Amy Lu's View

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. 

I had just been thinking that morning about how I had a lot of life lessons learned from being in a long-term marriage that I could share to help others better navigate their romantic relationships. 

And then later that day an older* woman tossed her husband at me while we were at the gym. 

“Don’t literally throw your spouse at someone” was a tip I hadn’t even considered.  

I don’t think the woman intended to propel her husband at me.** She didn’t seem angry–at him or me. She merely wanted him to exit the track with her. And like so many, many, many other gym patrons, she didn’t give a second thought to who else might be using the track. She was in the middle lane, and stopped, reached across herself to the inner lane, grabbed her husband’s elbow, pulled him and pushed him into the outer lane toward the exit and right into my path. 

Yes, I DO constantly complain about the bad behavior of other gym goers who block the running lane on the track. Mere days before this incident I filled out a survey that our gym sent to members and complained about the track shenanigans. I immediately got a call from the manager after submitting the survey to discuss it further, which I had absolutely no desire to do. I felt bad about my comment (even though I said I realized there probably wasn’t much staff could do) but this situation erased my guilt. I wasn’t being a Karen, I swear!

In case you haven’t been closely following my chronicle of gym woes, let me recap why I get so frustrated with how people use the track at the gym: They walk in the running lane, they walk three abreast so all lanes are completely blocked, they stop in the running the lane to watch the pool (yes that seems a little creepy) or talk to their friends who are outside of the track. Sometimes they even walk on the track the wrong way (it’s mostly kids who do this but not always). People often enter and exit the track without looking. 

I’ve seen, and been annoyed by–okay, often enraged by–a lot, but this was a first. I was so surprised and confounded that I wasn’t even mad. Mostly I was concerned and I made a weird noise that was a cross between a whimper and a shout. I didn’t think I could stop in time and I didn’t see the encounter ending well for either me or the flung guy. 

Through no athletic prowess of my own and merely by luck, I dodged the projectile husband. (Turns out I may have slightly overestimated our chances of collision and the imminent danger we were in). I was able to complete my run, (even though my Garmin sports watch doesn’t have a setting to measure flying pedestrians in addition to heart rate and running speed) and the couple even returned to the track and continued walking. 

It was a weird and disconcernting experience, but it certainly made my run more interesting. And now I have a new tip to add to my list of relationship advice.***

*”Older” than me, which I immediately interpret as “elderly” but I realize the couple were probably closer to my age than I think. 

**Yes, I’m assuming the duo were married. Maybe they were friends or coworkers or bandmates with or without any mutual romantic entanglements. For writing convenience I will refer to them as spouses for this post. 

***I now realize my “list” isn’t as insightful or impressive as I originally thought, as most of my tips are really Chamy specific and probably wouldn’t be helpful, or even interesting, to anyone else. Can I work my blog magic and at least make them amusing? Stay tuned. Teaser: I have many food-centric tips. 

I was complaining. 

It was a lovely night, in almost every way. My good friend Sandy and I were taking in the Winter Lights display at the Arboretum on an early December evening. It was a little chilly (as was to be expected) but nothing extreme–even my wimpy Winter averse self could handle the temperature. We were surrounded by beautiful lights and wrapped in a festive atmosphere–and I was complaining. 

I wasn’t complaining about our evening, but about how I was annoyed by someone’s behavior earlier in the week. So while I wasn’t actually being a Grinch, I was so engrossed in my story of a past moral outrage that I wasn’t fully appreciating the awesomeness of the moment I was actually in. 

And then we encountered another Arboretum visitor who was having a glorious time. He was sitting on a bench with his companion, happily taking it all in. “Isn’t this just great?” he beamed. 

It took a moment, but his joy got my attention and penetrated my grumbling. “Wow,” I thought, this guy is happy. Really happy.”

I’m not proud to admit this but part of me wondered what was up with this guy. Wasn’t he overreacting a bit? Yeah, the light display was cool, but it wasn’t that amazing. Why was he so happy? Have I ever been that happy?

Could I be that happy? 

I didn’t become as happy as the lights display fan guy that night, but I did become more appreciative of my surroundings and the experience. I appreciated his joy, and I became curious about if I could find more joy in small things. 

Last year I learned about the term “freudenfreude”–defined as the opposite of “schadenfreude” to describe taking pleasure in the success of others. This is definitely a feeling I want to cultivate, but not necessarily easy when another’s success seems to highlight our failure.

But the guy at the Arboretum is inspiring me to think about also taking pleasure not only in others’ success, but also simply their joy and happiness. Can the joy of another spark my own joy, even if I don’t find whatever excites them all that exciting myself?

