartoons with him. 

And that makes me realize that there are a plurality of ways to love and be loved. We can love boldly and quietly, with ways that delight and annoy each other. It’s popular to talk about the 5 love languages but I think there are more like 5,000. No wonder things so often get lost in translation. 

It also makes me appreciate how fleeting and mysterious every moment of love is. Our messy multitudes will never come together in quite the same way ever again. I don’t think even the X-Men or any superhero could make that happen, no matter how awesome their theme song. 

Once upon a time, I was a sportsball fan–of the Minnesota Timberwolves.

No one was more surprised by this than me. I never had any interest in sports–playing or watching them–and was actively turned off my football. (Yes, I was a cheerleader in junior or high school, but without getting into too much of a digression, that wasn’t because of my love of sports). 

The seeds of my surprising fandom were planted when we got free tickets to a Timberwolves game courtesy of the law firm Chad worked for at the time. Although I wasn’t a fan, I’d go to a game for free. 

That game showed me that there was a certain excitement to a live game that I could get into. I learned there was a lot of entertainment happening beyond the actual game. Even if I wasn’t really paying attention to the game, I was a bit dazzled by Crunch (the Wolves mascot), and the music, and the video clips, etc., etc. 

Chad and I ended up going to a few more games because we thought it would be a cool thing to do with our Little Brother. Before long, I was officially interested in the Timberwolves. 

This was just a little over 20 years ago, the season (I think) before the Timberwolves got into the playoffs. Once the Timberwolves were good, I was hooked. I was actually a little obsessed with the playoffs. I even watched a game with friends at the Riverview Theater.

I don’t remember details about that game, but I remember the experience felt very communal. Every game I attended had a dimension of community to it, and even just following the games from a distance and being a fan made me part of a community. 

Chad was into the Timberwolves, too, but my main Timberwolves co-fan was my friend, Wanda. Already wise in the ways of sports, Wanda was more than happy to join and mentor me on my sports fan journey. We stayed fans for a couple of seasons after the Wolves hit their peak. We attended several games–sometimes in really good seats (thanks to Wanda’s job contacts) and sometimes in the really cheap seats. Wherever we sat, we always had a grand time–talking, drinking, cheering, laughing (and shopping. We bought so many shirts and other Wolves merchandise we could get a deal on). 

Eventually, my love of the Wolves faded. Being a fan takes a lot of time, and I got busy with other things–theater, running, being in bands. 

I never intended to be a sports fan, and I haven’t been one since. 

But now, twenty years later…the Wolves are in the playoffs again (conference semi-finals) and I’m feeling nostalgic. I can’t help but reminisce about my sports fans days of yore. I don’t think I’ll ever get into the Wolves as much as I did back in the day, but I certainly think it would be awesome if they won the championship. Although I didn’t know who Naz Reid was until yesterday, I feel justified in being a fair weather fan and jumping on the current Wolves Bandwagon. I’m even listening to the first playoff game as I write this. 

A lot of things have changed in 20 years…but I still get excited about thinking about the Wolves in the playoffs. And Wanda and I are still very good friends. 

And…I still have a Timberwolves shirt from back in the day to wear!

I am The Champion!

As I write this, I am entering the second week of my reign as The Queen of March Mammal Madness 2024. 

I won this year’s March Mammal Madness tournament by choosing the Great White Shark as the winner. 

Yeah, I won March MAMMAL Madness by choosing a fish. I’m sure this all makes sense, but I just haven’t put in the time or effort to understand March Mammal Madness. I just know that it’s based on a sports ball bracket thingy, and one of our friends organizes our participation in it. All I have to do is fill out a sheet that shows my picks for each bracket. 

I COULD spend time learning about the animals that are pitted against each other and thinking about my choices. And I did spend a little time thinking about my pick–if I didn’t know what an animal was, I occasionally Googled it. And unlike previous years (this is Year Four of Our Madness) I didn’t just pick animals that I thought were amusing or cool. I tried to think a bit about what might actually win. 

But I think it’s likely my opponents gave a lot more thought to their selections, so it’s kinda funny and awesome that I won. This could be a metaphor for the value of not overthinking things sometimes. But mostly it’s a little story about the randomness of the universe and how luck can sometimes negate hard work and knowledge. 

