Sticker Collection

Remember what it felt like to be tethered to a plastic rotary phone for HOURS while your best friend just talked and talked and talked?

And you didn't really care...you just wanted to get up and do something else, but all you could do was sit on your parents' bed and wrap the coiled cord around your finger over and over while your friend yammered on and on about jellies and Christmas presents and Nancy Drew books and new bicycles and then an hour would pass and your mom would FINALLY tell you to hang up and you were like THANK GOD! I CAN'T STAND IT ANYMORE.

And then you'd go and pull out your Lisa Frank stationery and write a letter to your other friend, because you're feeling very fond of them all of a sudden, but you don't know if you should actually use any stickers on the letter because those stickers cost money, unlike the digital crap we have today. No, these are irreplaceable stickers that could actually die if you give them away. So, you send the letter and stash the stickers.

Twenty years pass. You find yourself at 30 years of age, having had moved the last of your items out of your parent's house a few years ago, and yet...and yet there sits that freaking box of stickers. Stickers that you never used.

Well, isn't this the WORST?

For the first time in your life you wish that you'd been more wasteful in your childhood. Or at the very least you wish that you could be more wasteful now.

But you can't! You can't do it! You can't part with the box of stickers that meant so much to you all those years ago. And so you pack them away in a box labeled "mementos," knowing you will most likely not open the box for another ten years and thus your stickers will live on.

And hopefully, 40-year-old you will finally have that thing called "common sense" that you've seemed to lack your entire life.

How Game of Thrones SHOULD Have Looked

There is this weird thing that happens when you read a book before seeing its movie or TV show…you end up utterly disappointed. And not just disappointed in the “oh, she’s supposed to have silver hair and instead it looks just…white” sense, but in the “wait, WHAT? Is this really supposed to be the face of my favorite character for the next FIVE SEASONS?!”

This is exactly what happened to me with the Game of Thrones television show.

I’m a HUGE fangirl of the books. So much so that I saw the author George Martin at WorldCon some time ago, and I was incapable of walking up to say hello. We’re talking glued to the ground, unable to think, wasting space and air. I’m not usually like that around people I admire, so it ended up being a mild form of entertainment for the practical side of my brain—the side that kept taunting “he’s just an old man! You’re a blond! GO SAY HI, you wimp!”

Ahem…where was I? OH YES…the tv show.

I had read the first two books by the time I saw the show, so I’d had plenty of time to create my own better  versions of these characters. And let me tell you they were lifelike! And awesome!!! And way better than any HBO casting director could have imagined!

And naturally as soon as the opening scenes played out, my dreams were shattered. My excitement depleted. This show was going to be horrible. And all because the characters looked nothing like they were supposed to look.

Time has passed. I am rewatching what I had previously watched and I have finally been able to move past the casting atrocities. And I’m even starting to forget my original versions of these wonderful characters. So, to forever lock my imagination in place, here are my original interpretations of some of the key characters in GAME OF THRONES:

ROBERT BARATHEON

Amanda's version: Henry VIII

TV version:

Not too shabby, but clearly, I imagined him fatter.

TYRION LANNISTER

Amanda's Version: Wee Man from Jackass

TV version:

Can you tell Tyrion is one of my least favorite characters? He's a close second after Bran. I am beyond bummed that Peter Dinklage makes him tolerable. I wanted to hate this character forever.

JON SNOW

Amanda's version: A dreamy Christian Bale from Newsies

TV version:

Jon Snow was supposed to be able to sing "Santa Fe" on cue. Sigh. Oh, what could have been...

JAIME LANNISTER

Book 1, he seemed to be written to be more sinister. Less attractive. So, book 1...

Amanda's Version: this guy from Knight's Tale only with blond hair

Book 2, suddenly he was attractive!!! And likeable!! So, this...

Amanda's Version:

TV version:

A decent match with the book 2 version, but what happened to book 1 Jaime?!

CATELYN STARK

Amanda's Version: Cate Blanchett (with red hair)

TV Version:

The show really aged many of the adults, and ugh...I hate it. And I'm sorry, but the actress they got for Catelyn can't hold a candle to my top pick, Cate Blanchett.

There are other disappointments, of course. Cersei is supposed to have awesome, curly golden hair. Not a wavy straw-colored wig. Daenerys is supposed to have silver hair and purple eyes. The Hound is supposed to be more menacing. Joffrey is supposed to actually be handsome. 

