Amy Lu's View

I’m not a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. 

Obviously–I’m not a teenager, or a ninja, or a turtle. But I feel I really stray from the path of the TMNT because I don’t eat pizza very often. 

But the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles love pizza, so I’ve been thinking about them on National Pizza Day. This is a day that would make them very happy, and the Turtles have definitely made us happy throughout the years. In the early years of Chamy Chad was quite into the Turtles, and one of the first presents I ever got for him was a Turtle comforter–which we still have, and which StanLee often snuggles with in my/his office. 

(Chad’s favorite Turtle is Michelangelo, in case you’re wondering. And yes, I feel like a good spouse for knowing that). 

So I planned on celebrating National Pizza Day by reminiscing about the Turtles, and NOT having pizza.

But Fate had a different plan for us. 

Yes, I’m attempting to be amusing. I actively dislike the idea of fate, destiny, God’s will, etc., so I don’t think there was any cosmic plan for us to eat pizza today. But…when Chad came home with free leftover veggie Pizza Luce pizza (I think a Uncle Rico’s Jalapeño Popper Pizza), I couldn’t say no to it.

Yes, I had to do some soul searching and recalculation of my eating plans, but in the end my cheapness won out (l couldn’t pass up free good pizza) and WE HAD PIZZA ON NATIONAL PIZZA DAY!!

It was yummy–not super spicy as described to Chad, but noticeably spicy and definitely tasty. And did I mention free? 

Maybe the Universe does have a divine plan for my blog after all!

After Chad and I graduated from college, we packed our bags, and headed off to…Iowa. 

Yeah, sometimes I wish we had ventured off to someplace considered more exciting and glamorous, and that we had spent our youth being slightly more adventurous. 

But Iowa was good to us. (And, if I had lived somewhere farther away from my ancestral home in Wisconsin, my mom and dad wouldn’t have been able to visit us as often as they did, and as it turns out, I didn’t have that many years left to spend with my mom before she died). 

Iowa was a land of firsts for us–the first time we lived together, where we got our first pet (our dearly departed cat Rogue), where we first watched “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” tv show, first used the interwebs, and had our first (and probably last) maid rite sandwich. I think we had our first pizza with artichokes in Iowa (Chad was not a fan). 

We had a lot of beginnings in Iowa. I started walking regularly, which eventually led to me running. I went to graduate school at the University of Iowa and got my Master’s in Library Science, and had my first library job and did my first story times at the Cedar Rapids Public Library. Chad went to Law School. We got engaged in Iowa. 

We knew some lovely people in Iowa, including our landlord and landlady, who owned the little house we rented next door to them. We drank our landlord’s homemade wine with them, and he comforted me when my dead Stanza got towed by explaining the vehicle circle of life to me (it was off to the scrapyard).

We lived in Iowa for 4 and a half years (briefly in Marion and the rest of the time in Cedar Rapids). These are just a few of the sweet and funny and silly memories I have of Iowa, so I’m throwing myself into National Iowa Day with enthusiastic nostalgia. 

I’m a runner. 

Nothing too exciting or revelatory there, as I talk, post and blog incessantly about running. Still, accepting that identity was a process, as I had to wrestle with questions of if I ran fast enough, or seriously enough, to claim the “runner” label. 

I’m a runner, and I think anyone who runs–whatever that looks like for them–and wants to say they are a runner, is a runner. 

But am I “in sports?” 

This is the question I’m pondering on Women in Sports Day (I’m not questioning if I’m a woman, although I support folks who are questioning or reconsidering what that means). 

“Sports” suggests a level of competitiveness and organization that I don’t think apply to me. But, since I got an email from Twin Cities in Motion (which I’m affiliated with from running the TC Marathon and other races) wishing me a “Happy Girls & Women in Sports Day” I guess I won’t be too much of an imposter if I embrace my Sporty Spice persona.

I’ve thought (and blogged) a lot about running, so today I want to focus on the value of running (sports) for women, girls, and anyone who’s felt that being physically active wasn’t for them. As someone who spent most of their youth feeling mostly fear and loathing for physical activity, I’m so grateful that I finally discovered that running is an option for me. 

I’m still super self-conscious about participating in group sports and demonstrating how uncoordinated and awkward I am. Just this weekend I shared an elementary school memory of hitting a student teacher in the head with a softball on Track and Field Day, and I don’t think my “sports skills” have improved since then. But at least now I have some appreciation for my body as something more than just the vehicle for transporting my brain from place to place. 

My body is also useful for wearing my racing medals. 