And maybe it’s an illustration of unconscious connection and meaning. I don’t think I picked the Shark because I’m into sharks…I  consider myself shark neutral…but writing this post is inspiring me to think about the cultural associations  and symbolism of sharks.

The first thing I think of about sharks is jumping them. Er, that sounds problematic or criminal. To clarify, I think of the phrase “Jump the Shark”–the point where an artistic or entertainment endeavor starts to go downhill in terms of quality, popularity, and/or integrity. It refers to the episode of “Happy Days” when The Fonz does a stunt where he literally jumps over a shark on water skis (The Fonz is on the skis, not the shark). 

I watched a lot of Happy Days in my youth, but I don’t know if I specifically watched that episode. I don’t have an opinion of how good Happy Days was before or after it. But I do wonder if I could, or have, or will, Jump the Shark. 

Maybe? But if I apply this to whatever “artistic” endeavors I have or will be involved in, I think it’s highly unlikely. Not because I’m artistically pure, but I don’t think the “math” adds up–I don’t have enough talent or popularity to Jump the Shark. I don’t think there is any song too cheesy for me to sing, to role for me to goofy to play, or any latch hook–wait, it’s already latch hook, enough said.

As long as I’m doing my best with something that I in some sense enjoy that I don’t find offensive, I think my artistic integrity is fine. 

So if my subconscious was encouraging me to consider Jumping the Shark through my March Mammal Madness pick–done. There are many other shark associations: Baby Shark, Shark Tank, “Sharks Don’t Get Cancer” (a book from 1992) but none of those really interest me (except Baby Shark, which I sang in story time long before it became a cultural phenomenon/parental scourge). 

But…there is Land Shark. 

I’m just going off memory here, but I fondly remember Land Shark as a repeating skit from the first years of Saturday Night Live (yes, I was a kid with insomnia and without a bed time). I think Land Shark would kill people by ringing their doorbells and getting them to let him in by pretending to be the Avon Lady. I’m not sure what the point of Land Shark was (the gullibleness of modern Americans? Our inability to recognize danger? Avon is scary? Everyone in the 70’s was high?) or why it was funny to anyone, much less a 7 year old (although in addition to the insomnia, I was likely also high on Sudafed).

If my subconscious is trying to tell me something, is it warning me not to be the victim of a Land Shark type threat…or am I Land Shark?

I think the lovely folks behind March Mammal Madness intend it to be a fun way to engage folks in science and to encourage learning about animals. They probably didn’t intend it to inspire middle-aged ladies to ponder cultural touchstones from their youth, or to look for messages from their subconscious. 

That’s okay, different goals, but not mutually exclusive…as long as we all agree I am the Winner, the Champion, the Queen, the Goddess, the Almighty Benevolent Potentate of March Mammal Madness (at least until next March).  

It’s the end of an era: Today StanLee chewed up one of his carry around sticks. 

“Carry around stick?” you might ask. “Don’t you mean chew stick?” No, as chronicled in an exciting previous installment of this blog, “Stick With It,” StanLee doesn’t chew his chew sticks. He carries them around (and buries them in various blankets) so they are “carry around” sticks. Until today, when he actually chewed one of his carry around sticks up. 

Whoa. 

StanLee and I are both still a little stunned by this change. 

StanLee has had this stick–one of a collection of three–for at least a year. Which is a pretty long time for a chew stick to not be chewed, and a significant portion of a 5 ½ year old dog’s life. 

So what was so special about today that it inspired StanLee to chew up one of his sticks? I have no idea. (It was one of his small sticks, so maybe the event wasn’t that monumentous, but this still feels like a big StanLee life passage). I just checked the list of today’s holidays and it is the beginning of National Library Week, so maybe that’s how StanLee decided to kick off the celebration? 

BREAKING NEWS…I spoke (well, blogged) too soon. I jumped to conclusions. StanLee still has half of his stick, and did NOT chew it up entirely. 

I was pondering if StanLee was following the advice we heard yesterday on a podcast to go ahead and make a change that we needed to. (Okay, Chad and I heard this advice while in the car so StanLee wasn’t with us but maybe we have a psychic connection with him so he mysteriously still got the message. Or, Chad hypothesized that StanLee listened to the podcast on his own–we have a voice activated smart speaker that might understand StanLee). But now that I know he only chewed half his stick do I need to abandon this theory?…No, a transformation doesn’t have to be complete for it still to be a change. And is change ever finished, or always in process?

