Saturday, November 12, 2011
maybe it's time
to drag out the blog again. Flat Stanley's got so many snarky things to say about those dumb-ass, smelly, ignorant, lazy OWS professional whiners and their equally dumb-ass, wealthy, economically clueless supporters that surely it should be recorded, thus ensuring that she can never, ever, ever run for public office down to and including dog catcher.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
There is no Moral to this Story
*
Who wants to hear a story that doesn't entertain and doesn't have a happy ending? Or that ends without an ending, like a batch of half-baked brownies: All the ingredients in the proper order and proportion; the pan, hot; the air, thick with chocolate; and the brownies, firm around the edges but soupy in the middle.
Some stories are like that.
This story begins about five years ago, when Dave came to live with the Stanley clan. It was strictly a temporary arrangement. He was 20 years old and freshly discharged from the military under specifically non-specific circumstances. His family wouldn't let him stay with them, Dave had been a classmate of the youngest Stanley kid, and the house was overflowing with too many people, too many pets, and only one bathroom. What the heck, why not.
Dave was fastidious about his hair and his clothing and he paid a lot of attention to on-line gaming and his appetite. He paid very little attention to cleaning up behind himself, helping out around the house, putting gas in the car when he borrowed it, and looking for a job. But he was pleasant and talked a good game and helped the Band in the Basement line up local gigs and plan its East Coast Summer Tour Debut.
One morning the Stanley sons took Dave to the emergency room because an ear infection and fever left him insensible. In retrospect, there may have been other contributing factors. One night the cops called our house because a Stanley vehicle was seen racing through a local housing development. It turned out that it was Dave who'd been driving. Flat Stanley put Dave on the phone for a good-ol' fashioned chewing out by the police.
After a few months the situation was losing its sense of do-good. Dave's Dad was practically a stalker, calling a couple times a week to explain to us how bad Dave was, what his history was, and why it was important for Dave to be thrown out so he would be forced to take care of himself. And Dave did have a horrifically sad story for his first eight years of life. The best part was being abandoned by his family, becoming a ward of the state and dumped at an orphanage, followed by adoption by the family that first loved him and then came to fear him.
After about six months, Dave stopped looking for a job, stopped pretending that he was looking for a job, and stopped pretending that he even cared that we cared that he look for a job. He stopped pretending that the Stanley residence was anything other than a personal convenience. He's spend all morning in bed, all afternoon and evening playing computer games, and most of the night drifting in and out of the house according to his own unpredictable schedules. He was starting to get scary, and Flat Stanley was starting to get pissed.
Flat Stanley came home for lunch one Tuesday and waved hello to Dave, who was standing out on the sidewalk waiting for a ride. He'd had a choice – get a job or leave the house by noon. He waved back and picked up his duffel bag as a car pulled up. It was Dave's dad. Flat Stanley checked the bedroom to be sure Dave had actually packed.When she looked out the window Dave was gone and it was raining.
Dave hung around the area and began dealing hard drugs. In and out of jail for small-time crimes such as possession and receiving stolen property. Last week he made local headlines for the attempted murder of a high school friend and the friend's mother about two hours after being paroled. They'll be ok. Dave's still not been caught.
*
Update: Dave taken into custody Dec. 30. He hadn't left the county, much less the zip code.
Who wants to hear a story that doesn't entertain and doesn't have a happy ending? Or that ends without an ending, like a batch of half-baked brownies: All the ingredients in the proper order and proportion; the pan, hot; the air, thick with chocolate; and the brownies, firm around the edges but soupy in the middle.
Some stories are like that.
This story begins about five years ago, when Dave came to live with the Stanley clan. It was strictly a temporary arrangement. He was 20 years old and freshly discharged from the military under specifically non-specific circumstances. His family wouldn't let him stay with them, Dave had been a classmate of the youngest Stanley kid, and the house was overflowing with too many people, too many pets, and only one bathroom. What the heck, why not.
Dave was fastidious about his hair and his clothing and he paid a lot of attention to on-line gaming and his appetite. He paid very little attention to cleaning up behind himself, helping out around the house, putting gas in the car when he borrowed it, and looking for a job. But he was pleasant and talked a good game and helped the Band in the Basement line up local gigs and plan its East Coast Summer Tour Debut.
One morning the Stanley sons took Dave to the emergency room because an ear infection and fever left him insensible. In retrospect, there may have been other contributing factors. One night the cops called our house because a Stanley vehicle was seen racing through a local housing development. It turned out that it was Dave who'd been driving. Flat Stanley put Dave on the phone for a good-ol' fashioned chewing out by the police.