Hey there, Reader of My Blog Post! You clearly have great tastes in blog reading! Happy Pay a Compliment Day!

I love being complimented. I may love it a little too much, and I may have a slightly unhealthy desire for praise and affirmation. I’m sure this is related to my love of performance…you can’t compliment me if you don’t see me, after all. 

Compliments seem like they should be simple to give and receive (“Hey, I like this about you!” followed up by “That’s neato, thanks!”), but I think for many of us they’re not. As much as I love getting a compliment, my self-doubt and insecurity often gets in the way, and a little (or not-so-little) voice inside me wonders if I just got a back-handed compliment (even unintentionally). “Hmmm, you think I did this thing really well this time…does that mean you usually think I suck at it?” 

And giving compliments can feel hard, especially if I’m in overthinking mode. If I compliment someone’s hair, will they think I’m shallow and only value them for their physical appearance? Or if I compliment their jewelry am I materialistic? What if my compliment sounds trite or insincere? 

Compliments can fall flat, but I still want to err on the side of over giving them. I want to actually let people know I like them and what they do and how they move through the world, even if the compliment is about something small and trivial. And I do aspire to give more meaningful compliments that show I’m really paying attention and appreciating something unique about someone. Being a good compliment giver seems like an exercise in awareness and gratitude–tuning into the big and little awesome things about people, including strangers, acquaintances, and those who are close to me.  

If you notice I’m getting better at being complimentary, please feel free to compliment me on that!

I don’t have as much appreciation for the Clash as I ideally should. I did get more knowledgeable a few years ago when we were in a student Clash cover band, but I’ve never really thrown myself into a Clash Consciousness Project. 

So to observe International Clash Day today, February 5, I’m pondering a song by The Hold Steady that gives a shout out to Joe Strummer. 

“Raise a toast to St. Joe Strummer
I think he might’ve been our only decent teacher
Getting older makes it harder to remember we are our only saviors”

–The Hold Steady, “Constructive Summer”

As I get older and older (less than a month away from turning 54) I love this lyric more and more. As the years pass, it can be so easy to forget that we are our only saviors, and that we still have power and potential. There is a lot to debate in what a “savior” is or what “salvation” means, but I think the really key point is that we have to do this work for ourselves and for, and with, each other. (Chad just pointed out that I’m referencing many of his sermons with this take on salvation). Whatever we mean by salvation we can’t give up just because we’re no longer young (and we can certainly welcome the young to help us out, and to maybe help them out, too). 

If we are our only saviors, we have to admit we need saving (or at least help), and try to be there for each other–even if it’s only in small ways.

I think this is charmingly and beautifully (and a little disturbingly) illustrated by the recent response to Elmo’s tweet (https://www.cnn.com/2024/01/31/health/elmo-checking-in-x-wellness-cec/index.html) asking how we’re doing. (Yeah, yeah, I know it’s no longer “Twitter” or “tweeting” but I’m going to keep using that shorthand). I didn’t do a deep dive into the responses, but many, many people replied that they, and “we” are not okay. Sure, some of this was probably intentionally funny and dramatic, but it seems like there was a lot of truth there. 

And Elmo, (and Cookie Monster, and Snuffleupagus, and Joe Biden–or Joe Biden’s social media people) tried to help.  

I won’t claim that anyone was saved by Elmo’s tweet or the responses to it, but I do think there was at least some degree of sincere asking for, and trying to provide, help. 

To uplift that spirit of saving, I’ll raise a toast to St. Joe Strummer, and St. Elmo, too (and Elmo also  had his own holiday on Feb. 3. Do I get extra points for working that in?)

I think I literally jumped for joy. 

It was nineteen years ago, so my memory of that detail may be suspect, but I was definitely extremely happy when the bus arrived to take me and my friends to the Liberace Museum outside of Las Vegas. My friends were certainly surprised and amused by my exuberance. 

I appreciate that Liberace Day, observed today on February 4, is sparking this silly and sweet memory (even if I did have a flash of existential dread when I realized this Las Vegas trip was nineteen years ago!) 

I’m not sure why I was so excited by going to the Liberace Museum–I don’t consider myself a huge fan, although as a kid I think I used to play “Liberace” by putting fake fur on my head (used to make fuzzy pencil toppers or troll dolls) and pretending that I was flamboyantly playing piano (it was the Seventies). I did love Liberace’s flashiness, and was looking forward to experiencing some classic Las Vegas glam (sadly the museum has since closed). 

