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!

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!

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

I'm Touched

 

It has come to my attention that someone has been watching me at the gym. I know what you’re thinking. “Tell us something we don’t know, Lisa Fu!”

Yes, I know that people look at me for lots of reasons especially at the gym. There just aren’t that many Asians around here, so I stand out.

And my Asian-ness isn’t the only outstanding aspect of the way I look. I get lots of comments about my legs, mostly from dudes asking me how I got them so big. My legs are OG big. Like big before Serena Williams made Big Legs cool.

Albert took me to Vegas in 2002 for our 10-year wedding anniversary where we tried indoor rock climbing for the first time. When Albert showed this picture to his parents, his mom asked: “Who is this? That’s LISA??”

 

I thought that she was impressed to see me doing something kind of dangerous and exciting. But DUH. This is my MFIL we’re talking about. She immediately followed up with, “I thought that was a man. So big.” Ugh. Whatever. She was clearly not ready for this jelly.

But I have come to love my legs. They are strong have gifted me with the ability to experience lots of places to do lots of things. And they look great on my boy, too. Look at this picture from September 2019 when Albert, Chris, and I visited the Rodin Museum in Philly. Those meaty thighs though, amiright?? Crooked knees, too. Sorrynotsorry, Son.

A couple of months after this picture was taken, we would start hearing about a mysterious virus in China that was killing people. Then a few months later, universities sent students home for almost a whole year. It seems like a million years ago.

The gym locker room is the only place I get naked in front of more than one person at a time these days. And this is where the stalking and groping happened. BY AN ELDERLY WOMAN.

I was approached the First Time about a month ago while I was finishing up in front of the mirrors. I stay hot after showering, so I usually finish getting ready wearing everything except my shirt. Everything else is in place: pants, shoes, sports bra. Nothing out of the ordinary and, frankly, more clothes than lots of young women these days working out. Or going shopping.

The Approacher is one of the older women who attend the morning aquarobics classes. I think it’s cool that these ladies still get up every morning to exercise and socialize. I hear them chatter about their families and their travels, their aches and their surgeries. I marvel at the way they wrangle into swimsuits and march to the outdoor pool even when it’s 40 degrees outside. I asked one of them how they can stand the cold, and this woman with a German accent said, “Oooooh, the pool iss very varm! It’s like getting into zee BAHTH!”

That wasn’t the woman who was creeping on me. It was a different woman who offered a compliment. “That’s a really cute bra!”

It’s not unusual for women to have discussions about fitness equipment. Finding a comfortable, effective workout bra that doesn’t cost a million dollars can be challenging. And one that looks pretty cute? Score!

Me: “It’s a Handful bra.”

Stalking Woman: “It’s looks really good on you!”

Me: “Thanks!”

SW: “And look at your flat tummy! How’d you get your tummy so flat?”

Uhhhh….is this getting weird? Or is my vivid imagination running amok?

Me: “Oh, I’m just lucky. My tummy is always flat.” 

That’s truth. My tummy is as flat as it was when I was, like, 10 years old. The only difference is that now it proudly bears stretch marks and wrinkly skin and a caved in bellybutton. It has been a joy to have this strong core to hold in all my guts.

Wait a minute, did this woman just look me up and down? I felt alarmed and confused. Before I knew it, this woman reached out and patted my belly with her hand like a bongo drum. *pat pat pat* “You look great! I wish I looked as good as you!”

It makes me feel sad when people, especially women, criticize their own bodies. You’re alive and breathing in your 70s. You’re at this fancy gym about to go to an aquarobics class. Yay, you! So before I could process the fact that I had just been objectified and groped, my Automatic Encourager said, “Oh, you look just great.”

After she walked away, my brain made a note to self. That felt weird. I can probably count on one hand the number of people who have touched my belly. Well, OK, I’ve had three children, so maybe two hands. But you get the idea. It was an unsettling experience.

The Second Time occurred the very next week at the mirrors once again. But this time, I was almost ready to walk out with ALL my clothes on. The woman approached very quickly, telling me how much she admired my sweatshirt and asking where I got it.

I got it at Costco where I get most of my clothes now. My work-from-home uniform is leggings and a sweatshirt. Comfy, cost-effective, and I can pick up a churro on my way out.

SW: “Lemme see what it says on the front!” she says while grasping the bottom front of my sweatshirt and pulling so that my body turns to face her.

Me: "Umm..it just says Under Armour.”

SW: “Oh, it’s so cute. I really like it.”