After a few months the situation was losing its sense of do-good. Dave's Dad was practically a stalker, calling a couple times a week to explain to us how bad Dave was, what his history was, and why it was important for Dave to be thrown out so he would be forced to take care of himself. And Dave did have a horrifically sad story for his first eight years of life. The best part was being abandoned by his family, becoming a ward of the state and dumped at an orphanage, followed by adoption by the family that first loved him and then came to fear him.
After about six months, Dave stopped looking for a job, stopped pretending that he was looking for a job, and stopped pretending that he even cared that we cared that he look for a job. He stopped pretending that the Stanley residence was anything other than a personal convenience. He's spend all morning in bed, all afternoon and evening playing computer games, and most of the night drifting in and out of the house according to his own unpredictable schedules. He was starting to get scary, and Flat Stanley was starting to get pissed.
Flat Stanley came home for lunch one Tuesday and waved hello to Dave, who was standing out on the sidewalk waiting for a ride. He'd had a choice – get a job or leave the house by noon. He waved back and picked up his duffel bag as a car pulled up. It was Dave's dad. Flat Stanley checked the bedroom to be sure Dave had actually packed.When she looked out the window Dave was gone and it was raining.
Dave hung around the area and began dealing hard drugs. In and out of jail for small-time crimes such as possession and receiving stolen property. Last week he made local headlines for the attempted murder of a high school friend and the friend's mother about two hours after being paroled. They'll be ok. Dave's still not been caught.
*
Update: Dave taken into custody Dec. 30. He hadn't left the county, much less the zip code.
Sunday, October 03, 2010
Saturday Night Scene
*
Streaming observations from Flat Stanley's spouse from his vantage point Saturday evening sitting outside a bar in the Adams-Morgan district early Saturday evening
6:01 pm— at columbia stattion on sidewalk with jazz trio (guitar, piano an dbass cello) - your kinda volume even though they only 8 ft away - all acoustic
6:03 pm— S'tres bon
Having a perfect manhattan with.
No pickups going on, though :-D
6:05 pm— and i take back pick up remark- restaurant next door has coupl on first date both hot & heavy to impress!
6:21 pm— Btw-i got old couple love, nerdling love, and two eastern europeans with a hooker goin on now!
I LOVE DC!
6:22 pm— An embarrassment of eavesdropper riches!
6:23 pm— The nerdlings are AWESOME! Such a classic look - they could be friends with napoleon dynamite!
6:25 pm— $12 bottomless mimosas & bloddy mary's sunday am@ town tavern (next to col. Stn.)
6:28 pm— YES! I GOTTA LESBIAN FIRST DATE TO REPLACE THE EASTER EUROPEANS! color me happy!
(caps by mistake not yelling)
I love the city :->
6:31 pm— & i can die happy - guy on a bike with dildos tied on string trailing behind like cans on a honeymooc car!
I am fulfilled ??!!??
Woot for adams morgan!
6:33 pm— You can't make this stuff up!
6:39 pm— OMG - nerdlinz are leaving and she has a "hello kitty" hung in a noose made from her hair!!!!
6:42 pm— Lez first date - the "sub" is all googly eyed and ordered "wine" to drink when waiter asked "red or white" she said "yes"
:-D
6:59 pm— Family walking past. Daughter (13 yrs?), "mom, these restaurants scare me."
7:03 pm— It just gets better! guys stumble out of bar, hail cab. Cab pulls over, one guy opens door, other guy pukes on street, cab drives off almost dragging first guy down street. First guy screaming hissy fit@ puking guy.
7:13 pm— I gotta replacement old couple
7:18 pm— There are some awesome looks here that, when deconstruceed, must take a depressing amount of time to look "undone."
7:22 pm— Guy just got off bus carrying a DRUM SET!
7:25 pm— Scoring update: Lesbians going to subs aparment for "more great converstation." I refuse to make tongue wagging jokes.
7:29 pm— Hahahahahaha Fat guy on bike just hit fat lady crossing street.
You CANNOT make this up!
7:30 pm— I feel like i'm at a people watcherz smorgasbord!
7:36 pm— I hate seeing this stuff that's not so funny-guy walking a girl down the street with a grip on her elbow-prettry sure it hurt.
7:43 pm— New use for a bike - girl walking hers up street, guy hits on her & won't let her past, she ram the bike between his legs.
Ouch
Is this like a special nite for me or just a night in adams morgan?
8:07 pm— Moved on to madams organ
8:09 pm— Guy bside me just went to bathroom and left his satchel hanging at the bar!