There are a few perfect picks, of course. Khal Drogo is spot on. As is Ned Stark and Varys. And Viserys. Definitely Viserys.

But the good ones don't make up for the bad ones. Especially when the good picks die one after the other and bad picks like Hodor live on to see another episode. And another. And another.

HODOR:

Amanda's Version:

TV version:

Yeah, I'll never get over how disappointing this one was. 

Wherein I Embarass Myself

At the top of my list of JOBS I'D LIKE TO TRY OUT FOR A YEAR is music impersonator.

You think I jest.

I pretty much spend my entire day, walking around the house trying to impersonate whatever musician whose song is stuck in my head. And as Tad can attest, my impersonations know no bounds. I tackle everyone from Beyonce to Gavin Degraw. Yes, even Gavin Degraw. My best is Cher. My worst is Adele. But they're ALL my favorite and so very dear to me. They reflect the life I could have had on SNL.

So despite my better judgement, I thought it would be a good idea to share the hilarity of what it is to sit in on a practice session.

I may really regret this...and it ended up taking WAAAAAYYYYYYY longer to put the visual side of the video together than I thought, but what the heck, right? If anything, you can laugh with me at my stupidity.

So ladies and gents, I present one of my worse, yet most-fun impersonations.

It's a pitchy Adam Levine and a straining Christina Aguilera in Moves Like Jagger.

10 Annoying Things About Being a Left-Handed Guitar Player

So once upon a time, I played guitar. I've mentioned this before, though I've never really gone in depth with my former rock star days. I mean, what goes on in Vegas, right?

But what I will discuss is all of the annoyances that came with being a left-handed guitar player. You think I'm kidding, I'm sure. You think "Oh, here's sweet Amanda, blowing things out of proportion and hyperbolizing hyperbole as usual."

How I wish you were right.

10 Annoying Things About Being a Left-Handed Guitar Player

1. Really dumb right-handed people will ask you "Is it hard to play left-handed like that?" causing you to mentally smack them. (This has happened to me on multiple occasions. And here they say blondes are dumb...)
2. You leaf through a guitar magazine and your heart skips a beat at all the beautiful guitars there are in the world. Then, you go to buy one and you realize the one you want isn't available for lefties. And furthermore, you only have like 10 models to choose from because guitar manufacturers find it too expensive to offer every model in a lefty version. Grrrrr....
3. When you do settle on one of those 10 guitars, it will cost you like $200 more than what they'd charge for the very same guitar built for a right-handed player. (And people think I'm kidding when I say I'm going to march for Lefty's Rights!)
4. Slightly-less-so-but-still-very-dumb right-handed people will hear you griping about lefty discrimination and say "Why don't you just learn to play it right-handed?" in a tone that tells you they feel they've solved your problem and are expecting you to give them a kiss and go "You are so smart!" (Again, blondes are the  dumb ones??)
5. Right-handed guitarists will pick up your guitar and look at you with the most confused expression when they try to play it and it doesn't sound right. Then they berate you for not having a guitar on hand that they can play.
6. People will exclaim things like "You're the best left-handed guitar player I've ever heard!" As though the left-handed guitar is a different instrument than the right-handed one.
7. You will be more attractive to some guys because you play left-handed. Not because you have actual talent, mind you. But because you play "backwards."
8. You'll be at church and the worship pastor will be MIA and suddenly everyone will turn to you and expect you to pick up his right-handed guitar and lead worship. And when you try to explain that you can't, they suddenly think you're a less-talented guitar player and say things like "Can't you just figure it out?"
9. You want to punch the makers of Beatles Rock Band for designing Sir Paul's bass controller as a right-handed bass, when clearly he played a left-handed bass. It's this kind of discrimination that makes you want to scream and lead rallies and give speeches.

And lastly,

10. Famous left-handed guitarists become your idols for no reason other than you know that they went through what you're going through. Mind you, most of these idols are barely "idol" matieral: Kurt Cobain, Jimi Hendrix, etc.

So there you have it. The horrors of being a left-handed guitar player.

Anyone else have any instrument-related horrors to add? Like the assumption that tuba-players are overweight or that only girls play flutes?

Come on, your confessions are safe with me. Because you know the saying...What's said on Swedish Pankakes, stays on Swedish Pankakes. For the entire world to read.

family archiver

It’s official. I’m the Archiver of the family. You know, that person who insists on family photos and preserving stories and digitalizing film and uncovering deep, dark secrets. That’s me. I’m not as aggressive as most, and to be honest, scrapbooking has zero appeal, but still. I’m the one who cares about where I came from. And about keeping that history alive.

