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!

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!

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!

Aquaman and Angela's Ashes

I enjoyed a book called Angela’s Ashes a few months ago. It had been on my list of books to read because it was so highly acclaimed but I kept skipping over it for YEARS. Here’s a description:

A 1996 memoir by the Irish-American author Frank McCourt, detailing his strict Irish-Catholic childhood in Brooklyn, New York. It includes his struggles with poverty and his father’s alcoholism during his life in Limerick, Ireland during the Great Depression.

Depressing AND boring, right?? I probably avoided it for a long time because it did not sound good. It took place during the Great Depression. Depressing. And how interesting could a book about Irish-Catholics be? “We went to confession and took communion and then we frowned at each other for the rest of the gloomy day.”

Sidebar: Does this make me a racist? It was just my first thought that an Irish Catholic person during the Great Depression would be very boring. I think I don’t know any Irish-Catholic people….yet. I hope he/she will be engaging and interesting when we eventually do meet. I promise you, friends, that I will give this individual in my future a chance and I will not be a jerk.

OK, now back to the scheduled programming.

I don’t need any help from a book to be depressed and bored, thankyouverymuch. But this book turned out to be delightful. It is told from the perspective of a young boy making his way through a really tough life. This boy is clever and resilient and more than a little bit naughty. I loved reading his story!

The way this little guy comprehends his world made me laugh. You know the way little kids try to understand adult things but get it mostly wrong and it’s adorable? Like how my Chris used to call hummingbirds “honey birds” for the longest time and I never corrected him?

After gobbling up his book, I found out more about the author of this memoir. Frank McCourt grew up in Ireland and immigrated to the US in the 1950s, earned his doctorate degree, and became an English teacher.

Then I was linked to the reviews of this Pulitzer Prize-winning novel that sold more than five million copies. Not every reader was pleased. To my surprise, many people from the town of Limerick, Ireland were not happy with the way their town was depicted. Some of the people he grew up with called him an outright liar. Actually “a miserable liar.”

Dr. McCourt was criticized for stretching the truth and profiting from a new genre called "Mis-lit" or "Misery Memoirs."

It didn’t actually surprise me at all to learn that the book is not factual. It’s a memoir after all, not a history book. (Not that history books are necessarily factual either, but that’s another discussion.) A memoir is an account of an experience from one person’s perspective.

But this got me thinking about the inescapability of criticism. I often feel worried about putting my writing out into the world. On the one hand, I am so hungry to truly be known and understood. But on the other hand, how many of you will be repulsed or totally weirded out when you read about what’s REALLY going on in my twisted head?

Lots of people had mean things to say about Angela’s Ashes. So who am I to think that I am above criticism or that I will be able to avoid it? Heck, if it’s good enough for Oprah, it’s good enough for me.”

So I'm trying to loosen up the overachiever in me to remember that not every post has to be a greatest hit. I’m thinking of Jason Momoa, of course. Because…..

Of course.

Jason and I have much in common, namely our broad shoulders and spectacular wavy, brown hair. One major difference is that he has approximately 800% more eyebrows and infinity more tattoos than I do. But other than that, we're basically twins.

Jason starred in Conan the Barbarian about a decade ago back in 2011. Even though Jason is shirtless for most of the movie, it still flopped and currently has a 25% rating on Rotten Tomatoes.

In contrast, I get to keep my shirt on while writing most days, and this blog doesn’t even cost close to $90 million to produce most weeks. After all “we’re not millionaires.” (That’s an Angela’s Ashes joke.)

So even though I have to buckle myself up a bit for criticism, I’m learning to let it slide off my backside……where I’ll sit on it until it quiets down and stops bothering me.

 

And as for flopping, Jason and I will pull our magical hair back into a stunning man-bun and just handle it.

I really appreciate you coming back Fus-day after Fus-day, my friends. Have you read Angela’s Ashes? What was your favorite part?

Thank you for reading!

