Having a Good Old Time

 

Yogapedia. It's like Britannica or World Book, except enlightened. According to this source:

Yin Yoga is a slower-paced, more meditative version of the popular physical and spiritual discipline of yoga. In Yin yoga, the poses are held for a longer period of time to target connective tissues rather than focusing on the muscles. As a result, the asanas are more passive holds, with little muscular engagement.

Yin Yoga has its roots in China and was founded on the Taoist theory of yin and yang – opposite concepts that, together, represent balance. Yin is stable and passive, while yang is changing and active. The yin poses, therefore, are passive and performed while seated or in a reclining position. The poses are held with the muscles fully relaxed, allowing time and gravity to deepen the stretch and target the fascia. The time spent holding these asanas is similar to meditation.

I started practicing Yin Yoga seven or eight years ago after my friend mentioned that she experienced so much healing for her chronic back issues with the slow stretching and breathwork. I was still in the habit of kind of beating up on my body back then and was having some knee issues. My kids were probably 14, 15, and 16 years old. I would have been 46 or 47. So many complicated ages in the same house at the same time! I had been attempting to start a meditation practice but wasn’t having much success.

I love fitness classes. It is an hour that I feel strong and successful, sometimes the only hour in a day back when I was living with three teenagers.

In a fitness class, nobody has access to me and nobody will be mean to me, a respite for my constantly vigilant mind. The instructor and I work as a team to take care of my body.

After my first hour of Yin, I was totally hooked. It is dark and quiet. The instructor speaks slow and gentle encouragement, and over time I noticed that the voice in my head became kinder as well.

"If your mind begins to wander, gently let go of your thoughts and bring yourself back into this room."

"This is your time, your practice. Nothing is expected of you here."

"You are not here to work hard. You are here to take care of yourself."

That room was safe and nourishing, offering me relief from my anxiety, and I craved going back each week. Over years, my body started to trust me, unwinding, loosening, and opening up. There were times that I was surprised by the tears that started flowing for no apparent reason. I have learned that unprocessed stress is stored in the body, and I know that Yin has helped to lighten and unburden me.

The instructor challenges us to let go and relax….and then relax some more.

"Separate your back teeth."

"Relax your tongue, like your tongue is having Shavasana inside your mouth."

"Relax the space between your eyebrows. Feel the space widening. Like your eyebrows are going to slide off your face."

She consistently reminds us to move slowly and mindfully. She used to tell us, “Move like you are one hundred years old.”

Then one morning, a lady in the front row said, “I’m ninety-six!”

She’s a tiny, little lady and she DOES move pretty slowly, so I guess the yoga instructor was offering an accurate simile.

The following week, the instructor upped our challenge:

"Move slowly, like you are one hundred and fifty years old."

It’s super cool to see people caring for their bodies when they are close to a hundred years old. My body has taken such good care of me for 54 years. It will be interesting to see how it ages.

Take some time to take good care of yourselves this week, my friends!

Thank you for reading!

Need to Know Basis

 

Audrey was home last weekend and told me that she needed some new socks. So happens that my workout shoes had been feeling a little squishy lately, too, and I had been putting off getting new ones. I’m easily overwhelmed by too many choices, so I’m not a big fan of shopping. Shop till you drop? That happens to me within about five minutes of entering any store.

But my weekend was not too packed, and Audrey’s sock shortage was good motivation to send me to the shoe store. Road Runner Sports has been my go-to for sneakers for over a decade. The staff is knowledgeable enough to listen to my needs and bring me three or four suitable choices to pick from. It’s probably a little more expensive, but it’s not like I’m exactly blowing through running shoes more than once a year.

Recently, sneaker shopping has been a breeze because I LOVE my sneakers, so I simply ask the salesperson for the most recent version of the same shoe. I can try it on and be out of the store within 20 minutes, which was what I was expecting last weekend.

Running Shoe Lady: “What brings you in today?”

She was bright and chipper. I was appreciative that there was not a long wait as there sometimes is on a weekend.

Me: “I need some new shoes.”

RSL: “OK! I can help you with that! What are you looking for?”

I looked down to my shoe and turned it sideways so she could get a good look.

Me: “I really love these.”

RSL: “OK, great! I just need to know what kind of shoe that is.”