It all started last year, when I decided to give my parents and siblings DVD copies of our Family Video. The video was on some ancient c. 1982 VHS tape, and time and use had taken its toll. As our family continued to grow and spread out over the midwest (I have a sister and brother in Minneapolis, a brother in Detroit, and parents in the Chicagoland), I started to panic. Who would preserve the memories?! Who would protect them from being lost or damaged?!

The easy solution was “me!” and so for Christmas last year, I had our super old VHS transferred to DVD. And somewhere in the process I even let the scrapbooking bug bite me, and I got crafty with the cases. 

But archiving is a slippery slope.

Sometime mid-year, I began to think long and hard about my heritage. My dad’s side includes some German lineage, but the Scandinavian ties were always the strongest. My dad and Nana and aunts and uncles would talk about eating lutefisk and blood klub (or something of the sort), while we feasted on Swedish pancakes and pickled herring. They’d talk about my great-grandfather Karl Johnson (originally Johansson, according to Ancestry.com), who came over from Sweden and married a Minnesota Swede named Hulda.

The more I thought, the more I wanted to learn. And so I found myself on Ancestry.com, researching all I could late into the night for days on end until I came across a family tree that linked my family all the way back to 1744 Sweden.

1744! Just a few hundred more years, and I’d be able to prove that Thor was my next door neighbor or something like that.

And so it continues. I’m slowly taking on the role of photo-keeper and digitizer, document hoarder and memory saver. Eventually, I imagine I’ll grow a long, white beard and smoke a pipe while my children’s children’s children seek me out for answers to questions such as:

“Why am I so tight-lipped?”

“Where do I get my blue eyes?”

“Who do I look like most?”

“Why can I be so emotionless?”

“Where do I get my knack for building things?”

“Has our family always driven so fast?”

And so this is my future. The future of an Archiver. Maybe one day I’ll take a trip and visit that small Swedish settlement in which my ancestor was born in 1744. I suppose that’s one benefit to this task.

That, and it gives people with no hometown a sense of belonging.

Why I'm About to Put Ed Hardy on My Arm

I went through a very long and angsty phase in which I wanted to be a rockstar.

Now, I know what you're thinking...who doesn't? But I'm a good singer who is also good with words and has a knack of putting those words to music that makes people smile and clap and ask for more. So this dream of mine, though near-difficult to achieve, was never totally off the mark.

But there's one component to the rockstar thing that I could never quite get right and it's the very thing that doomed my career before it even started: Image.

I'm what you call a late-bloomer. One of those freaks who actually benefits from age. And while I'd like to say that I always had a handle on who I was and how I wanted to express myself, I triple dog dare you to drag up some pictures from my college days. I guarantee they're filled with grandma sweaters, hoodies, band tees and studded belts that I would buckle on the side...so that they didn't scratch my guitar.

So now I'm a bit more put-together. A bit more mature. And when I shop, I go to Express instead of Salvo and H&M in place of Goodwill.

But every now and then that deep-seated desire to be a rockstar will rear its ugly head and I'll find myself thinking about choppy haircuts and black nail polish and in times like those, I have a few items that I turn to:

A gray shirt with a black and red graphic print. When I wear this, I feel like Joan Jett.
Black boots that I wear outside of black skinny jeans. When I wear this, I feel edgy.
Eyeliner. When I wear this, I feel emo.

I tell you this, because the other night at Meijer, I bought a pack of 30 Ed Hardy temporary tattoos. My inner rockstar has been knocking at my door for awhile now. Demanding to come in. And he wants more from me than a Coheed & Cambria ringtone or a Kings of Leon/Florence + the Machine playlist.

My Dark Passenger wants a sleeve. A tattoo sleeve of 30, colorful depictions of skulls and flames and flowers.

And that's exactly what he'll get.

15 Things I Learned at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame

 The band.

So you know when someone young does something that's a little inspiring and hopeful and then they suddenly die a tragic, horrible death and then word of that thing that they did spreads like crazy until the whole world sees them as some iconic image of Love or Peace or Equality or whatever it was that they did that was so inspiring?

Well I realized that I was setting myself up to die one of those tragic, horrific deaths and become the poster child for Following Your Dreams or Quitting Your Job or who knows what.

So let's talk about something else, shall we? Because I have no intention of dying, thank you very much (although the idea of becoming an icon is tempting).