Finding joy in others’ joy–Joyenfreude? Maybe I won’t attain their level of delight, but maybe I can stop, pay attention, get over myself, and appreciate those things that I do get into more fully, or even see how something I didn’t think was cool actually is?

A phrase that I’ve also recently learned is “Don’t yuck my yum”–don’t be a hater, don’t disparage what makes someone else happy. Good advice. Maybe sometimes I can even yum to another’s experience of yumminess?

“Love Who Holds Us All, on some days this earthly existence is hard. Thank you for our capacity to be comforted, dazzled, and delighted by harmless pleasures and small joys. Help us keep faith with the eleventh Commandment: Thou shalt not yuck someone else’s yum.”

–“Prayer” by Rev. Erika Hewitt*

I don’t expect to undergo a complete change of heart…sometimes I’m still going to complain about other people and bask in my moral superiority and not fully appreciate the awesomeness of a moment. Sometimes, I’m going to still internally roll my eyes at someone’s love of something that I think is boring or silly. Okay, I’ll probably do these a lot–there is a joy to being a bit of an asshole–but hopefully less frequently than I used to.

*I was so inspired by this I quoted it in our Christmas card

“The trees are about to show us how lovely it is to let things go.”

–Facebook

I’m not above finding wisdom in an inspirational quote I see on Facebook. So when I saw the above quote, accompanied by a beautiful photo of colorful autumn leaves, I got inspired to think (and of course, blog) about what I might want to let go of. Afterall, I adore the colors of the changing fall leaves (and taking copious photos of them, see a sample below) so surely this metaphor should unlock some insight for me. 

What do I want to let go of? This question challenges me when I try to move from vague blanket statements (“I should let go of guilt”) to specifics (guilt about making our dog Olive go out in the rain for her “bathroom break” the night before she died). My specific things to let go also range from rather mundane and simple actions or objects to complicated, deeply embedded thoughts and habits. 

Some things I’m currently considering letting go of:

• My dead indoor mini-sunflower plant (now gone!)
• Trying to attain and maintain my “ideal” weight
• Clothes that aren’t working out or I don’t need
• Running an in-person race in 2023 (I’ve mostly accepted that this isn’t going to happen)
• Running at a certain pace and/or running a certain number of miles–I’m currently entertaining being able to run 1500 miles in 2023–only need to run about 3 miles a day for the rest of year, which would be completely doable if it wasn’t for winter weather and holidays
• Being frustrated when my Garmin watch doesn’t accurately track my heart rate when I’m running (okay, probably enough running related items for now)
• The broccoli and snow peas in our refrigerator that have gone bad (ongoing struggle)
• Being dismayed by using frayed latch hook yarn 
• Staying awake to finish watching a TV show
• Solving Wordle everyday
• Getting TikTok (I let that go months ago and am totally comfortable with my status as a non-TikTok user)
• Refusing to run the dishwasher until every last inch of space in it is filled 
• Angst over not getting cast in a show ever again–I may not, but being angsty doesn’t help and if I’m not, that’s more time for blogging!
• Pumpkin spice flavored treats–eventually the season will be over, but yesterday I found the pumpkin pie spice hummus I love at Target AND I still have a box of Pumpkin spice Special K! (I’m not into Pumpkin spice lattes or drinks of any kind, or any lattes)
• Doing laundry and having all the socks match up (I just “lost” a sock before it even made it to the laundry)
• Feeling bad about not responding optimally in a social situation and/or worrying that I took up too much space
• Keeping up on all the music of and news about my favorite musicians (it’s okay if I’m just a “casual” fan)
• Eating “free” food (more accurately, included) at a conference or meeting that I don’t really want just because I can’t pass up a good deal
• All the unread emails in my inbox from various newsletters

I love creating lists for my blog posts, but lists can make things look deceptively uncomplicated. “Letting go” can be nuanced because of timing: some things I can let go of once (like my dead sunflower) and some I might need to let go of repeatedly (like my weight obsession and degraded broccoli). Other things I only need to let go of depending on the time and circumstance (no need to stay up all night tonight trying to get Wordle, but tomorrow I can try again). 

The most complicated thing about “letting go” is deciding how it’s different from “giving up.”

Perhaps digging into the inspirational Facebook quote metaphor will help: Autumn leaves don’t just burst into gorgeous photo-perfect colors all at once. Changing leaves are unpredictable and uneven. Sometimes they disappoint. Falling–and fallen–leaves are messy. Eventually leaves turn brown and tree branches end up bare. 

And then the cycle starts up again. 

Can I find the whole process of change and release beautiful, not just the flashy bits? Probably not–but I’m not ready to let go of letting go. 