I think part of my joy was caused by relief–the outing was my idea and I was worried that the bus wasn’t going to come or that my plan would go awry in some way, and I didn’t want to ruin my friends’ afternoons. It was my version of a John “Hannibal” Smith (from the A-Team) “I love it when a plan comes together” moment.  

Mostly, I loved being on a “girl” vacation with my friends to celebrate my birthday. 

Whatever the sources of my joy, I loved that I embraced it and that I wasn’t afraid to show it–or that I didn’t let my mind get in the way of expressing an authentic, spontaneous feeling. 

If I can learn something from Liberace Day, I hope it’s to make more room for joy. 

If I can learn two things, I’ll add that I’m inspired to be a more entertaining piano player. Maybe I should start wearing fake fur on my head again.  

Chad freed me yesterday from any responsibility for taking our Christmas tree down. 

It was mid-morning on a Saturday and we were enjoying our Saturday routine: Listening to our favorite podcast Too Beautiful to Live while hanging out (which for me usually involves latch hooking, as was the case this day). Chad told me that he was going to take the tree down, and unless I wanted to participate, I didn’t have to help. 

I did NOT want to participate. I generally find undecorating the Christmas tree and putting all the ornaments away a big pain in the ass. 

So I just kept on latch hooking, and didn’t contribute to the endeavor in any way. I felt a smidge guilty for shirking my domestic duties, but consoled my conscience by telling myself it was probably easier and less stressful for Chad to just do it himself. Besides, I would earn my keep by dragging the bag of used cat litter up from the basement and out to the garbage (which I did today). 

Ah, the successful and equitable division of domestic chores–the key to a happy, liberated marriage. 

Or something like that. Okay, really, I’m just grasping for a way to introduce this post about our church’s worship theme for January: Liberating Love (and yes, I somehow landed on defunct Christmas trees and litter boxes). 

It did sincerely feel very freeing not to worry about the Christmas tree, and to just let Chad handle the de-Christmasing project. It felt even more freeing to not feel too guilty about letting him do all the work–to trust in the sincerity of his offer (and know he wouldn’t act martyred about it), and to trust in the dynamics of give and take in our relationship. 

“Liberating Love” can, and should, mean so many different things. There are a plethora of ways to feel and express love, and so many types of liberation. During Martin Luther King Day time, it feels especially necessary to consider how I might be inspired by love to contribute to liberation from white supremacy. 

I am thinking about that, but that’s not what this blog post is about. When I consider liberating love, the first thought and the most powerful feelings I have are about how being loved by Chad and loving Chad has been and continues to be liberating for me. 

My opening anecdote about our Christmas tree probably isn’t the most poetic or powerful example of this liberation, but it does fit. It is these small, unglamorous daily moments that change and shape us (and most importantly for a blog post, this is something I could think of). And it’s fitting because a bigger, more far-reaching thing I’ve been liberated from is the idea of a perfect couple, that marriage and romantic love is supposed to be constantly exciting and glamorous. Sure, sometimes it is, but usually it’s mundane and quiet and funny and even awkward. Comforting, but not necessarily attractive. To be a bit prickly, it’s not always (or in our case, ever) smiling couple photos on Facebook. 

I keep going back to a lyric from one of my all-time favorite songs, the Indigo Girls “Power of Two”

“The closer I’m bound in love with you, the closer I am to free.” 

–”Power of Two” by the Indigo Girls

Interestingly, I always hear this as “The closer I’m bounded up with you, the closer I am to free.” Is bounded even a word? (checking Google)… yes, “bounded” is indeed a word, having to do with a mathematical delineation, or boundaries in a larger sense. Whoa, that does seem very appropriate for a relationship, boundaries are indeed good. But what I’ve always thought of with “bounded” in my misheard lyric is something similar to “tangled”–being “bounded up” with someone else is a bit messy. 

Yes, yes, yes–a connection, a relationship that is limiting and confining in many ways leads to expansion and freedom in the bigger picture. 

This doesn’t have to and shouldn’t only happen with marriage, and I’m sure there are marriages that are more confining than liberating or aren’t liberating in any sense. But for me, being loved in the unique way and by the unique person that is Chad and being part of this Chamy thing makes me braver and bolder. That’s liberating love. 

It’s liberating to be myself, which sometimes means being my familiar comfortable self doing familiar comfortable things, and sometimes means being pushed and challenged to reconsider who I am and what I want and what I can do. 