8:12 pm— guy just came in w/ entourage - looks like Ben Jealous. Hmmmmm.
Lotta fun stories in the big naked city. This one ends when the narrator realizes he's had enough to drink and heads for home. Until next Saturday night, this is Flat Stanley. Reporting on Real Life.
*
Streaming observations from Flat Stanley's spouse from his vantage point Saturday evening sitting outside a bar in the Adams-Morgan district early Saturday evening
6:01 pm— at columbia stattion on sidewalk with jazz trio (guitar, piano an dbass cello) - your kinda volume even though they only 8 ft away - all acoustic
6:03 pm— S'tres bon
Having a perfect manhattan with.
No pickups going on, though :-D
6:05 pm— and i take back pick up remark- restaurant next door has coupl on first date both hot & heavy to impress!
6:21 pm— Btw-i got old couple love, nerdling love, and two eastern europeans with a hooker goin on now!
I LOVE DC!
6:22 pm— An embarrassment of eavesdropper riches!
6:23 pm— The nerdlings are AWESOME! Such a classic look - they could be friends with napoleon dynamite!
6:25 pm— $12 bottomless mimosas & bloddy mary's sunday am@ town tavern (next to col. Stn.)
6:28 pm— YES! I GOTTA LESBIAN FIRST DATE TO REPLACE THE EASTER EUROPEANS! color me happy!
(caps by mistake not yelling)
I love the city :->
6:31 pm— & i can die happy - guy on a bike with dildos tied on string trailing behind like cans on a honeymooc car!
I am fulfilled ??!!??
Woot for adams morgan!
6:33 pm— You can't make this stuff up!
6:39 pm— OMG - nerdlinz are leaving and she has a "hello kitty" hung in a noose made from her hair!!!!
6:42 pm— Lez first date - the "sub" is all googly eyed and ordered "wine" to drink when waiter asked "red or white" she said "yes"
:-D
6:59 pm— Family walking past. Daughter (13 yrs?), "mom, these restaurants scare me."
7:03 pm— It just gets better! guys stumble out of bar, hail cab. Cab pulls over, one guy opens door, other guy pukes on street, cab drives off almost dragging first guy down street. First guy screaming hissy fit@ puking guy.
7:13 pm— I gotta replacement old couple
7:18 pm— There are some awesome looks here that, when deconstruceed, must take a depressing amount of time to look "undone."
7:22 pm— Guy just got off bus carrying a DRUM SET!
7:25 pm— Scoring update: Lesbians going to subs aparment for "more great converstation." I refuse to make tongue wagging jokes.
7:29 pm— Hahahahahaha Fat guy on bike just hit fat lady crossing street.
You CANNOT make this up!
7:30 pm— I feel like i'm at a people watcherz smorgasbord!
7:36 pm— I hate seeing this stuff that's not so funny-guy walking a girl down the street with a grip on her elbow-prettry sure it hurt.
7:43 pm— New use for a bike - girl walking hers up street, guy hits on her & won't let her past, she ram the bike between his legs.
Ouch
Is this like a special nite for me or just a night in adams morgan?
8:07 pm— Moved on to madams organ
8:09 pm— Guy bside me just went to bathroom and left his satchel hanging at the bar!
8:12 pm— guy just came in w/ entourage - looks like Ben Jealous. Hmmmmm.
Lotta fun stories in the big naked city. This one ends when the narrator realizes he's had enough to drink and heads for home. Until next Saturday night, this is Flat Stanley. Reporting on Real Life.
*
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Rant: Stinkin' Privileged Fools Have No Idea
*
The White House Office of Science and Technology Director John P. Holdren went on record this week as standing by his stance to de-develop the US to pre-1973 standards. “A massive campaign must be launched to restore a high-quality environment in North America and to de-develop the United States,” Holdren wrote along with Paul and Anne H. Ehrlich in the “recommendations” concluding their 1973 book Human Ecology: Problems and Solutions.
Yeah, right. So let's talk about what is was like to live in the northeast during the cold winter of 1973. And let's think about what it might have been like to have been more "pre-industrial."
In 1973, Flat Stanley was starting her senior year of high school. There was a fuel-oil shortage. Flat Stanley and her mother lived in upstate New York in a double-wide, on a hill, that had just been put in that summer. That made the family "new customers." New Customers couldn't get fuel oil deliveries that winter. The closest place to buy fuel oil was in a town 20 miles away. Sales were limited to five gallons per purchase, and only on the days when your license plate ended in odd or even.