My mom’s hair was always styled–curled, set, permed, etc. It never just was. My mom’s hair was always doing something, always actively in or reaching toward a state of refinement or display. My mom always had a plan for her hair. 

I’m describing my mom’s hair as if it had a life of its own because that’s how it seemed to me. Maybe there was a day or two when my mom let her hair rest and just be, but I don’t remember it. There were no ponytail days for my mom. 

And of course, my mom always kept her hair dyed–no grey hair for Colleen. 

My mom’s attention to her hair was part of her overall style and approach to life. My mom was consistently “put together.” Even when wearing a sweatshirt–as she frequently did, although it was always ironed–she wore lipstick and a girdle. It didn’t matter if she was just going to be spending the day at home, my mom had standards she lived up to. 

My mom wouldn’t have understood people letting their personal grooming and dress codes slacken during Covid. 

Surprisingly, I don’t remember my mom spending too much time on her hair or her grooming. She did make weekly trips to the beauty salon (or beauty “saloon” as my dad used to call it, not sure if that was on purpose or by accident, but it definitely irritated my mom) so that may have taken care of most of her hair needs. Or my mom may have attended to her toilette in the mornings before I got up, so I may be unaware of how much time she actually spent. Or maybe because our family of five only had one, really uninviting bathroom (I still have stressmares about it) she may have learned to get in and out of it as quickly as possible. 

I’m pondering my mom’s hair because I recently shared via Facebook a photo of her from 1973 in which she is sporting a truly impressive hairdo. It’s a classic class photo of my mom when she was a teacher with her students. I shared the photo to commemorate the 23rd anniversary of my mom’s death. I received the photo from my sister back in February, and posting it felt a comforting way to remember my mom and my sister. 

In the photo my mom’s hair is majestically big, leading my friend Jennifer to ask if my mom was wearing a wig. 

I’m not entirely sure how my mom created the magical hairstyle, but I don’t think it was a wig. I do remember that when I was around 6 years old, my brother and I used to play with my mom’s hair “pieces.” We’d pretend they were furry creatures attacking us and throw them around and at each other and beat them into submission. So I’m hypothesizing that my mom somehow incorporated a hair piece–or even pieces–into her own hair so that it could wave to the people around her from such great heights. (Yes, I’m awkwardly and unabashedly working in lyrics from the Postal Service that have gotten stuck in my head as I began considering my mom’s hair).

The other striking thing about the photo is my mom’s expression. She looks annoyed, irritated, to be blunt–pissed. In addition to wondering about her hair and how she achieved her style, I can’t help but wonder about my mom’s mood and what caused it. 

My first thought is that she was probably mad at my dad, but since this is a school photo, would she still have been fuming about him several hours into her work day? Certainly there are several aspects of being a teacher, especially in 1973, that could have irked her–her coworkers or principal? Demanding or unreasonable parents? Misbehaving students? The stress of being a teacher and a mother? Did she run out of Tab? (I’m not sure she was drinking Tab in 1973 but it seems possible). Maybe her hair wasn’t as big as she hoped for?

Or maybe she wasn’t mad at all, and the photographer just happened to capture a fleeting expression that I only think signifies displeasure. Maybe she was just feeling thoughtful or determined. 

This post is full of speculation. Not only will I never be able to know what my mom was thinking when her big hair class photo was taken, I also can’t ask my sister to do some fact checking on my childhood memories as I used to.

But facts are only so important when it comes to family memories and stories. I may have some details wrong, but I know that my mom was fierce and resourceful and stylish. She kept her hair coiffed, her classroom managed, and her family sustained.

Such great heights indeed. 

Can Barbie subvert the patriarchy? Perhaps, especially as imagined in the new Barbie movie. 

But based on my childhood experience, I know one force that Barbie can’t overcome: a bossy older cousin, at least when that cousin is me. 

I was way into Barbie as a kid. I inherited several from my older sister, Jenn, and acquired many of my own.

I don’t remember ever finding baby dolls all that interesting although I dearly loved a “My Friend Mandy” doll. Just like the girls in the Barbie movie opening, Barbie was exciting because I didn’t have to mother her, but I could pretend to be her, and imagine seemingly endless possibilities for the adult life I might one day lead. 

Well, endless within parameters. At some point–I think I was 9ish–I devised the rule that Barbie could have any profession, but once that profession was declared, Barbie had to live within the means of that career. 

This rule meant that when I was playing Barbies with my younger cousin Sara (my main Barbie buddy) and Sara decided her Barbie was a teacher, I told Sara she couldn’t dress her Barbie in certain outfits “because teachers don’t make enough money to afford clothes like that.” 