I’m pretty happy with my last blog post (https://amyluedtke.wordpress.com/2023/12/31/movin-right-along/). It wasn’t terribly literary or insightful, but it did capture a charming little domestic Chamy anecdote about me being impatient with Chad’s preparation of a breakfast waffle. 

Too bad it was all a lie. 

Well, not a lie, exactly–I didn’t intentionally invent any content or attempt to deceive anyone–but key elements of my story weren’t true. 

I learned that I had spread falsehoods about an hour after I published my post. In an attempt to be respectful of any boundary concerns Chad may have had, I advised him to take a look at my post since he figured prominently in it. I didn’t think our waffle-related conversations were sensitive or private, but I like to give him a heads up when I blog about him. 

I knew it was possible I had taken some artistic license with my post–okay, I wasn’t 100 percent certain that I was stressed about a waffle. Maybe I told Chad to “Get a move on that” because I didn’t think he was making his eggs in a timely manner. Whatever. Breakfast, Stressed Amy–all the key elements were there. 

So when Chad told me that the incident I recounted had NOT happened over breakfast, had not even happened in our home, I thought he was kidding. Then I was shocked. I wanted to deny it, but after Chad described what really happened and I considered it just a bit, I had to admit he was right. 

The real story: I told Chad to “Get a move on that” when we were at the Heights Theater to see the Barbie movie this summer. I had asked Chad if he wanted popcorn, and he said “yes,” I replied “Then you better get a move on that.” 

If anything, what actually happened was more ridiculous–and therefore funnier–than what I thought. The theater wasn’t at all crowded, the concessions counter was right by us (it’s a small theater with a small lobby) and there wasn’t a line, so there really wasn’t a lot of moving for Chad to do. He didn’t have to make the popcorn, just buy it. 

My literary lie is hardly scandal worthy (I don’t think Oprah is going to be upset with me) but it is disconcerting to me. How many other things–big and small–do I remember incorrectly? I’ve never thought that I’d make a good eye witness in court, but I didn’t think I was way off about my own daily life. 

Just how much of an unreliable narrator am I? I feel like I might be gaslighting myself.

My lesson learned from this could be humility and openness–I should be careful not to be too certain that I’m right.

Or maybe it’s just that I should stop asking Chad to read my blog.

(Breaking news…Chad did just read this post while he walked by the Chromebook– and he said I got the story wrong AGAIN!! There was a concession line but he was already in it, so therefore he couldn’t move on it. I officially give up on accurately retelling this, or possibly any, story. I’m no longer positive that I’ve ever seen a frozen waffle, or that Chad even exists).

“You better get a move on that,” I directed Chad one morning while we were making our breakfast. 

It’s one of the most ridiculous things I’ve ever said to him. 

I was feeling flustered and frazzled and short on time. Understandable, but the “that” I was specifically referring to was a frozen waffle. A frozen waffle that was already heating up in the toaster oven, so there really wasn’t much else Chad could do to move the waffle along. I think Chad’s extremely talented, but he doesn’t have any superpowers to heat frozen foods with the power of his mind (or if he does he’s super successful at keeping it a secret). 

Although I don’t usually say something so silly, I do often feel an imperative to do something in  response to perceived mini-emergencies (such as “we’re not going to eat breakfast in time for me to make an online meeting”). A former supervisor once gave me the wise and helpful advice that I didn’t have to automatically take on others’ sense of urgency, and while I think I’m pretty successful at applying that advice at work, I’m not so good at moderating my own sense of panic. 

When I’m in a frenzied swirl, I want to act, I want to move. I want to make something happen, even if I don’t know what that is, or if it will accomplish anything. And I want Chad to follow suit. In fact, if Chad is calm and measured, it can annoy the bejesus out of me. Even if it’s not useful, I want him to look like he’s taking my anxiety seriously. 

I want him to get a move on it. 

We survived the crisis of the not-ready-in-time-frozen-waffle, and actually say “You better get a move on that” to each other pretty often as one of our inside couple jokes. (Or, at least I like to think of it as a couple joke, but it may just be an acknowledgement that I can be a little high strung.) 

I was inspired to think about this anecdote after our minister shared a reading at church this morning that explored the idea of moving gifts. Not as in “I need to move this pile of as-yet-to-be wrapped Christmas gifts off the table so we can eat supper (get a move on that, Chad!)” but as in moving the various gifts of love, talent, presence and generosity we receive to and among others. 

What does it mean to move gifts to others? What does it look like? What if I transferred some of the energy I spend in getting a move on whatever little crisis I’ve concocted to moving love and joy to others?

I think Chad would agree we could both get a move on that.