Practically speaking, this meant that on the lucky Saturdays when the fuel oil store was open on days that matched the family car's license plate, that FS's mother could spend her Saturday making as many trips over snowy roads to the fuel oil station as time and weather permitted. Unless, of course, the owner was feeling pissy, in which case he would only sell to the mother one or two times instead of three, four or five times that day. And assuming, of course, that the driver could afford the fuel to make the trips.
FS and her mother would haul those precious, smelly, heavy five gallon cans of fuel up an unplowable, undrivaeble, rutted, snow-filled, dirt driveway to stand on a rickety stool, lift the can over our heads, and pour into an empty fuel tank. It was a long, cold, hard winter.
There was no running water in that trailer, and so what if there had been? There wasn't enough heat to keep the pipes thawed. We hauled our sewage out to a pit that had been dug to hold an unconnected septic tank that remained empty while our nightsoil drained into the earth. Or froze, then flowed away with the spring thaw.
For showers that year, Flat Stanley walked about a mile to a bar that had an unlit bathroom facility in an unlocked basement for summer campers. Yes, Virginia, wet, frozen hair does break on the walk home.
De-develop? How romantic -- and naive -- can a person get? Roughing it on a camping weekend, my friends, is not the same as a lifestyle.
Sure, the US as a whole can become more energy conscious. But before we go about dictating or legislating simpler lifestyles, let's think about what that really means. As hard as it was, Flat Stanley and her mother were fortunate to have had the income to be able to haul that fuel oil; we were fortunate to have had the strength to drag it through the snow, lift it to the tank, and pour it in. We were fortunate to have been healthy enough to endure the cold (hurray for work and school!).
The Flat Stanley moral of the story is, until it's you who's cold, until it's you who can't get the same basic necessities as your neighbors, until it's you who goes without, your nonsensical ideas about returning to a "simpler" time are nothing more than hot air.
Take it from Flat Stanley: There is a place for hot air, and life-changing policy ain't the place.
*
The White House Office of Science and Technology Director John P. Holdren went on record this week as standing by his stance to de-develop the US to pre-1973 standards. “A massive campaign must be launched to restore a high-quality environment in North America and to de-develop the United States,” Holdren wrote along with Paul and Anne H. Ehrlich in the “recommendations” concluding their 1973 book Human Ecology: Problems and Solutions.
Yeah, right. So let's talk about what is was like to live in the northeast during the cold winter of 1973. And let's think about what it might have been like to have been more "pre-industrial."
In 1973, Flat Stanley was starting her senior year of high school. There was a fuel-oil shortage. Flat Stanley and her mother lived in upstate New York in a double-wide, on a hill, that had just been put in that summer. That made the family "new customers." New Customers couldn't get fuel oil deliveries that winter. The closest place to buy fuel oil was in a town 20 miles away. Sales were limited to five gallons per purchase, and only on the days when your license plate ended in odd or even.
Practically speaking, this meant that on the lucky Saturdays when the fuel oil store was open on days that matched the family car's license plate, that FS's mother could spend her Saturday making as many trips over snowy roads to the fuel oil station as time and weather permitted. Unless, of course, the owner was feeling pissy, in which case he would only sell to the mother one or two times instead of three, four or five times that day. And assuming, of course, that the driver could afford the fuel to make the trips.
FS and her mother would haul those precious, smelly, heavy five gallon cans of fuel up an unplowable, undrivaeble, rutted, snow-filled, dirt driveway to stand on a rickety stool, lift the can over our heads, and pour into an empty fuel tank. It was a long, cold, hard winter.
There was no running water in that trailer, and so what if there had been? There wasn't enough heat to keep the pipes thawed. We hauled our sewage out to a pit that had been dug to hold an unconnected septic tank that remained empty while our nightsoil drained into the earth. Or froze, then flowed away with the spring thaw.
For showers that year, Flat Stanley walked about a mile to a bar that had an unlit bathroom facility in an unlocked basement for summer campers. Yes, Virginia, wet, frozen hair does break on the walk home.
De-develop? How romantic -- and naive -- can a person get? Roughing it on a camping weekend, my friends, is not the same as a lifestyle.
Sure, the US as a whole can become more energy conscious. But before we go about dictating or legislating simpler lifestyles, let's think about what that really means. As hard as it was, Flat Stanley and her mother were fortunate to have had the income to be able to haul that fuel oil; we were fortunate to have had the strength to drag it through the snow, lift it to the tank, and pour it in. We were fortunate to have been healthy enough to endure the cold (hurray for work and school!).
