Tips on Perfect Parenting

A reminder of why FS and spouse raised such perfect offspring: The one who authored this note would not permit failure.

Conversation with a Cougar

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Flat Stanley has a journalistic bent, but not a mass-media bent, so it's only been in the past few weeks that the term "cougar" has crossed her radar. The word made an audible ping today when the John Boy and Billy show referred to one of Tiger Woods' conquests as a cougar. Only, of course, she being a cougar, it was her conquest of him rather than the assumed other-way-round.

So.

Flat Stanley is certainly old enough (turning 53 this week! send cards and money!) to qualify as a cougar should she set her sights on the sexual conquest of men approximately eight years her junior. The age definition is derived from several postings on the urban dictionary. Obviously the posts are submitted by 20- to-30-somethings, for surely no woman in her 50's is even remotely interested in the sexual conquest of your average 40-something male.

To clarify: Consider for a moment the average 40-something male. If he's ever been married, he's either in the middle of a divorce or treading water trying to stay married long enough to get the kids in college. Or he's a serial playboy who's still reliving his last game of high school football and trying to fit his 38 waist into size 34 pants. (Note to Flat Stanley's husband: Yes, you are the exception. Much appreciated :-)))

FS has given some thought to the concept of cougar and try-as-she-might, she can't see anything wrong with the concept of a woman going after what she wants instead of waiting around for some prince charming to make the right moves. To get perspective on the matter, Flat Stanley visted herself, 25 years into the future. Here's what that lively woman has to say on the topic.

FS: Tell me, Grandma, what do you think about the idea of a woman going after a younger man for the purpose of sexual gratification?

Grandma: I think it's about time that equality of the sexes extended to the bedroom.

FS: ahem. I see. Uhh, Grandma, why do you think the term "cougar" is used pejoratively?

Grandma: What's that?

FS: Pejoratively. Why do you think the term "cougar" is used as an insult?

Grandma: I understand the word, Flat Stanley. I just need you to speak more loudly. Hearing's not what it used to be, you know. The term is used pejoratively because younger people often tend to be under the delusion that there is an inverse relationship between between physical age and sexual desirablity.

FS: But, isn't there? Isn't that what natural selection is based on?

Grandma: Yes, of course, FS. It wouldn't make sense for Mother Nature to instill massive horniosity in people who aren't going to be around long enough to raise the results of their lustful predilections. What I'm getting at is two separate aspects of sexuality. One – orgasm. Two – the need to be fully treasured by another.

FS: But Grandma, what's that got to do with cougars?

Grandma: Pipe down, punk. I'm getting there.

FS: Yes Ma'am.

Grandma: The way I see it, cougars can be pathetic, or they can be powerful. The pathetic ones are the ones pursuing serial sex with younger guys because they are absolutely terrified of life without any Prince Charmings assuring them that the fairy tale can still come true.

FS: . . . and the powerful ones? What makes them powerful?

Grandma: Cougars are powerful because they know what they want. They go after their prey with single-minded determination. These cougars are powerful, FS, because they don't get wrapped up in the game. It's not personal to them. They're after enjoyment, no strings, no complications, no attachment. You could say that cougars represent the next stage in the sexual revolution, where free-love has become free for both parties. By that I mean that both parties are free from culturally dictated roles of playing chase or hard-to-get. People are free to have sex simply because they have agreed to.

FS: That explains orgasm, Grandma, but what about that other thing you said? That thing about being fully treasured by another?

Grandma: FS, you've been around long enough to know exactly what I'm talking about. Cougars can have that, too, although I'd argue that pursuing sex purely for the sake of sexual gratification likely means that being fully treasured becomes a momentary event rather the kind of fulfillment that a healthy long-term relationship can bring.

FS: So Grandma, are you saying that cougars are missing out?

Grandma: Not at all, Flat Stanley. I'm saying that some cougars are needy, and that some cougars know exactly what they're doing. Some cougars I feel sorry for, and some cougars I admire. Now go away. I'm baking cookies today and getting ready for a hot date with Grampa.

And stop looking at me like that. Yo momma wasn't brought by the stork and she wasn't hatched. And that's one thing I'm glad as hell about: No matter what age fella I chase after, there's no worries for me about being somebody's Baby Momma.

FS: Grandma!

Grandma: Cookies are done. Want one?
*

Every Small Town

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Every small town has one: The slightly off guy or gal who's just enough off-balance that you're never quite sure whether to run away or stick around for a few minutes of entertainment. And of course the entertainment always runs into a half-hour and you're dying to get away but you've been trained to be polite and anyway the person just won't stop talking long enough for you to say your goodbyes and on top of that every now and then they throw in a statement just interesting enough to pull a response from you which then closes off your escape route. So there you stand.

So there Flat Stanley stood at 9:30 pm, Thanksgiving eve, blocking the organic foods aisle at the local Giant Eagle. Jack has a memory like a steel trap, and he remembered FS from a retail position she held at a dollar store six years ago. He also remembered that she worked for a year at the local paper. He's the kind of guy that talks to lots of people, reads a lot, retains facts, and spins it all into a fascinating tale just believable enough to keep one on her tiptoes. It's like remaining poised at the edge of the Grand Canyon waiting for that one final, amazing observation that will surely convince one to leap with Jack hand-in-hand into a grand new understanding of the ordinary.