Yeah, if you’re thinking that kid Amy didn’t really get “playing” I’m not going to argue with you. (Adult Amy continues to be not so great with play). Or maybe I had a bit of a chip on my shoulder as my mom was a teacher, and perhaps I was looking for “Teacher Barbie” to have to buy her own classroom supplies. 

Now I find it paradoxical–or maybe hypocritical–that I was trying to be so reality-based with my Barbies, when I often shake my head sadly at those I find “too literal” or who can’t suspend their disbelief. 

Luckily, Sara didn’t seem too annoyed by my rigidness and I remember us spending many hours happily playing Barbie. Along with several Barbies and an array of Barbie clothes suitable for many income levels, I was lucky enough to have a Barbie camper* and a Barbie swimming pool (even if my brother dubbed it the “Barbie cesspool” because of all the pet fur and whatnot that always ended up in it). 

I was even able to laugh the afternoon that Sara and I returned from an outing with my mom to find our Barbies strung up in a mass hanging with a suicide note that read “We couldn’t stand being Amy and Sara’s Barbies anymore.” Ah, the joys of having an older brother and sister. (Again, I don’t think Sara was phased by this–I think she was used to my family’s weird brand of humor). 

While I wasn’t interested in having my Barbies be teachers, my two favorite Barbie “games” were putting on weddings and talent shows. Yes, I loved to have my Barbies performing, which certainly seems to demonstrate my love of attention started early. 

My Barbie weddings were perhaps even a little radical–I always had Barbie be the officiant, even though women were not allowed to be ministers in the church of my youth. Maybe I was just being practical, as I owned way more Barbies than Kens, so had to save Ken for the groom (I definitely wasn’t progressive enough as a kid to have a wedding with two brides). 

Although I have many fond memories of playing with Barbies, I certainly get why people feel Barbie is problematic. Barbie was fun and helped me while away the hours on the tundra, and inspired my imagination and creativity (and bossiness). And yet, I’m also rather materialistic and indulge in overconsumption, and I would never point to myself as an example of someone with a healthy body self-image. Is that all Barbie’s fault? Of course not, but it seems likely that my Barbie exposure is a contributing factor to these patriarchal and capitalistic foibles. 

If Mattel does ever make Self Doubt Barbie, I think it will be a hit with people of all ages and genders. I know I will want one, and I’ll even let her wear whatever (environmentally sustainable, fair trade) outfit she wants, regardless of her profession (or lack thereof). 

*I learned from Google that I had the “Barbie Star Traveller Motor Home.” Wow, I don’t think I ever knew it had such a magical sounding name!

I recently pulled one of my mother’s favorite tricks: The Exploding Can of Soda in the Freezer. 

Yes, I put a can of Coke Zero in the freezer to quickly cool it, forgot about it, and hours later found its frozen contents all over the freezer. (Okay, the frozen Coke Zero wasn’t really ALL OVER the freezer and was relatively easy to clean up, but, as I often do, I’m prioritizing dramatic effect over accuracy). 

What really made it a Colleen Move, though, is that I immediately started blaming Chad for this incident. No, my mom would NEVER have blamed Chad, who was clearly her favorite human, for any mishap, but she would have blamed my dad. In my mom’s world, my dad was responsible for EVERY mishap, annoyance, or tragedy she experienced, and many she just heard about. (To be fair, many things were my dad’s fault, but even he could only cause so much mayhem). 

So when I encountered the exploded Coke Zero and automatically started blaming my spouse for something that was clearly my fault, I was in full Colleen Mode. 

How was the frozen Coke Zero Chad’s fault, you may ask? Well, if he hadn’t drank the last properly refrigerated can of Coke Zero (which I don’t know if he actually did), I wouldn’t have been forced to put one in the freezer in the first place. And then he probably did something to distract me so I didn’t take it out of the freezer before it exploded (not sure what that was but given time I could think of something). 

In that moment of annoyance and ridiculousness, I felt really close to my mother. I’d like to think I feel my mother’s presence when I’m generous or loyal or helpful, and I do, because my mother was all those things. But I really thought about my mother, felt like I was my mother, when I blew up a pop can. 

Is that really my mom’s legacy? This little quirky habit she had? Maybe–or at least part of it. Will Chad really remember me for being unable to open bags of chips and boxes of crackers without destroying them? And leaving him annoying notes to inform him that the dishes in the dishwasher are clean (with the subtext that if “you put dirty dishes in with them I will murder you”).[Editor Chad’s Note: It’s not subtext; it’s definitely text] Probably. In some ways, I hope so. Being remembered for the little details about our peculiar ways, even if they annoy our loved ones, means that we are really known. 