The Flat Stanley moral of the story is, until it's you who's cold, until it's you who can't get the same basic necessities as your neighbors, until it's you who goes without, your nonsensical ideas about returning to a "simpler" time are nothing more than hot air.
Take it from Flat Stanley: There is a place for hot air, and life-changing policy ain't the place.
*
Tuesday, September 07, 2010
Big City Morning Commute
*
The thing Flat Stanley likes most about living and working in DC is the morning commute. No, silly reader, it's not because the rest of the day is that bad. It's because Flat Stanley lands in the middle of the city while its feet are still in slippers, before it's had its first cup of coffee, before it's brushed its teeth, combed its hair and dressed for the day.
By afternoon the city's in full swing and all these little pieces are lost in the busyness of busy.
At the bus stop a homeless man talks about his plans for the day: Go to the shelter, get a shower, then sell socks from a large duffel bag. He hopes to start a community center to provide counsel for other homeless. Flat Stanley's schedule changes for a week or two, and when she next catches that bus, the man has moved on and she doesn't see him again.
A well-dressed bag lady asks the bus driver every single day for a week if he stops at Quinn. "It's between Scott and Ridley." Another passenger, an elegant older woman, always wears huge, Hollywood-style sunglasses. One morning she boards without her glasses, and FS sees the remnants of a big ugly bruise high on her cheek.
The metro (subway to my pre-city readers) stops within a block of FS's place of work, but the chance to greet the rising sun as laborers hose the urine from the sidewalks and the homeless take up their collection stations under a cool morning breeze and red lights not yet holding up traffic — it's too tempting.
At 7:15 on the corner of F and Ninth, a black man dressed in an oversized basketball-style tank and shorts practices fancy foot-work, running in place and throwing jabs, his head bopping to the sound in his earphones and filling the entire intersection with grunts that impress even this former Marine. The porters at the Marriott gather to watch and laugh as FS tells them about her efforts to catch the guy on her cell phone camera. Passersby make a point of crossing the street anywhere but at the corner where the Richard Simmons-wannabe gets it on.
At the Ultra Bar, housed in an old bank building, the sidewalk is never scrubbed. Neatly stacked on the granite wall is a black leatherette mini-jacket and barely-worn stiletto-heeled velvet boots. They're gone that afternoon...FS makes a point of checking.
Lenny Fineman and the Troll perform their amazing violin and guitar duo at the next metro exit. They were gone for a few weeks. Vacation, probably.
The Chinese immigrant, the one FS by-passed a few months to put a buck in the Troll's open guitar case, is a case-study in brilliance, or insanity, or schizophrenia, or maybe all three. She sits on a low wall, her left elbow propped on her knee, and takes a relaxed drag on her cigarette. At the same time, she jabs a pissed-off middle-finger salute to an invisible person and shrieks a curse in gibberish. Or maybe it's Chinese.
One morning an empty old woman who reeks of stale urine drags a white tee shirt while looking in all the trash cans. Looking for something, but she does not know what, and she'll never find it. It's a horrible, heat-record-breaking day. She's still there that afternoon, exhausted and smellier, still lost, still looking, her tee-shirt now gray and ragged.
Today, FS got a laptop at work. Under the bookmarks was a tag "all dudes-gay male porn." Oopsie. Somebody's going to be in trouble.
Tomorrow, FS plans to walk down G Street. Someone scratched an interesting comment about a nearby church into the cement of a freshly poured curb, and FS wants to write it down.
*
The thing Flat Stanley likes most about living and working in DC is the morning commute. No, silly reader, it's not because the rest of the day is that bad. It's because Flat Stanley lands in the middle of the city while its feet are still in slippers, before it's had its first cup of coffee, before it's brushed its teeth, combed its hair and dressed for the day.
By afternoon the city's in full swing and all these little pieces are lost in the busyness of busy.
At the bus stop a homeless man talks about his plans for the day: Go to the shelter, get a shower, then sell socks from a large duffel bag. He hopes to start a community center to provide counsel for other homeless. Flat Stanley's schedule changes for a week or two, and when she next catches that bus, the man has moved on and she doesn't see him again.
A well-dressed bag lady asks the bus driver every single day for a week if he stops at Quinn. "It's between Scott and Ridley." Another passenger, an elegant older woman, always wears huge, Hollywood-style sunglasses. One morning she boards without her glasses, and FS sees the remnants of a big ugly bruise high on her cheek.
The metro (subway to my pre-city readers) stops within a block of FS's place of work, but the chance to greet the rising sun as laborers hose the urine from the sidewalks and the homeless take up their collection stations under a cool morning breeze and red lights not yet holding up traffic — it's too tempting.