This was already getting unusual, because the staff typically know at a glance exactly what I’m looking for by now. I looked at her name tag. Was I in the right store?

Her name was Torie I think. Or maybe Talie or Trixie. But she had a Road Runner name tag so I was assured that I hadn’t walked into Ulta by mistake. Perhaps Torie needed to know the exact model? I turned back to my shoe and rotated my ankle so she could see the “FreshFoam” printed on the other side.

A few seconds passed before I moved my glance back up from my shoe. My questioning eyes met her smiling confusion.

Something was amiss, but I couldn’t figure out what was happening. Fortunately, Torie offered clarity to this baffling situation.

Torie: “I just need to know what KIND of shoe that is. Like….is it Nike?…..Or?”

OHHHHH…..I get it now!

YOU GUYS.

LOOK AT MY SHOE.

YOU TELL ME IF IT IS, LIKE, NIKE…..OR?

That’s the choppiest, busted up swoosh I ever did see!

I felt like I was getting Punk’d. Like the Impractical Jokers were going to pop out from behind the wall at any moment. This would be like walking into McDonald’s and slapping a Quarter Pounder wrapper on the counter.

Me: *slap* “Hit me up with another, Bruh!”

McHuman: "Welcome to McDonalds! Would you like to try an All Day Breakfast?"

Me: "I really enjoyed this. But I don't want any of those weird little onion bits."

McHuman: "I can Mchelp you with that! I just need to know what KIND of food you want. Is it, like, a smoothie.....or?"

It was pretty clear to me that Torie didn’t have the capacity to meet my needs. So I met this young lady’s smiling, blank-eyed gaze and pivoted, “Ummm…..I think I’m just going to pick up some socks today.”

She met me at the cash register and reiterated JUST ONCE MORE so that I was crystal clear about how clueless she was, “Yeah, I would just need to know what KIND of shoe that was if you want me to help you.”

OK, Torie. Poor girl is just a few fries short of a Happy Meal.

I hope you get all your needs met this week. Just Do It.

Thank you for reading!

Nothing Up My Sleeve

 

Several years ago, Albert worked with a plastic surgeon who was collaborating on a new procedure to help a patient grow a prosthetic ear in her arm. Prosthetic ears were previously attached with glue or tape, but more recently they are attached with magnets. Can you imagine snapping your ears on in the morning like an AirPod case?

Patients don’t like detachable ears for lots of reasons. One cancer patient notably envisioned her children running around with her prosthetic yelling, “I have mommy’s ear!”

So we all agree that ears that are secure parts of our heads are preferable. To grow an ear in the patient’s arm, the medical team removed cartilage from the ribcage, carved it into an ear shape, then implanted the contraption into the forearm for several months allowing skin and blood vessels to grow. Once the ear was formed, it was removed from the arm and attached to the head where it belongs.

As I was researching prosthetic ears, I came across this story about an Australian fellow named Stelarc who grew an ear on his forearm as performance art. Lookie ear.

Stelarc started working on this project more than 25 years ago in 1996, but it took him ten years to arrange funding and to find plastic surgeons willing to work on his idea. He explained the delay this way:

"The medical community is essentially a very conservative community and medical practice is about curing people and repairing damage. It seems trivial and unethical, in the sense of a waste of time and effort, to construct an extra ear on the arm of an artist who is perfectly healthy."

 

His discovery confused me. Because giant, rigid boobs seem trivial to me. Girl, those breasts are not gonna change and might be a hassle when you are 70 years old with balance issues. And a lot of the nonsense appearing on women’s faces these days seems like an unethical waste of time and effort.

As ear-y as Stelarc’s art is, here’s a story about a dude who really got the shaft. Malcolm McDonald from Norfolk, England ran into some hard times twelve years ago. His relationship fell apart, he became homeless, and he started using “more and more drugs.”

I suspect that he introduced Staph infections with IV drug use which led to some nasty necrosis. Malcolm described “abscesses which swelled up the size of a tennis ball and popped.” After a while, he developed sepsis which turned his fingers and toes black and then a long-term perineal infection which caused his penis to necrose as well.

In Malcolm’s words:

“My toes started going black, my penis started going black. I knew deep down it was gone and I was going to lose it. Then one day it just dropped off onto the floor.”