Mmmkay, Creeper. There is nothing remarkable about the sweatshirt, and that was too aggressive for my taste. I just backed away and left. Congratulations, you have officially been placed on Lurk Alert.

You won’t believe that another incident happened the following week! I didn’t even see her coming. I was unlocking my locker and I felt hands on my hip.

“Excuse me, I just want to squeeze behind you.”

It was over before I even registered it, but Oh. Em. Gee! I felt totally assaulted. When I told Audrey what happened, she was alarmed and asked, “Why do you keep putting yourself in situations where she can touch you?”

Umm, Girlfriend, NO.

In Audrey’s defense, Albert asked me the exact same question when I told him the story. We all had a chat about victim blaming.

I avoid eye contact and proximity to this woman. She makes me feel so uncomfortable. I am adept at asserting boundaries with men who behave like this. It's not hard to avoid men in the women's locker room. I hesitate with this woman. I worry about being respectful to elders and about people at the gym thinking I’m not nice.

But fuck all that. This woman has repeatedly disrespected my boundaries and has no right to creep on me! Look at me, all tough and confident in front of my computer screen. I’ll let you know how it goes, Friends.

WWJD?

What would Jason Momoa do?

Thank you for reading!

My Unsung Hero

 

I’m in love with this podcast called “My Unsung Hero.” These are uplifting, five-minute stories of “everyday acts of kindness and courage that transformed someone’s life.” One story that struck me was told by a woman who visited a grocery store one day. The cashier asked how her day was going, much like every cashier does about a hundred times a day.

The polite American response is, “I’m fine, thank you,” since it’s assumed that the asker actually DGAF about how you’re doing. I think this is a waste of words and time, but I play along because I am not a barbarian.

Sometimes the cashiers are so distracted that they forget that they already asked me how I am 15 seconds ago. The convo goes like this:

Distracted Cashier: “So how’s your day going?”

Me: “Fine, thank you.”

*beep Oat Milk $4.99*

*beep Bananas $2.49*

DC: “So how’s your day going?”

What I WANT to say is: “Still fine, Smart Stuff! Just as fine as it was 15 seconds ago when you asked me the first time.”

But what I actually say is: “Fine, thank you.” Because I am not a barbarian.

Similarly, cashiers are instructed to ask, “Did you find everything you were looking for?” I think this question is so dumb and puts me in a troublesome predicament when I, in fact, do NOT get all my wishes granted at Target. Wouldn’t it be so silly for me to get all the way to the last step of shopping BEFORE exhausting every option to find everything on my list?

Why you gotta dredge up my disappointment and frustration all over again, Tammy?? No, I could NOT find the Blistex Lip Medex and my dry lips do not feel like discussing this any further!

So I always lie and tell the cashier that I found everything just fine. I hate that question.

The woman telling the “Unsung Hero” story was having a bad day, and she couldn’t bring herself to tell the cashier that she was “fine.” She answered honestly. “I’m not doing great. My mother just passed away.” The cashier expressed sympathy and finished the transaction politely.

As the woman was leaving, the young man bagging her groceries asked, “Can I give you a hug?” The storyteller goes on to describe the comforting, healing hug she received with gratitude. She felt seen and listened to and uplifted by this stranger. She says that she thinks of this young man often and remembers him as a warm, empathetic person who made such a big difference for her that day.

Some of the stories in the podcast are much more dramatic, but most tell of small gestures that made a really big impact on the life of a stranger. The thought that comes to my mind when I listen to most of these stories is, “I can do that.” Most of these offerings are well within my capacity and are small enough that it wouldn’t matter to me at all if they’re not appreciated or acknowledged.

One of the most remarkable parts of these stories is that none of the givers seem to be expecting appreciation or acknowledgement, and I wonder if that’s the element of these stories that touches me so deeply. Giving with the expectation of appreciation or acknowledgement is manipulative. Is it rude for someone to walk through a door I’m holding open for them without acknowledging or thanking me? Maybe. But did I offer that gesture because I was fishing for gratitude? I hope not.

I kind of get a kick out of doing nice things for others in sneaky way, not sticking around to see the reaction. This past weekend, Albert, Audrey, and I were in the Alphabet District in Downtown Portland. There were about a half dozen naked people dancing alongside the road and throwing colored powder on each other. There didn’t seem to be any Official Naked Event, and we all wondered what was happening. Albert expressed a great deal of concern for the diners in the restaurants nearby.