At 7:15 on the corner of F and Ninth, a black man dressed in an oversized basketball-style tank and shorts practices fancy foot-work, running in place and throwing jabs, his head bopping to the sound in his earphones and filling the entire intersection with grunts that impress even this former Marine. The porters at the Marriott gather to watch and laugh as FS tells them about her efforts to catch the guy on her cell phone camera. Passersby make a point of crossing the street anywhere but at the corner where the Richard Simmons-wannabe gets it on.
At the Ultra Bar, housed in an old bank building, the sidewalk is never scrubbed. Neatly stacked on the granite wall is a black leatherette mini-jacket and barely-worn stiletto-heeled velvet boots. They're gone that afternoon...FS makes a point of checking.
Lenny Fineman and the Troll perform their amazing violin and guitar duo at the next metro exit. They were gone for a few weeks. Vacation, probably.
The Chinese immigrant, the one FS by-passed a few months to put a buck in the Troll's open guitar case, is a case-study in brilliance, or insanity, or schizophrenia, or maybe all three. She sits on a low wall, her left elbow propped on her knee, and takes a relaxed drag on her cigarette. At the same time, she jabs a pissed-off middle-finger salute to an invisible person and shrieks a curse in gibberish. Or maybe it's Chinese.
One morning an empty old woman who reeks of stale urine drags a white tee shirt while looking in all the trash cans. Looking for something, but she does not know what, and she'll never find it. It's a horrible, heat-record-breaking day. She's still there that afternoon, exhausted and smellier, still lost, still looking, her tee-shirt now gray and ragged.
Today, FS got a laptop at work. Under the bookmarks was a tag "all dudes-gay male porn." Oopsie. Somebody's going to be in trouble.
Tomorrow, FS plans to walk down G Street. Someone scratched an interesting comment about a nearby church into the cement of a freshly poured curb, and FS wants to write it down.
*
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Sheets on Fire
*
*
"Hey," Flat Stanley posted on her daughter's Facebook page, "Wanna come firewalking with me?"
Gotta hand it to the kid, she didn't miss a beat. "Sure. Early birthday present?"
Flat Stanley's a lot like an Australian Shepherd. Why settle for herding just one sheep when you round up 20? (And it's better when the other 19 don't ask for an early birthday present.) Not that people who join in Flat Stanley's wildy varying ideas of fun are sheep, but it is like when you're out drumming up participants for an adventure, you usually end up shepherding most of them toward the destination. And losing a few on the way.
But not Carl. He's a younger guy, and this was pre-Facebook between him and FS, so he used email to arrange a carpool between us. He'd drive two hours to FS's locale, climb into the FSMobile and ride the rest of the way. About 2 pm we headed out, stopping at the local Subway so he could stoke his buff, training-for-the-Marine-Corps-marathon-six-foot-something frame with a footlong.
On location we joined FS's daughter and our peers in affirming "I Am Terrific" "I Feel Good" "I Am Happy" "Yes!" "Yes!" "Yes!" High-fives all round! Each person wrote a self-limiting belief on one side of a board, then BAM smashed the board barehanded.
Take THAT, Bitch.
We participated in the solemnity of watching the start of the fire, placed our broken boards on the pyre, then filed back to the retreat room for more focus and learning. At dusk we trekked back to the fire, which was down to juicy red hot embers that hadn't cooled enough to smolder.
Dave wanted to know: Was this really about walking on them? Uh, yeah, Dave, that's what you paid to do.
Karen was adamant that she was here to observe only, who cares about the fee.
Flat Stanley was waiting for proof that the fire was ready to walked upon. Surely someone would wave a special thermometer over the surface, or test it with a substance of standardized flammability, or at least the instructor would walk on it first to demonstrate its safety . . . but no. The instructor said "Who's first?" And Flat Stanley's daughter walked over top of people 18 inches taller and 150 pounds heavier and said ME.
Chip off the old block, she is. There are not words enough to describe how FS felt at that moment. "Freaked out" would be a good start, though. And "awed."
Everyone walked the fire. Even Dave. Even Karen. FS's crazy daughter crossed three times. FS crossed twice. No injuries. Here's proof:
Crossing rural VA on I-66 about 11 pm, Carl said he was hungry. Ten minutes later FS got around to answering. "Wanna stop at Sheetz?"
Carl's from Delaware. Apparently they don't have Sheetz over there. "Excuse me?" he stammered, uttered, stuttered. Great, FS realized. The poor guy's freaking out because he's all alone in the dark with a woman who just propositioned him.