According to the British news story, “Malcolm said he threw his penis in the bin.” Bloody adorable the way the British say things like “bin” and “loo.” The chap must have been knackered after that experience with his willie. Time for a cuppa.

So every day was Meatless Monday for Malcolm until his GP offered him an excellent tip. Malcolm was referred to a doctor in London who specialized in phallus reconstruction, a precise in-dick-ation in this case.

The plan was to form a tube from a flap of skin from Malcolm’s forearm, create a urethra within the skin, then attach this fresh salami where the sun don’t shine.

Hypoxemia: below-normal levels of blood oxygen which can arise from many causes.

The sausage-fest was cut short midway. In order to keep the tissue healthy, Malcolm’s newest member was connected to vessels in his left arm “temporarily.” So he got a third arm instead of the third leg he was wishing for. This was back in 2015 and he ended up carrying this short arm pickle around for SIX LONG YEARS.

While one might expect this to be Item #1 on Malcolm's to-do list, the tallywacker transfer was delayed due to a string of missed appointments, transport and scheduling mix-ups, then eventually staff shortages due to the pandemic. Malcolm was miserable with this wang dangler for all those years. Are you ready for the dick pic?

Malcolm lamented that he was “unable to run because the penis waggles about.” Nothing that a fashionable iPhone armband couldn’t fix, I don’t imagine. He could even get one with a storage pocket so it wouldn’t look so conspicuous. “I just like to tote my snacks in there. Oh, yes, hot dogs ARE my favorite!”

He was unable to wear short-sleeved tops in public and couldn’t go swimming with his two children for fear of embarrassment. Maybe he could’ve gotten one of those arm sleeves like Allen Iverson. That would've been slick.

Malcolm complained, “I f*cking slap myself in the eye with it. It’s dead weight.” His left-hand man really caused a lot of problems. It once fell out of his sleeve and flashed a woman in the supermarket. He has burned his arm peen while cooking and even hit his grandma in the face with it while hugging her.

However, Malcolm also described some perks to his extra wiener. As an avid darts player, he learned to “tuck his darts under the penis.” I hope he didn't get pricked.

Malcolm recently offloaded his armload of baloney and got it put back between his legs where it be-schlongs. I wasn’t able to find the British documentary, but here is a video of a few hilarious dudes discussing the story.

Wishing you a lovely week, my friends! Call me if you want to hang out. But only if you don’t have any tricks up your sleeve.

Thank you for reading!

Opting Out

 

Theo Chocolate is a company based out of Seattle, Washington. Their chocolates are fair-trade, organic, made from scratch and DEE-lish! Their name is derived from “theobromine” which is a compound that is related to caffeine and is the principal alkaloid in cacao as well as tea. When the kids were really little, our family toured their chocolate factory where FREE SAMPLES were offered.

This past week, I got an email from Theo Chocolate which offered to let me “Opt Out of Mother’s Day.”

YES, PLEASE!

To say that I don’t like Mother’s Day would be an understatement. I dread the constant advertisements and reminders that begin after Tax Day. And then the occasion drags on for another week with folks asking me how was my Mother’s Day? And what did my family do to make it special for me? And what presents did I get?

I’ve written in the past about some of the uncomfortable feelings that come up for me around Mother’s Day, too. It’s hard for me to reflect on being a mom without considering some of the really big mistakes I’ve made that hurt my kids. I know, I know. I didn’t know any better at the time, so how could I have done any better? I really have been trying to give myself grace.

I recently heard a great perspective on regret from Glennon Doyle and her sister, Amanda. Regret is a sign that I know better now, meaning that I’m growing and learning. I would never experience regret if my awareness never expanded. So that’s mildly reassuring. But it’s still painful.

So it was really interesting this year when several companies asked whether I would like to opt out of their Mother’s Day promotional emails.

These companies “understand that Mother’s Day is a sensitive time” or “can be a difficult day for some.” Huh. I suppose that’s considerate, but I wonder what brought this wokeness on? And who are they aiming these emails at? Folks who lost their moms? Or folks who have awful moms? Or folks who want to be moms but can’t? Gosh, now that I’m thinking of it, the list of sadness goes on and on.