This past weekend, Tad and I drove to Ohio to see our friends, Zach and Stephanie. And for funsies, we visited the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

Stephanie is a serious AC/DC fan (which we all find hilarious).
Tad loves Metallica (which I find hilarious).
Zach likes pretty much anything (although he has a huge weakness for ska).
And I...I'm one of those people who likes to think that I know a lot about old bands and artists, when in reality my knowledge doesn't go much past Wikipedia and the backs of my Ladies from the 80s Barbie Doll boxes.

So here are 15 things I learned at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame:

1. The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame can be summarized by two performers and one movement: Elvis, The Beatles and punk rock
2. If you're in a punk rock band in the 70s or 80s, it's preferable that you hate God, hate the government, feel misunderstood, and choose a really cliche stage name. If you do all of these things, you will get a massive display at the R&R HoF and a video in which you're promoting anarchy and a limited use of the English language.
3. If I was in a punk rock band, my stage name would be Cat Call.
4. Jimi Hendrix had a lot of stage outfits.
5. Kurt Cobain really did die. I saw his birth certificate. Take that conspiracists! (Whether Courtney Love killed him or not is still up for debate).
6. Mick Jagger is a small, small man.
7. Apparently, rock and roll ceased to exist after the 1980s. At least that's what the Hall of Fame's lack of any bands from the 90s tells me (Nirvana aside).
8. Since when are Simon and Garfunkel considered Rock and Roll? And if they made it, where's Peter, Paul and Mary?
9. Lady Gaga's meat dress really was made out of meat.
10. It's cool to play a right handed guitar backwards when you're left handed. Wished I would have known this. I wouldn't have been so embarrassed while playing my right-handed Yamaha.
11. It's a good thing I had a hair appointment the week BEFORE visiting the R&R HoF. Because if it was scheduled after, I'm pretty sure I'd come out of there with a Debbie Harry hairstyle.
12. Faith Hill does not belong in the Women Who Rock exhibit. (What's she doing there?!)
13. I saw enough sequined tops and outfits that from now on when people give me a hard time about mine, I'll just say "All the rock stars are doing it." (You think I'm joking about having sequined clothing? Think again.)
14. If you die young, you have a better chance of getting a really good display in the R&R HoF.
15. The items from female artists are 99% of the time way more awesome and well-kept than the items of male artists. So, if you're thinking of making a trip to the R&R HoF, go now and catch the Women Who Rock exhibit while you can.

And now it's time to play Rock Band until my arms fall off.

Amanda Luedeke is Back From the Dead - post 2

Note: If you missed post 1, here it is.

Sometime in April, (or was it May?), I scaled back on the hours I put into my day job. I'd reached a point where I'd hit a wall when it came to growing the agenting job. My day job just took too much out of my day. So, after a bit of angst and frustration and worry and tears and fretting, I talked to my day job people.

And the result was Wednesdays off.

Sure, it affected my pay. And later I found out that I would miss out on bonuses and get fewer vacation days (yeah, the vacation days I used to work at conferences), but it was what I needed to do to keep moving forward. Because like with anything in life, the things that mean the most, rarely come easy.

So there I was...with suddenly all kinds of time. Or at least it felt that way. I remember telling my agenting boss, Chip, that it felt as though I could breathe. Like a load was lifted. And for the first time in quite awhile I was able to sleep at night without a zillion things running through my head...things that I'd forgotten to do, conversations I'd failed to follow up on, deadlines that has snuck up on me in the dead of stillness (don't you hate when that happens?).

All of that stopped. My mind cleared. And I felt in control.

So what did I do? I decided to write a novel.

It's funny how when you're comfortably busy and not that over-extended and only a tad behind things that you can't bear the thought of adding something else to your list. But when you're super busy and freaking out and overworked, those are the times that you're most productive. They're the times that the addition of 9 free hours to your day suddenly translates into enough time to crank out a novel.

And so that's what I did. I cranked it out. I'd never written a complete novel before. I'd always started and then stopped, moving on to a better idea or convincing myself that the current one was bad. I had no discipline. No internal motivation.

But to be frank, now that I was working with authors, I was feeling to be a bit of a fake. No, writing a novel is not a prerequisite to being an agent. But it helps.

I needed to be able to sympathize with my authors. To be able to understand what they're going through when they're doubting their middles or frustrated at the fact that their protagonists are always crying (this happens). I need to say "hey, I've been there, and here's what you need to do..."