Whatever the reason for StanLee’s new approach to his sticks, is he happy with it? As I don’t speak StanLee I can only guess, but I think he’s ambivalent…happy he got to chew his stick, but sad that it’s gone (or at least that half of it is). Now that he knows he can chew a carry around stick, will he chew his others? Again, we’ll have to wait and see, but he has spent the afternoon industriously trying to hide and bury the remaining half of his stick. 

Choosing what to carry, and what to let go, and what to try to preserve, and what to savor, and what to hide, and how to enjoy something–those are all big philosophical and spiritual questions for a puppy (and a human) to chew on. 

(*Alternative Title: “Carry On My Wayward Puppy”–I really like this but thought it might be too obscure)

I made this cake today!

April Fools’! 

Yes, after recently challenging (forcing, to be more accurate) myself to write holiday-themed blog posts for thirty days in a row, here I am, once again blogging based on a holiday. Blogging, for a holiday that I’m not particularly into (I don’t think April Fools’ Day was much of a thing in my youth) with a “hoax” that isn’t particularly impressive (or funny). 

But, I haven’t blogged in a while, and I’m starting to feel a little desperate to. So, I took an easy route–and it would be quite stunning, (for many reasons, including the fact that we use our oven for cracker and chip storage) if I made a cake. 

Assuming I had the graphic art skills and wanted to put the effort into it, I could have come up with a hoax/joke that was more interesting. But putting aside the question of time and talent, the jokes I can think of feel a bit hatery (“ha ha–wouldn’t it be funny if I implied I was into football because I’m so not into THAT”) or like a New Year’s Resolution in reverse (I gave up drinking!…I cleaned and organized our house!…I’m no longer mindlessly snacking…NOT!)

I even thought of a hoax that made me feel like a sad failure: StanLee and the cats now get along and we no longer have to live in a house with a permanent barricade!…Sigh. 

Despite what I just wrote, I’m really not depressed by April Fools’ day. Mostly, it’s fun, and a little inspiring, to think about the Hoax Amy–the person I’m currently not, and don’t really want to be, but maybe will be someday. 

Really, what’s the difference between an aspirational and a hoax persona? Motivation? Humor? Time? Deep fake skills?

Or maybe I’ll just become totally accepting of who I am right now. 

April Fools!

I learned a lot from my mom: to be generous, and loyal, and tough, and funny, and to always keep one’s hair dyed. (I’m not saying I excel at all of these life lessons–except for the hair dyeing–but I appreciate their value). 

One thing I did not learn from my mom was how to helpfully talk to young people about sex. 

I’m thinking about this because today would have been my mom’s 88th birthday (all I can say is “wow”) and I spent the morning co-teaching a sexuality education class for middle schoolers at our church. 

Our curriculum is fantastic. The philosophy of the program is to provide youth with accurate and comprehensive information, so they can make healthy decisions. 

My mom’s approach to talking about sex wasn’t harmful–she didn’t portray sex as bad or shameful–but what she had to say was rather weird and confusing. 

My mom’s slogan about sex was: “It only takes 30 seconds.”

Okay, maybe it’s not accurate to characterize “It only takes 30 seconds” as a slogan, but my mom did say that a lot when she was musing about why other parents would have a curfew for their teens. Her logic was that sex only takes 30 seconds so having a curfew wouldn’t stop teens from having it. 

So I never had a curfew, but there was also absolutely no chance that I was going to have sex in junior or senior high (not because I was smart or virtuous). And just because I didn’t have an official curfew didn’t mean that my mom didn’t freak out if I didn’t get home by the time she expected me to (ah, life before cell phones). 

I never had the fortitude to ask my mom to clarify her take on the duration of sex. Was she talking about 30 seconds from beginning to end, or just “the highlight”? No matter how one defines “sex,” saying it only lasts 30 seconds does make sex seem rather disappointing, or at least unremarkable. 

When I remember something about my mom or my youth, I’m used to going to my sister as a source of confirmation: “Did mom tell you sex only lasts 30 seconds, too?” 

Of course I can’t do that anymore, and that’s hard. And now I not only miss my mom on her birthday, but I’m learning it’s a day when I feel the absence of my sister even more sharply. My mom’s birthday was always a day when I felt more connected to my sister, because I knew we were two of the people in the world who missed my mom in similar and profound ways. 