At first I thought this was a considerate offer, but one company told the truth. They said, “Don’t worry—you’ll still receive the same content, just without Mother’s Day messaging.” So this wasn’t thoughtfulness but something else. Why wouldn't they just remove Mother’s Day messaging for everyone altogether? Because they want to use Mother’s Day to sell us shit. UNLESS we don’t LIKE Mother’s Day, in which case they will NOT use Mother’s Day to sell us shit.

Mother’s Day is just too much pressure for me. It’s a big burden for my kids to appreciate me on a specific day. What if I’m a total asshole that day?

It’s also a lot of strain on me NOT to be an asshole on that certain day. I have my days, friends! But those days pass and fade. However, if I pitch a fit on a Mother’s Day, errybody gonna remember that forever. Like if Will Smith had slapped Chris Rock on a different, less high profile night and place? It’s too unpredictable and dangerous.

Lots of people like Mother’s Day, and I respect that. But I'm offering my family Mother's Day Amnesty once again and opting out. I hope you keep it together on May 8th, Friends!

Thanks for reading!

Wiener, Wiener, Chicken Deener!

 

What the hell is going on in Iceland?? Last week I wrote about this creepy Icelandic movie called Lamb. And this week I learn that Iceland is home to the World’s Largest Penis Museum. That is, the museum is the largest facility, not one museum that houses the single largest…facility. 

The museum was founded by a fellow named Sigurour Hjartarson who grew up doing the only thing I currently know that people do in Iceland: raising sheep. Sigurour was drinking with some buddies one night talking about the only thing I currently think that Icelandic people probably talk about: lambs.

The guys were talking about how every part of the lamb is used: the meat for food, the skin for clothes, the intestines for sausages, and the bones for children’s toys.

WAIT.

What kind of effed-up children’s toys are made out of lamb bones?

So you know how I wrote that I don’t think I know any Irish Catholic people a few weeks ago? And I might think that Irish Catholics are all depressed and boring? Well, my friend, Amy, emailed me and told me that she is Irish Catholic! And she is very cheerful and not-at-all boring, and that made me feel happy.

So if one of you is Icelandic and has never adopted a sheep-baby and didn’t play with lamb-bone toys as a child, I’m just going to beg you to let me know. Do it for Your People. Because here is a picture of Sigurour Hjartarson, the Penis Man, and I have concerns.

So the guys are talking about lamb parts and Sigurour recalls how he used to have a dried bull’s penis whip as a child. He used this whip to drive his sheep out to pasture.

So as a joke, Sigurour’s buddies started giving him penises as gifts. Dicks in a Box. It didn’t take long until he was Hooked on Penises. Over decades, he assembled his collection of over 250 penises in the Phallological Museum.

The largest specimen is from a sperm whale. It’s almost six feet tall and weighs about 150 pounds. And that’s just part of the whale wiener. The full whale’s penis was originally 16 feet long and weighed about 700 pounds and couldn’t be delivered intact.

The teeniest peen in the museum is from a hamster. It is only two millimeters in length and you have to look at it with a magnifying glass.

In 2011, Sigurour’s health was failing, so he passed down the family jewels to his son, who now curates the collection. Alongside the erection collection are the following things that I don’t understand:

• Information on the cultural history of the penis, and
• Displays of memorabilia

What kind of cultural history? And what kind of memorabilia? Pennants? Medals? Smashed pennies? I don’t get it.

There’s a gift store so you can do some Christmas shopping and a café in case you get a hankering for a snack. Baloney sandwich anyone? Or how 'bout a handful of Deez Nuts??

But if you have to use the bathroom, you'll have to handle a wanker to get through the door.

What would you do? Would you hold it? Or would you hold it? Here's to a week of simpler decisions, my friends!

Thanks for reading!

Here’s where I got my info about the Phallological Museum:

Experience: I opened the world’s largest penis museum | Museums | The Guardian

Penis museum | Icelandic Phallological Museum | blooloop

Dogs, Lambs, and Popcorn

 

PSA: This post contains movie spoilers. However, both movies are whack. Read on at your discretion.

Power of the Dog was an awful movie. This is how I was certain that it would win lots of movie awards. Why did I even watch it, you ask? Albert put it in our watchlist, because it had more than a four-star rating and “it’s about a dog!” It’s almost impossible to go wrong with a dog movie. But the movie isn’t about a dog. The title is a trap.