PUH-leeeze, Mr. Postman

 

You guys, I got in a fight with our mailman. I didn't throw punches or anything. I didn't even really raise my voice. Actually, the whole fight happened inside my head. The dumb mailman doesn't even know about it.

Albert and I are in the middle of a pretty big remodel of this house that we’ve lived in for almost 20 years. Our driveway and street are often lined with trucks and trailers while the construction crowd traipses in and out of our home causing our dogs bark their little heads off no matter how many times I remind them that these are our friends, not robbers.

The pups aren’t the only ones losing their fricken minds. Our mail carrier also came by to scold me last week. Most of the folks working on our house have been really good about not blocking the mailbox, but our street is really narrow and some of these guys have long trailers, so options are limited.

Mail Guy knocked on my door one afternoon holding a stack of letters and junk. He told me that he noticed that there have been lots of vehicles parked along the street in front of our house recently. Brilliant observation.

Yeah, we’re remodeling.

He went on to inform me that some of those vehicles have blocked the mailbox so that he couldn’t deliver the mail.

I peeked outside and asked, “Is the box blocked right now?” I wanted to be clear that we had the same understanding of this English word “blocked,” since there was a car parked near the mailbox at that moment that did not seem to me to be in front of the mailbox.

He said no, it’s not blocked right now.

So let me get this straight. Do you mean to tell me that you can park your truck, walk down my driveway to knock on my door, and lecture me with the mail in your hands when the mailbox is NOT blocked. But you aren’t willing to get out of your truck and drop that same mail into my mailbox when there happens to be someone parked near the front of it?

Temporarily?

Since it’s a safe assumption that we’re not going to be remodeling forever and ever since we do not live in the Winchester Mystery House.

Plus that’s not the kind of RAIN we get here in Oregon. Even though we have a lot of trees, money doesn’t seem to grow on any of them. We're going to run out of cash at some point. (Or last month.)

He went on to tell me that he would do me the "favor" of holding my mail for a day or two if this happens again, but if it happens for more than three days in a row, I have the opportunity to place a “hold” request at the post office.

This guy wasn’t rude but he really got to me. I was confused and irritated while he was talking. Then I got angry after he left. But then META ANGER set in over the weeks that followed.

Meta Anger: the anger I feel about my anger. Why was I letting this guy piss me off SO much? I hate feeling angry. I judged him for being lazy, but he was not too lazy to interrupt my afternoon to admonish me apparently.

And who does this turkey think he is? Certainly not Mr. McFeely, I'll tell you that! I literally pay his salary. He is a civil servant. He is supposed to serve me, not annoy me.

I have little to no control over who parks in front of my mailbox. I have zero to no control over whether he decides to deliver my mail. I felt like I was getting in trouble. BY THE MAIL CARRIER.

What I’ve learned over the years is that all anger stems from fear. And what I’ve learned over the past few months is that I am unconsciously yet viscerally scared of getting in trouble. Hypervigilant about doing things right and following rules, even to the detriment of the overall well-being of myself and my loved ones. And that has nothing to do with the mail carrier. It’s all my shit to work out.

BUT STILL.

What happened to “Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night stays these courageous couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds??” 

This saying was spoken approximately 2,500 years ago by the Greek historian, Herodotus. It was engraved on the outside of the original USPS building in NYC in the late 1800s because the architect thought it looked and sounded pretty. But is not actually an official USPS slogan.

Turns out that mail carriers ARE required by the Postal Operations Manual to get off their butts and deliver mail to temporarily blocked boxes as long as it is safe to do so. And it’s not like I live along a busy highway or in a sketchy neighborhood.

But apparently, this fellow didn’t get that memo. Maybe his mailbox was blocked that day.

Interestingly, after recognizing that my anger stemmed from my own fear of getting into trouble, it subsided. Because I can't get in trouble from the mailman.

He was just doing his job. (Well, not really, but....) And I'm trying to live my life and do mine. And all we humans are connected on this Earth and need to give each other a break sometimes.

So Meta.

Thanks for reading, my friends!