So I started writing. And that writing bug that I'd always wished would bite me, took such a chunk out of my usually-resistant self that I started writing and I never stopped. I'd crank out thousands of words in a night. THOUSANDS OF WORDS. I'd do 10 or 15000 in 7 days. Sometimes in 5 days. I wrote and I wrote and I wrote.

And I worked and I worked and I worked.
And soon, in order to write, I had to give things up. I started saying no when Tad asked me if I wanted to hang out with him and our neighbor friends. I said no when he asked if I wanted to watch tv. I said no to movies. No to game nights. No, no, no, over and over and over. I could even hear them having fun sometimes...just down the hall and in the other apartment. And still, I said no.

And in five months, I had a book. 75,000 words. 140 pages. Single spaced. Block paragraphs.

I would never have been able to do that if I hadn't already been stretched thin. Already pushing my limits. And I certainly wouldn't have been able to do it if I'd said "yes" to all those offers of fun and good times. Because at some point, you have to determine what's really important and then you go for it. And for a time, it's going to suck.

But in the end, you have the first draft of your first novel, and it feels a whole lot better than watching 100 movies and playing a zillion rounds of Uno.

about things and goings-ons (insert clever post title here)

I’ve been waiting for over a year now to celebrate my Swedish Name Day on this here blog, and what do you know? It came and went and I didn’t say a word. Blast. Well, I’ll get it next year.

The truth of the matter is that I’ve just been too freaking busy. It shows, I know. My posts are few and far between (not that anyone cares) and yet my life is offering up so much good blog fodder that it’s driving me crazy. So just please bear with me. This too shall pass … eventually. Maybe in 2012 when the world comes to an end?

To talk a bit about my busyness, I’d like to direct you to MacGregor Literary’s website. Oh yeah. That tween in the family photo on the home page? That’s me. But I’m not a tween. And that’s not my family. They’re my co-workers.

I’m a Literary Agent! And I feel so very blessed to be given this opportunity. So blessed, in fact, that this post about me feeling sad because I’m older than Jay Cutler and have nothing to show for it is suddenly a bit ridiculous. Because Ha! At least I’m on a winning team!!


P.s. My bio pic is way cuter.

that one river in egypt

When I was about 12 years old and we lived in Des Plaines (a house in which planes from O'Hare flew so close that it was like a scene straight out of Mary Poppins), there was this guy who would walk by our house every evening. Sometimes he had candy to give us kids. Sometimes he just walked.

But the most curious thing about him were his feet. And his shoes. His feet and his shoes. His one particular foot was way off. The sole of the shoe was all out on the outside of his foot and when he walked, it was actually the inside wall of his shoe that touched the ground. Not the sole.

We always thought it looked weird. Like he was walking on his ankles and not his feet. And I thanked God that my feet weren't like his.

Fast forward to present day.

The gym in which I work out has a million mirrors. On nearly every wall. This is nice when you want to spy on someone. It is not nice when you happen to look upon your own sweaty reflection.

It was because of these mirrors that I realized wowzers! That left foot of mine is really smashed down. In fact it's so smashed down that it's like that one guy in Des Plaines! That guy with the creepy feet!

I tried to ignore this issue. And when my new running shoes gave me shin aches and a sort lower back, I blamed it on my stride. Or the terrain. Or the fact that I had tried a new treadmill.

This is what is referred to as denial, people. And for months I've pushed through the pain and the aches and the swelling. JUST SO I COULD SAY MY FEET WERE NORMAL.

Well, after a particularly disturbing Facebook conversation in which I found out that my tendons could rupture!, I went and did the fancy thing where you run on a treadmill and an expert video tapes you and analyzes your feet.

I came out of that meeting with this:

My name is Amanda. And I overpronate. It is especially prominent in my left foot.


God? I take back what I said about thanking You for not making my feet like his.

Gym Rat

The only thing worse than being surrounded by sweaty, farty guys is when the treadmill beside you is suddenly occupied by some chick who just spent the past five minutes outside with Mr. Marlboro.

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It's rude to be judgemental at the gym. Everyone is there for the same reason, pretty much. But going five minutes super fast on the elliptical at a resistance level so low I can hear the wheel inside loosely clanking as it spins isn't going to get you ahead of the pack.

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I may or may not have used a blow dryer in the locker room to rid myself of some of my head sweat before heading to IHOP for free pancake day.

