Thursday, June 16, 2011

Dear Adele

Dear Adele,

I love your music. And your raspy voice. And your cat eye makeup and fake eyelashes. I wish I had cat eye makeup and fake lashes. Then people would look at me and say things like, "my, she is exotic!"

But alas, this does not happen. And even if I were to have cat eye makeup and false lashes, people would probably say, "what's she doing in Indiana?"

I would also like to say that you inspire me. You're so young and accomplished. And you're proud of this! Instead of apologizing for your youth, you shout it from the rooftops. For example (I'm not quite sure why I'm providing you with this example, considering you're well aware ...), you title your albums after whatever age you happen to be while envisioning/writing/working on them. Your first album, 19, released when you were the very same age. And your second album, 21, released this past February. No doubt a nod to the truth that much of its conception happened in your twenty-first year.

But I worry, dear Adele, that you have not seen the big picture.

Because thirty years from now, do you really want to have an album titled 53?

Or perhaps I'm seeing this all wrong. Perhaps you'll be just as content with who you are even when your hair is less glossy, your skin less smooth and a simple smile produces wrinkles that mar your wonderful cat eyes.
If only we could all find such self-acceptance.

Best wishes,
Amanda Luedeke

P.s. If you would like to do a book, I just so happen to be in the market for a famous singer/songwriter.

Wednesday, June 15, 2011


Enough about my ailments. And freakishness. And mutations. I could totally keep going and share about how my eye has a dry spot in it now. Right smack dab in the middle of the cornea. So saith the eye guy. Or I could discuss my growing astigmatism. Or the fact that I have to use Sensodyne. Or the reality that my ears aren’t perfectly parallel.

But I’ll spare you. Because I care. And because I’d like to have some friends as I go through this change into nerd-hood. Hah, that’s a thought! Instead of aging at a normal rate, I’m staying perpetually young as I slowly morph into the form of a complete and unsightly nerd.


So instead, let’s talk about tea!

My tea obsession started a month or so ago whilst on a business trip. We all went shopping together (as most do when they’re out of the office and have time to burn), and happened upon this enchanting store called Teavana.

And we’ve been in a figurative Teavana ever since.

They have the craziest teas and all you do is stand there as they waft the scents in your direction. Then, you buy it by the ounce. The ounce! And before you know it, you’re walking out of there with $40 worth of dried leaves.

Which is totally worth it, because it’s supposed to curb appetite and boost health and assist in the growth of wings so that you can fly.

But very soon after purchasing, you become absolutely paranoid of oversteeping or doing something that will prevent the leaves from going through their agony. (Yes, this is real). You freak out and overthink things and measure and test the water on your wrist and the whole nine yards … until you do the math and realize each cup is like .50.

So then begins the phase of steeping and resteeping and re-resteeping the leaves.
And in the back of your mind you think about spreading the grounds out on the sidewalk so they can dry and be reused.

And you tell yourself you’re done. That you’re just going to go back to Celestial Seasonings. But then your coworkers announce they’re putting in another order and you cannot help yourself. You order more. Different flavors. Flavors that you probably won’t even like.

But you don’t pay for it. Because you haven’t yet paid for your previous order.

And suddenly you understand what crack addicts go through.

Can I get an amen?

Wednesday, June 1, 2011


So you've heard all about my teeth woes. But what if I told you that I also have freakish eyes?

Every time I go to a new eye doctor (which is every year, because I just like to keep life interesting like that), they do their little 1 or 2, 3 or 4 thing and then they start talking about wanting to take pictures of my eyes.

Which for two seconds makes me feel kind of awesome, because the only logical explanation is that my eyes are super attractive or something like that.

But then I remember that these are doctors we're talking about, and doctors are only phased by one thing.Weirdness. Freakishness. Abnormalityishness.

Apparently, I am at a .6 on the glaucoma alert scale. The scale runs from like .5 to 1.5 or something like that, and because I'm .1 over the lowest mark, I must BE ON THE ALERT FOR GLAUCOMA.

But who cares, right? People get glaucoma all the time. Well here's where it gets interesting  ...

I'm a freak to these doctors, because they think that I might have been born with eyes that make it look like I have glaucoma when in fact it's just the way I am. They think this, because of how symmetrical the freakish parts of my eyes are. They also think this because of my age.

So long story short, I always have to get these pictures taken of my eyes so that they can gaze at my freakishness. And so that we can catch glaucoma early ... just in case it happens to show up.

At which point the eye nurse/glaucoma expert looked at me and said:

"It's just a preventative measure, really," she said. "It's like cancerous cells. You keep an eye on them to make sure they don't turn into cancer. And, well, this is just like that."

Yes. Glaucoma is just like cancer. Thank you for turning this freak into a paranoid one.

And we all know paranoid freaks are the worst.