A bit rattled, FS said, "Sheetz. Like Rutters."
Great, just great, FS. Animals rut. Like when you take your second-grader to the zoo to see Mother Nature on a day when she's feeling frisky.
"Orange and red overheads. They look alike," FS blurbled. "We got gas there earlier today."
Whew. Two exits later there were signs for Arbys. So what? We were going to eat at Sheetz. No way was FS going to walk over hot coals, then leave Carl forever wondering about those hot sheets.
*
*
"Hey," Flat Stanley posted on her daughter's Facebook page, "Wanna come firewalking with me?"
Gotta hand it to the kid, she didn't miss a beat. "Sure. Early birthday present?"
Flat Stanley's a lot like an Australian Shepherd. Why settle for herding just one sheep when you round up 20? (And it's better when the other 19 don't ask for an early birthday present.) Not that people who join in Flat Stanley's wildy varying ideas of fun are sheep, but it is like when you're out drumming up participants for an adventure, you usually end up shepherding most of them toward the destination. And losing a few on the way.
But not Carl. He's a younger guy, and this was pre-Facebook between him and FS, so he used email to arrange a carpool between us. He'd drive two hours to FS's locale, climb into the FSMobile and ride the rest of the way. About 2 pm we headed out, stopping at the local Subway so he could stoke his buff, training-for-the-Marine-Corps-marathon-six-foot-something frame with a footlong.
On location we joined FS's daughter and our peers in affirming "I Am Terrific" "I Feel Good" "I Am Happy" "Yes!" "Yes!" "Yes!" High-fives all round! Each person wrote a self-limiting belief on one side of a board, then BAM smashed the board barehanded.
Take THAT, Bitch.
We participated in the solemnity of watching the start of the fire, placed our broken boards on the pyre, then filed back to the retreat room for more focus and learning. At dusk we trekked back to the fire, which was down to juicy red hot embers that hadn't cooled enough to smolder.
Dave wanted to know: Was this really about walking on them? Uh, yeah, Dave, that's what you paid to do.
Karen was adamant that she was here to observe only, who cares about the fee.
Flat Stanley was waiting for proof that the fire was ready to walked upon. Surely someone would wave a special thermometer over the surface, or test it with a substance of standardized flammability, or at least the instructor would walk on it first to demonstrate its safety . . . but no. The instructor said "Who's first?" And Flat Stanley's daughter walked over top of people 18 inches taller and 150 pounds heavier and said ME.
Chip off the old block, she is. There are not words enough to describe how FS felt at that moment. "Freaked out" would be a good start, though. And "awed."
Everyone walked the fire. Even Dave. Even Karen. FS's crazy daughter crossed three times. FS crossed twice. No injuries. Here's proof:
Crossing rural VA on I-66 about 11 pm, Carl said he was hungry. Ten minutes later FS got around to answering. "Wanna stop at Sheetz?"
Carl's from Delaware. Apparently they don't have Sheetz over there. "Excuse me?" he stammered, uttered, stuttered. Great, FS realized. The poor guy's freaking out because he's all alone in the dark with a woman who just propositioned him.
A bit rattled, FS said, "Sheetz. Like Rutters."
Great, just great, FS. Animals rut. Like when you take your second-grader to the zoo to see Mother Nature on a day when she's feeling frisky.
"Orange and red overheads. They look alike," FS blurbled. "We got gas there earlier today."
Whew. Two exits later there were signs for Arbys. So what? We were going to eat at Sheetz. No way was FS going to walk over hot coals, then leave Carl forever wondering about those hot sheets.
*
Tuesday, June 01, 2010
Well, she died
*
Faithful readers (wave everybody! all five of yuhs!) may remember that last year about this time Flat Stanley was writing about her mother, whose unexpected re-appearance after a 25-year absence coupled with her terminal illness, a fractured collection of offspring and the hint of an inheritance provided blog content.
The scene ripped holes in the shredded fabric of whatever kind of family you'd call the siblings of a cardboard storybook character, not to mention the delicacy of a cardboard heart. So when the old lady finally died, FS didn't have the heart to write about it.
It's been one year and three hours since the stubborn, scared, sad, bitter, lonely old woman outlasted her visitors, dieing 10 minutes after the last of them shuffled from her room for the night.