I won’t use this blog post to try to solve the mystery of why and how sex could only last 30 seconds, but I know that grief and love last longer. 

“Wow, you really don’t know how to follow, do you? I gave you a pretty strong cue about which way I wanted you to turn and you went the opposite way. You had to work harder to NOT follow me than to follow me.” 

Chad offered this evaluation a couple of Sundays ago after he attempted to spontaneously dance with me at church. (Yes, we have that kind of church). 

Chad wasn’t wrong. I always have an extremely hard time following his lead when we dance. We’ve even taken dancing lessons a couple of times throughout the years and I still struggle with following. 

This isn’t because I’m trying to be difficult or contrary. I’m not making a philosophical statement against patriarchal gender norms. I think I’m just highly uncoordinated and have little body awareness and or proprioception (sense of where my body is in its physical environment–yes look at me using a fancy science word!). 

Despite, or maybe because of, my awkwardness, our brief dance was fun and funny for us, and possibly endearing for onlookers. 

I’m also bad at following directions. Obviously, with my lack of a sense of geographic direction, those are hard for me to follow because I don’t really understand where I am in time and space. But I also find following multi-step procedural directions, especially for techy things, tedious and stressful. 

I do think I follow orders pretty well, especially if they’re simple, clear, and I don’t have any moral objection to them. At work, I often prefer to just be told what I need to do, without detailed explanation.  

I’m frequently not great at following the plot of whatever TV show or movie we watch, especially at home–I’m usually just not paying enough attention. 

It’s probably obvious that my chosen holiday for today has something to do with following: Today I’ve chosen to celebrate “Courageous Follower Day.” It’s inspired by the book “The Courageous Follower: Standing Up To and For Our Leaders,” by Ira Chaleff, which I’ve never read (and have no intention to). At best, it sounds like corporate babble, and worst, it sounds culty. 

But there may be something to needing courage to be a successful follower. I may have trouble following Chad when we dance because I don’t have the courage to dance without worrying about looking like an idiot. 

It’s my birthday, so I’ve made it to another year!! Yay!

Yes, this is me putting a bit of a forced positive spin on my birthday and growing older. But even though it’s cheesy, birthdays are worth celebrating because another year is another gift. And in a way, making it to another year is a bit of an accomplishment, too…which is how I’m going to awkwardly and inelegantly tie my birthday to Finisher’s Medal Day.

No, I’m not saying that with this birthday I’m finished, but that there are a lot of victories and triumphs to celebrate in life that we don’t get medals for. I’m really proud of my marathon finisher medals and the hard work it took to earn them, and thankful for all the good fortune in my life that made it possible for me to complete marathons. And I’m really grateful for (and also sometimes proud of) the things that have gotten me this birthday. I don’t want medals for these small victories–we’re already out of space for the actual running medals we have. 

Is this attempt at connecting Finisher’s Medal Day with my birthday a bit tortured? Indeed! But I’m just relieved to have finished this blog post (and before midnight so it’s still my birthday!)

On Read Across America Day, we should celebrate everywhere, in all communities, in all types of venues. 

So I celebrated by reading in a Bingo Parlor. 

Yes, artistic license alert–I wasn’t actually in a bingo parlor–just a local bar/restaurant that has Bingo every Saturday afternoon. But this is some serious bingo action, almost THREE HOURS of bingo, so I feel it has a “parlor” ambiance. 

And okay, reading bingo cards might not be considered robust reading, but as a librarian, I get to say reading is reading and should be celebrated and upheld in all its forms. There were letters involved in today’s endeavor, so I call it reading. 

And I won $49! I was triumphant in the next-to-the-last round, when I had just about given up all hope of winning. My victory was especially sweet because I won with the card I got free because it was my birthday month. 

The goal of the round I won was to get a “six-pack” pattern. Since I’m a bingo novice, and because I was talking more than I was paying attention to my cards, I almost missed it when I got bingo. Luckily the friend sitting next to me was able to verify that I did indeed have bingo. (I did not want to be “The Lady Who Cried Bingo,” the less popular companion to “The Boy Who Cried Wolf”).

Winning at bingo on my Birthday Eve feels like an auspicious way to close out being 53 and ring in 54. 

Is this next year going to be a good one? BINGO!