Not far into the movie, there is a scene that will forever be emblazoned in my memory. The sequence focuses on a single stalk of wheat blowing gently in a field. I think it was wheat. I’m not a botanist. That’s it. We watched this nonsense for approximately fifteen minutes.

At this moment during the film, I expressed my concern to Albert. “I’m worried that this movie might be a little too artistic for me.”

My sweet husband immediately tried to remedy what he perceived as my emotional discomfort by offering to pick a different movie. But I had heard chatter about this movie and was interested to see what it was all about. And the beauty of being Empty Nesters is that we have time and space for even the terriblest of movies these days.

At the end of the movie, we looked at each other and sighed. We both agreed that we didn’t enjoy the movie. I hated the characters. The way that Phil (Benedict Cumberbatch’s character) manipulated others with his palpable and volatile anger made me feel anxious and resentful. The rest of the main characters were so intimidated and trying so hard to placate this jerk that watching them literally made me groan.

HOWEVER. I am notorious for falling asleep during movies and I stayed awake all the way through this baloney. I couldn’t stop thinking about the movie for days, and Albert and I had lots of annoyed discussions about what the hell was the point of the movie and WHAT was with the skinny dude with the kooky eyes?? So I guess this movie gave us some Type 2 Happiness.

These mixed feelings happened again recently with a movie called Lamb. But, OK, wait. Before I tell you about the movie, let’s talk about lambs.

I recently drove to Eugene to pick Audrey up for the weekend. The drive is a dull hour-and-a-half down the I-5. That is, it’s dull unless the sheep and cows are out. And at this time of year, there are LOTS of babies! Calves were wandering curiously or nursing. And the lambs were running and jumping and playing. The cuteness was practically unbearable.

My heart swelled with wonder and joy then immediately clouded over with sadness. It was lamb season because Easter was coming up. Most of these sweet babes landed on someone’s dinner table this past weekend. Why? Because Jesus is the Lamb? And Christians eat Jesus to show love and devotion? Smaller body wafers during Communion but larger roasted versions at Easter to celebrate the resurrection?

The first time I tried lamb was 1991 when Albert and I got engaged. Delicious! But I can no longer eat lamb because of my dog. You see, Ollie looks like a little lamb, and the thought of him being killed and eaten is almost making me cry right now. Look how cute.

"Please don't eat me, Mom!"

So Albert thought this movie called Lamb might be a good choice for us, because it seemed to loosely describe our relationship with Ollie. Here’s the description:

“In rural Iceland, a childless couple discover a strange and unnatural newborn in their sheep barn. They decide to raise her as their own, but sinister forces are determined to return the creature to the wilderness that birthed her.”

The movie started kind of slow. Instead of fifteen minutes of wheat shots like Power of the Dog, we watched fifteen-minute passages of snow storms. Makes sense. Because ICEland, you know? We saw little lambs being born, and then one of the little lambs gets brought into the house and treated like a little baby, just like the movie description. It was amusing, because Albert makes fun of me for treating Ollie like a baby.

BUT THEN.

We find out that the little lamb is, like, half baby-half lamb. I literally yelled out in horror. AHH! OHMYGODWHAT???? Look at this shit.

I wouldn’t have been surprised if I had watched the trailer which clearly shows this person-lamb with one chubby little hand and one hoofy little hoof. You can watch the creepy two-minute trailer here if you like.

Also like Power of the Dog, I couldn’t get this movie out of my head. What kind of freak thinks of these stories? Is this person-lamb creature like, A Thing in Iceland that seems so whatthefuck-like to me only because I’m not familiar with it yet? How did this creature come to be? Did the husband do the Wild Thing with an actual wild thing??

So gross. Ew. Or, more appropriately, EWE.

This movie brought new gratitudes into my life that I express daily as I sit with my little Ollie and stroke his furry, little back. “I’m so glad that you have a whole dog body! I’m so glad that you have all four little dog paws and zero thumbs!” It’s unleashed a new source of appreciation for me. And for that, I believe this movie deserves an award.

I hope you find joy this week when you least expect it.

Thank you for reading!