Flat Stanley was scheduled to conduct training at an international conference and wasn't going to miss it, so she blew off the funeral and went. The plane flew over Niagara Falls. The old lady and FS's father spent about six months living near there when FS was an infant. Wandering into the local town that weekend, FS was nearly cut off at the knees while visiting a bookstore. The old lady had once tried her hand at running a bookstore. FS threw rocks into the Bay of Fundy. The old lady used to like going to wild places like that.
FS did the training, collected the certificate. Made nice to the lady whose husband died the year before. Got on the plane, flew home. Over these 12 months, the old lady's death has been defined by (a) missing what could have been a great friendship and (b) sorrow that the old lady couldn't/wouldn't/didn't make a few different choices.
The area had several big snows this winter. FS remembers wading through thigh-deep snow looking for traps the years that the old lady tried trapping muskrats. The old lady once built four great bikes by scavenging parts from junk bikes. FS is handy fixing things and recently started riding bike again.
The old lady used to lead FS and any interested siblings on hours-long explorations of the surrounding hills. Today, FS hikes the AT and linking trails. The old lady was well-read and fascinated with ancient culture. FS has a history degree. The old lady finished college when FS was in junior high. FS finished when her kids were grown.
Today, one of FS's brothers refuses to speak to either sister; the other brother calls occasionally when he's drunk and hurting to try to pick a fight. FS refuses to associate with relatives from her mother's side of the family. History repeats itself, and FS is content to let it, to a point.
FS used to worry that she'd leave her own children when they became difficult teenagers. The kids became teenagers and were at times difficult. FS stayed. FS has worried that having a cardboard heart makes her shallow. The old lady's heart wasn't shallow. It was fractured and tender, willed to steel-strong and rendered gossamer weak through overuse. FS used to worry that she'd let anger and bitterness dictate her life, like the old lady did. She hasn't.
FS faces the next 25 years without the mother she didn't have the past 25 years. Here's tipping one to you, Mom, sincerely wishing you the very best that's possible where ever you are, where ever you go, who ever you become.
*
Faithful readers (wave everybody! all five of yuhs!) may remember that last year about this time Flat Stanley was writing about her mother, whose unexpected re-appearance after a 25-year absence coupled with her terminal illness, a fractured collection of offspring and the hint of an inheritance provided blog content.
The scene ripped holes in the shredded fabric of whatever kind of family you'd call the siblings of a cardboard storybook character, not to mention the delicacy of a cardboard heart. So when the old lady finally died, FS didn't have the heart to write about it.
It's been one year and three hours since the stubborn, scared, sad, bitter, lonely old woman outlasted her visitors, dieing 10 minutes after the last of them shuffled from her room for the night.
Flat Stanley was scheduled to conduct training at an international conference and wasn't going to miss it, so she blew off the funeral and went. The plane flew over Niagara Falls. The old lady and FS's father spent about six months living near there when FS was an infant. Wandering into the local town that weekend, FS was nearly cut off at the knees while visiting a bookstore. The old lady had once tried her hand at running a bookstore. FS threw rocks into the Bay of Fundy. The old lady used to like going to wild places like that.
FS did the training, collected the certificate. Made nice to the lady whose husband died the year before. Got on the plane, flew home. Over these 12 months, the old lady's death has been defined by (a) missing what could have been a great friendship and (b) sorrow that the old lady couldn't/wouldn't/didn't make a few different choices.
The area had several big snows this winter. FS remembers wading through thigh-deep snow looking for traps the years that the old lady tried trapping muskrats. The old lady once built four great bikes by scavenging parts from junk bikes. FS is handy fixing things and recently started riding bike again.
The old lady used to lead FS and any interested siblings on hours-long explorations of the surrounding hills. Today, FS hikes the AT and linking trails. The old lady was well-read and fascinated with ancient culture. FS has a history degree. The old lady finished college when FS was in junior high. FS finished when her kids were grown.
Today, one of FS's brothers refuses to speak to either sister; the other brother calls occasionally when he's drunk and hurting to try to pick a fight. FS refuses to associate with relatives from her mother's side of the family. History repeats itself, and FS is content to let it, to a point.
FS used to worry that she'd leave her own children when they became difficult teenagers. The kids became teenagers and were at times difficult. FS stayed. FS has worried that having a cardboard heart makes her shallow. The old lady's heart wasn't shallow. It was fractured and tender, willed to steel-strong and rendered gossamer weak through overuse. FS used to worry that she'd let anger and bitterness dictate her life, like the old lady did. She hasn't.
FS faces the next 25 years without the mother she didn't have the past 25 years. Here's tipping one to you, Mom, sincerely wishing you the very best that's possible where ever you are, where ever you go, who ever you become.
*
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