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I may or may not have accidentally been looking at some guy's butt sweat when he happened to catch me in the action thanks to the gym's bazillion mirrors. Oops. (This guy was also wearing a garbage bag shirt...why oh why wasn't I looking at THAT?)

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I may or may not have a fear of butt sweat.

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What would YOU say if you were sweating it out on the elliptical, while totally enamored by this History Channel special on Adolph Hitler's charisma (and how he may or may not have had magic devil powers of persuasion), and out of nowhere some guy comes bustling up, ready to change the channel, and says:

"Are you watching this?"

How do you answer that? Is there any acceptible way of owning up to actually ENJOYING a special on Hitler? Is that even allowed?

"Nein....Uh, I mean no. No. No, I'm not watching that at all. You may change the channel to whatever you like."

(He was unable to find a worker to help him change it, so I had to spend the rest of the workout sneaking glances at the subtitles...because I felt that guy's eyes on me...as if he was saying "Yeah, I knew you were watching that. You horrible, horrible person. You should be ashamed.")

Making Fun of Stephen King.

After listening to approximately six hours worth of Stephen King's short stories on audio tape on a road trip to and from Peoria, llinois, at the beginning of the month, and after adding another two hours worth of a novella that Tad and I turn on sporadically as we commute to and from work every day and also as we go about our business during the evening, I've developed a certain disdain for his minute detail, excessive use of commas and inability to create dialog that is in any way believable, unless, of course you live in a world in which every living person precedes or confirms their thoughts with lengthy descriptions, explanations and backgrounds, like a teenager, trying to convince his overly-skeptical father that it was necessary to leave his bedroom light on the night before, not because he had sneaked out, forgetting to turn it off, but because he needed it to sleep.

In short, I'd like to know how many words can Stephen King cram into one sentence?

The answer: We're still counting.

*Yes, I am prepared to receive hate comments from S. King fans.
**Yes, I realize my simile was terrible and not nearly as creative as the time S. King described the popping sound in someone's knees as "twin pistol shots".
***Yes, I am fully aware that my entire sentence is wretched and possibly full of errors.
****My sentence is 155 words long.
*****No, I do not believe this is an accurate portrayal of S. King. Truth be told, he is much worse.

Lemmies and other Lemon Deliciousness

(Aha! Those be not eggs! Those be Lemmies!!)

Life has been busy, and though I wish I had something really impressive to show for it all I have are these desserts. Because when life hands you lemons, don't you dare write blog posts or do the laundry or work on selling your car. Why, you should make lemon pie instead! Or lemon cookies! Or lemon cake!

Last week I made simple Lemon Poppy Seed Pie and tonight I made Lemon Dimples. Or, as I like to call them, Lemmies. The first was a recipe I got out of a cookbook. The second was a recipe I stumbled upon here.


On Wednesday, for Thanksgiving, I plan to make a Triple-Layer Lemon Cake. No box mixes. No shortcuts. Everything real from the lemon zest to the lemon juice to the lemon curd. Well, maybe not the lemon curd. I plan to cheat on that. If all goes well, I'll make it again for Tad's birthday in January.

Yes, I realize I'm stuck in a lemon rut. But this is how it goes and there's no getting around it; there's only eating through it. So, that's what we'll do.

(This was the recipe that called for condensed milk--my arch nemesis)

And eventually, I'll get around to some blog posts of substance.

Creep Alert!

There is an unspoken bond between runners.

A smile. A nod. A warm 'hello'.

Regardless of height, age, race, weight or fitness level, passing a fellow runner means you're passing a friend, and all normal tendencies go ignored as you and that person share a moment. A moment in which you know that regardless of his bulging biceps or her graying hair, you are kindred spirits.

So what happens when kindred spirits get creepy?

I heard the pounding footsteps approaching behind me. Staying to one side of the path, I continued my pace, unfazed. I had been passed before. Once, by an elderly Asian man, wearing brown denim and ankle weights. Once by a tall, dark and handsome. I was sure I could handle this heavy-stepped runner.

And then, his steps slowed.

I stayed my course, my eyes straining where my head would not dare to turn, yet he remained out of sight. We continued on for a second or two, before I caught a bit of movement. I turned, and as I did so, he came up beside me.

5'8"
Dark hair
Whiskers
White shirt
Blue athletic shorts
Glasses, maybe

I turned my attention back to running. He was nothing to be afraid of.

And then, he spoke.

"How you doing?"