One of the naked women crossed over to our side of the street to take a picture of her naked friends. So I asked, “Do you want me to take the picture for you so you can get in it?” She was totally delighted and asked if I could please include the sign behind them. I took several pictures, including the sign, and also some close up before returning the phone to her.

I didn’t stick around to see where she kept her phone since she clearly didn’t have any pockets. I would say that qualified as “everyday kindness and courage.” It takes a lot for an introvert like me to approach a naked stranger.

Will today be the day that you pleasantly surprise a naked stranger?

Thanks for reading!

I.C.U.P.

 

Thanks for being patient with me, friends, as I’ve been AWOL for yet another week. I’m feeling a weird amount of guilt for not writing which kind of seems silly, like feeling guilt for not running off at the mouth when I don’t have anything interesting to say. Truth is that I’ve been working through some things, so I HAVE actually been writing. But it’s too messy to share. Besides, if you read about what’s really going on in my brain, you’d probably all run for the hills.

I am having some feelings that I know are important to address, but they are WAY DEEP INSIDE and it’s taking some work and time and energy even to identify what is going on. My mind is feeling all swirly, and I’m feeling a TINY bit overwhelmed.

Remember when we used to have to “defrag” our computers to make more space in our hard drives? That’s what I feel like is going on in my noggin these past few weeks. Kind of identifying shit that isn’t serving me and deleting it to make more space for more healthy thoughts and ideas.

I saw a woman pooping this past week. You would think that would crack me ALL the way up, but it made me pretty mad. And then the anger stuck with me for DAYS, because I have a problem with anger and WHY THE HELL DID THAT MAKE ME MAD??

This happened in the locker room at the gym, of course. I was entering a stall when I saw a woman pooping. I was completely startled.

She just SAT THERE and said, “Excuse me,” like an innocent old lady asking for directions to the library.

I’m pretty sure that I got mad because I had heard this EXACT SCENARIO play out just a few days before. I heard someone startle and say, “Oh, I’m so sorry!” and this same woman cordially saying, “I couldn’t get this door to latch.” IT’S NOT HARD.

I avoid this woman because she seems to talk indiscriminately and loudly to just about everyone, and I have very little patience for small talk. She’s also one of those folks who sits naked on the stools without putting down a towel and that sight leaves me disconcerted for days. I might just have to lie down and take a nap right now just thinking about it.

I notice this woman in yoga because it seems that she consistently picks the spot RIGHT NEXT to me. And she makes excessive grunting noises. Plus it’s almost like she’s in a different class altogether, because she assumes postures completely different from what the rest of the class is doing. Not that there’s anything wrong with doing your own thing, but it’s just weird. Like, why come to a group fitness class and then just do your own thing?

One time she was right behind me during one yoga class when we moved into a spinal twist and I heard a loud and alarming gurgling sound. I was three hundred percent certain that she just blew chunks right there in the middle of class, and I turned around to make sure she was OK. I fully expected to see her cookies tossed all over her yoga mat.

It took about one second for me to realize that nobody else in class was fazed, including the barfing woman! There she was, casually rolling onto her side.

One more second later I realized that she hadn’t hurled but rather passed a particularly deep and resounding fart. And now I felt like a jerk for turning around and acknowledging that profound pooter.

The first rule of farting in yoga class is THE FART NEVER HAPPENED. While I fight to rein in my giggles and reestablish inner focus, everyone else politely lets it pass (so to speak). But THIS ONE? If she didn’t hork, she definitely shit her pants. It was a challenge to bring my mind back to my breath when I was reluctant to breathe very deeply if at all.

So I guess this woman had already kind of ambushed me several times before I saw her pooping the other day with her loud talking and naked sitting and yoga sharting. I felt kind of assaulted.

It reminds me of one time I was sunning myself on the roof in college and felt tiny rocks hitting me. When I looked up, there was a naked man standing on the roof of the building next door, tossing pebbles at me to get my attention. I don't think I've ever heard of female flashers, and maybe leaving bathroom stall doors open is the feminine way of tossing pebbles.

After I saw her pooping, the woman approached me while I washed my hands, telling me she was sorry for scaring me and how she has trouble locking the stall doors. But I was pissed and didn’t acknowledge her. I’ve been working on boundaries and processing anger and this loud, naked-sitting, sharting, pooper-flasher just pushed all my buttons at the same time and short-circuited my brain.

Do you have any secrets for holding boundaries with people who seem to make it their jobs to violate them? Thanks for being patient with me, friends. And thank you for reading!