As I was cleaning up the Coke Zero mess, I wanted to message my sister about it. She would have totally gotten how I was channeling our mom. She would have been amused (or at least pretended to be). 

In the almost twenty three years since my mom died, I miss her all the time, in big and little ways. I don’t like it–I hate that she’s dead and that she’s been gone so long–but the pangs of loss usually don’t surprise me anymore. Feeling the loss is just part of who I am now. 

But I’m not used to missing my sister yet. She died only about 4 months ago, so I’m still surprised and confused sometimes when I think “Oh I’ll send Jenn a message about this” and then realize I can’t. 

So there I was in our kitchen, missing my mom, and my sister, and my dad, and thinking about how my mom died so long ago that Coke Zero hadn’t even been invented yet. I felt a little like that can of Coke Zero myself–my emotions, like the soda, all weird and messy and no longer able to be contained. 

My frozen Coke Zero can metaphor feels silly and overdramatic, and yet true. So I might as well carry it even further: Just like exploding Coke Zero, my emotions, my grief, may at times be uncontrollable and inconvenient, but I shouldn’t try too hard to avoid them– at least they’re calorie free. 

I have successfully grown a Chia pet! (Not sure “grow” is the right verb…Raised? Sprouted? Conjured?)

I didn’t plan to be a Chia pet parent, but we received a Groot Chia pet years ago–pre-pandemic–from our Loot Crate subscription service for geekly merchandise. 

I kept waiting for a special time to start Chia Groot, and finally took the plunge last Thanksgiving. 

I gave it my best effort. I even read the directions–something I deeply dislike doing and try to avoid at all cost. 

I watered it and waited and watched. My Chia Groot never grew. 

I was disappointed, but not surprised. Growing plant life (other than the mold on our shower curtain) has never been one of my fortes. 

So I took a break and tried again in January of this year. And, I failed again. 

Hmmm, maybe there was a problem beyond my ineptitude? Perhaps the chia seeds were “stale” since I had waited so many years to try and get Chia Groot to grow. 

So I ordered some new seeds via Amazon, and gave it another whirl. And…it worked! Mostly. Sort of. My Chia Groot did grow, but only in certain spots. 

Chad and I surmised that the problem was I didn’t water Groot’s head fully, so bolstered by that knowledge and experience, my fourth time growing Chia Groot was a bona fide success! No, Chia Groot didn’t have perfectly evenly distributed chia hair, but can any of us claim our hair is perfect?

Of course I’ve told my Chia Groot story as often as possible, and various people have remarked, “You tried it FOUR times?” Yes, my four attempts are amazing–because it took me four attempts to succeed and something rather easy, but more importantly, because I didn’t give up. I often abandon endeavors when I get frustrated, so it does feel good to persist at something and have it pay off. 

Watching my Chia Groot sprout and grow day by day was so satisfying. One day I even told Chad, “I think I could just sit here and watch my chia pet grow.” He replied, “That would probably be a good thing.”

While I bask in the glow of my Chia Groot success, my overall state of house plant management is mixed. I think one of the house plants that Chad got me for my birthday in March of 2022 has officially died. My second attempt at growing a mini-sunflower seems to be going well but there are some disconcerting white flakes in the soil and a few wilted leaves that are making me nervous. 

But I can’t let these failures and worries diminish the joy of my Chia Groot triumph. I can’t expect everything to go well all at once. 

And all things come to pass–especially chia pets who are particularly ephemeral. Luckily, my research into chia pet farming alerted me that they get “leggy” (basically collapsing under the weight of their awesomeone) and that a chia pet owner will want to start their chia pet over.

Yes, it’s the circle of life. I’m not quite ready to take the plunge and reboot my Groot Chia but I’m starting to gear myself up. 

I even got so excited by my Chia pet success, I ordered two more chia pets–a Chia Grogu and a Chia Unicorn. No, I didn’t get Bob Ross. Nothing against Bob Ross, but I just don’t have any connection to him. I did contemplate getting a Chia Llama or Chia Joe Biden, but I decided to go with Grogu and a unicorn because there was a special that made them slightly cheaper if purchased together. (This purchase was made with some anxiety beyond the normal “making a decision” anxiety–I still have an indoor oyster mushroom kit and a Stir Fry seed pop to plant, and here I am, buying more Chia Pets!)

Chad’s response when the chia pets were delivered: “What, are we going to have a chia pet farm?”

I hope so. As soon as I have the time and brainpower (yes, Chia pet planting DOES take my brainpower) and the forecast promises a couple of sunny days in a row, I’m going to try. A middle-aged lady can dream.