I didn't know whether to answer. Sure, we were both runners. At times it can be awkward to pass a fellow runner. And yes, there is a runner's code that says we're to be friends and share in our secret knowledge that what we're doing is better than the walkers or the bicyclists or the golfers even if it causes a bit more pain, but THAT DOES NOT MEAN WE HAVE TO BE SPEAKING FRIENDS.

"Alright," I answered--my standard answered when I'm secretly annoyed. Then, because I live by the runner's code, maintained friendliness, "You?"

"Good," he said.

He lingered for a moment before taking off. Then, not 20 paces ahead of me, he looked back.

Now, he could have been being nice.
He could have been looking out for me.
He could have been double checking on whether the tree he passed a minute ago was truly an oak.
But my gut told me, he was being creepy....and it wasn't just the side stitch talking.

I followed him for a bit (there's only one path around this particular park). Then, after he again stole a lengthy glance behind him, I slowed to a walk. And when the opportunity for me to cross over into the bordering neighborhood presented itself, I took it. There was no way I was going to 'happen' to be in the parking lot at the same time as this guy. No way.

And that's my story. Was he a creep? Maybe. Maybe not. Did I get too freaked? Maybe. But probably not.

I'm trying out this new thing where I force myself to react as a normal person would, because the real me lacks a healthy dose of fear. The real me takes unplanned detours into the neighborhoods of Gary, Indiana, and the real me goes to the Shell station off of Pontiac at 10 o'clock at night.

While the new me throws up a red flag at 'hello'.

It's all about balance.

The real me lacks a healthy dose of fear.

How I Prayed Shawn Michaels into Heaven

The year was around 1995 or 1996. Somewhere in there. We were living in Des Plaines, Illinois--a suburb of Chicago and neighbor to O'Hare. Mary Poppins-esqe scenes seemed a daily occurrence, only in our case the sky darkened, the earth shook, and the windows of our house rattled as giant planes flew dangerously close overhead. At least it seemed that way.

During this time, I had but two prayers that I faithfully and dutifully whispered to God every night:

1) That our dog, Traff, would go to heaven, and
2) That WWF wrestler, Shawn Michaels would become a Christian and go to heaven.

I believed in these prayers with the utmost of sincerety, knowing and believing that my sureness and faithful repetition would result in nothing short of a win. I wholeheartedly believed I could back God into a corner with my consistent prayer life and unparalleled faith.

And then I grew up. A year or more of this sort of prayer life, and it got old. Or, I got old. I stopped such prayers, turning my requests to greater things and more pressing matters. But the innocense wasn't there. The sincerety wasn't the same. I had become adult-ish. I had grown up. And eventually, I looked upon my old prayers with humor, thinking upon my foolishness and scoffing at my subject matter--my childlike trials. Oh, if life were as simple as worrying over whether a professional entertainer's name was in the Book of Life.

Until a few years ago, when I found out that Shawn Michaels had become a born again Christian.

For me, nothing better exemplifies the faith of a child.

I'll see you in heaven, Traff.

On Literature and Those Who Live Forever

Black and white movies. Books with now yellowed pages. Music that crackles and voices that sound altered, tin-like and strange. These are the things of long ago. Things that I associate with a time and place that was before my existence and therefore not a part of my reality.

And then, every now and then, someone from that other world will step in and remind me that what and who is now considered classic and timeless was only a few short decades ago considered new and current.

Elizabeth Taylor. The Dalai Lama.

And yet others will remind me that the evil and unfathomable of the past still lives. Still breathes.

Charles Manson. Fidel Castro.

And then there are times when those who I thought long dead, are proven to be alive. Unexpected in my little world of the present. In my world where the actors and actresses of the black and white movies died with the invention of color. Where the authors and writers of literature now shelved in the "classics" section, ceased to exist with the invention of computer cataloging and success of Stephen King. Where the musicians of verse, chorus, verse, chorus, bridge, chorus, chorus songs disappeared with the start of MTV.














In these moments I see the connectedness of things and begin to realize what it is to grow old.

Today, I found that Harper Lee and JD Salinger are still alive. Such a thought does not seem fathomable.



For an interesting view, see the death list.

You Decide 2009: Amanda's Best Friend

For years I've been saying I want a Great Dane. He's going to be black and I'm going to name him Achilles (or Snake Eyes, or Vader, or Gambit). But most of the time, it's Achilles.

I've only seen these giant dogs in person a few times, and each time I have experienced an uncontrollable urge to jump on them and hug them and cuddle them. (Admittedly, I have this urge with almost every dog, but nevertheless I feel it more strongly with the Great Dane). Thankfully each time I was able to control the uncontrollable urge, and save myself a bit of embarassment. But the truth still stands, these dogs make me weak. And so I must have one.

Until the other day...

I was out for my run when I came upon a Bernese Mountain Dog--big, beautiful, big. And out of nowhere I felt that uncontrollable urge creep up from within. I had to concentrate very hard on keeping my hand at a ninety-degree angle as I passed the perfect companion and try not to look directy into its eyes--for I knew I would be smitten. All the following day at work, I thought of little else. My mind took me back to that fateful run...and even more so, it took me to the time when I played with a Berner pup in a pet store. Yes, it scratched my arms to pieces, yes it ran around the cubicle like a medicated child, but I looked past all that when comparing the restless pup to the wonderful adult that he was destined to become.

And so now, dear readers, I have a great life conundrum.

Shall I get my Great Dane, Achilles? Or my Bernese Mountain Dog, name yet to be disclosed/decided?

I have ample time to decide--one year, maybe two. But do you realize how difficult it is to look forward to something when you're quite unsure as to what that something exactly is?

The Biggest Loser - Here We Go

While this may be the season with the biggest contestants EVER, it also happens to be the season with the most screaming and crying. And dying.

And I love it.

It's the only show that makes ME scream and cry. Granted, it's the only show I watch, but still. Two hours. That's a lot for a person who never watches TV. Yet I do it. And I look forward to it.

I choose to ignore the great irony of the show--while promoting health and wellness and 'getting off the couch' and it manages to monopolize two hours of your Tuesday night.

For no reason except that two hours of screaming and crying and dying is better than one.

Good TV habits, like all good diets, can always be put off until the morning.

On Learning Russian

Bonjour! Merhaba! Buon Giorno! Hola! Hello!

If the foundation of a language is its alphabet, then the cornerstone of conversation is its greeting.

This is where I fall short.

zdravstvuyte!

Try saying that.

Wrong.

Wrong again.

The formal 'hello' in Russian has been my nemesis for years. I simply cannot get my mouth to rapidly pronounce the 'z', 'd', and 'r' in a way that allows me to follow up with an 's' and then the rest of the word.

I couldn't get it when I was assisted by actual Russians, and I can't get it now that I'm listening to a tape that breaks each and every word into tiny syllables. My only hope is to rely upon the informal greeting, Privet!

The problem with this is that every Russian I meet will think me to be nothing more than a disrespectful, pompous Amerikanski. (Yes, I actually have heard a Russian derisively mutter this under his breath when in my presence--I imagine he was saying something like "Ugh, obviously we have some American girls in our presence...I can tell by how I can no longer hear my own thoughts because the room is echoing with giggles and rainbows...where is my vodka?").

So, yes. I'm totally done for. No special trips to see Putin for me.

Another interesting fact I'd like to point out about my new audio program, is the first phrase I learned was "Excuse me".

. . . definitely could have used that 7 years ago when I frantically jumped on a bus and smacked an old lady in the face as I reached for the standing-room-only bar. All I could do was stand there completely and stupidly silent as she rattled off a string of what I could only assume were profanities.

I was sure it would only make matters worse if I exhausted my Russian vocabulary on phrases such as "Happy 8th of March" and "I want an apple".

Sunday Musings: Movies with Language

1. It is always helpful to have a pack of blank notecards in your purse when attending a bachelorette party.

2. It is always dangerous when, as a new pastor in a small town, you sneak out to the big city to see a movie with the word "Bast***s" in the title, because chances are the Senior Pastor has snuck out to the big city as well--except in his case, it's for some serious shopping and stir fry. In this particular dangerous situation, he'll be seated on a bench outside of the theater, people-watching for some good Sunday morning sermon stories, while his wife and her close friend (who is wearing a Bob the Tomato t-shirt) finish some shopping for Children's Ministries. He'll see you, and happily strike up conversation, asking what movie you intend to see, and you'll have to tell him, stating the name of the movie not once, but twice because he thought he didn't hear you correctly. He'll hide his devastation, because he wants to appear relevant, but there's no getting around the fact that God's #1 Guy caught you paying $8.50 to see a movie that has the word "bast***s" in the title. And then Tad will repeat "Be sure your sins will find you out" the rest of the evening.

3. It is always optimistic to think that you can learn a language listening to cd's from the library at work and during work outs. But if the people on TV and in the movies can do it, why not give it a try? (wish me luck!)