That is to say, the observant listener knows that much of this stuff might be true. It's quite possible that a guy like Jack has met every president since Eisenhower. Being from around here, it's quite possible that he grew up visiting the Eisenhower farmstead as a child, and that he remains in touch with the Eisenhower granddaughter.

It's quite possible that Jack has an uncle who was attached in someway to the British embassy in Washington. And was an ambassador. Whose neighbor was Colin Powell. Who used to shoot the breeze with Jack when Jack visited his uncle and Mr. Powell was in town. During Viet Nam. And who once explained to Jack just why the US couldn't solve a certain logistics problem involving deployment to Southeast Asia by simply setting about to solve it.

Turns out that Jack, though an open-minded kind of guy, doesn't like the second President Bush. It's personal. It's because, Jack tells FS, that he personally saw the president rape a 17 year old student at a local private school. But that's nothing, according to the backstory Jack provided, compared to why President Bush felt that he could force himself on this helpless student. But Jack overplayed his hand on this one.

This girl's parents were stationed overseas, Jack says. That's certainly easy to believe. They wanted to send their daughter to a very good private school, so they chose -- Academy. They couldn't afford it, but the family was diligent and the girl was awarded a full ride from Merrill Lynch. So far so good.

Merrill Lynch, however, made the award contingent upon the the student signing a document agreeing to provide sexual favors to any US political figure who asked. Even Flat Stanley doesn't buy that one.

The girl signed the agreement. Uh-huh. And Pres. Bush called in his favor. FS's not buying that one, either. Jack didn't happen to explain how it was that he got to watch this go down, or why it was he to whom the girl told her story.

Dang it all. When FS returned home she mixed all the dry ingredients for a double batch of pumpkin bread. At 10:30 pm she discovered that there was not one drop of cooking oil in the house. There will be no gifts of pumpkin bread at the Thanksgiving table tomorrow. But there will be at least one good story.

dream, dream, go away

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Sometimes Flat Stanley dreams of things as they happen. She does not know what this is called. It seems to be some kind warp that randomly connects FS to tragedies that happen on the other side of the world (commercial plane crash, Viet Nam, lots of fire, plane on runway, people crying, rushing, burning, dying) or in the next town over (man goes crazy, spends the night slashing and stabbing his family. They survive.) FS does not sleep with a television or radio on, so the glib explanation "You heard about it in your sleep" doesn't explain it. She finds out by accident the next day, which is even odder, as FS does not tune into news shows.

These dreams leave FS wrung out, running over with sadness, the kind she imagines one might feel if the sadness of others were her own. The sadness isn't only tied to the sorrow of the victims and those who love them, but also to the knowledge that as an observer, FS was staked to the scene able to do nothing more than watch the tragedy unfold and feel the sorrow of others. FS spends the first day after these dreams tearful. She functions at a minimum and gives herself plenty of time that day to cry, because, baby, there just ain't much else one can do with that kind of grief.

The attentive reader will note that FS only cites a few events. Until two nights ago, there had only been three. This is a good thing. Otherwise, FS would be strapped to a hospital bed with electrodes trying to fry the bad feelings from the neural network inside her skull.

Two nights ago, FS watched some school children get off a school bus on a highway running through an industrial part of a city. It was mid-winter. Recent snow had left the highway and traffic coated in the thick gray coat of road salt and grit that replaces ice and keeps the economy going. FS was standing along the road, enjoying the kids and their happy after-school sounds. One group hung back and decided to jaywalk across four or five lanes of heavy traffic which was backing up at the light.

One little guy, maybe 9 years old, got the great idea that he'd duck under a tanker truck. As he scooted under, traffic started moving forward. FS started screaming "Stop!" She had no voice. She screamed "Stop!" again. No voice. FS was screaming at the kid as much as she was at traffic. No one could hear her. The kid got run over. Two sets of double tires. FS ran into traffic to keep others from hitting him again. His brown winter coat was gone, his hat had fallen off. His shirt was torn. He was mortally injured, but his body didn't know it yet. FS held him to keep him from running wildly. She cried. So sorrowful, that this could not be stopped. So sorrowful, the sorrow yet to come.

Anyway. This dream was different. It was just as real as the others, but there was no corroborating story the next day. And, the sorrow, instead of being powerful the first day, then fading, was faded the first day and has grown more powerful over the past two days.

So. WTF? What is the point of being tuned in just to observe? What is the point of feeling that intensive sorrow? What is the point of witnessing an event to which there is no connection? And now, why this change, a dream of an event that does not make the news? That makes it just a bad dream, right? Except for the sorrow, and the incredible depth of detail, it's just a dream, and tomorrow the sorrow will have faded.

Based on past occurrences, FS shouldn't have another dream like this for another five or six years. You all take real, real good care. FS does not want to read about you in the funny papers.
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Prisoners are People, Too

Flat Stanley is the luckiest piece of cardboard! Every Wednesday night for eight straight weeks she gets to co-conduct a class on communication and leadership for 10-12 inmates at a medium security prison. This is the third group that FS and Richard, a most excellent training partner, have facilitated since last July: About 35 men total.

FS doesn't get to talk about this experience very often because most people have serious issues on the issue of prison. Most people are content with voting for political candidates who whitewash the dynamics of the US justice system by accusing their opponents of being soft on crime. As if being "tough on crime" is synonymous with improving society.

It's like this: You take a man, raise him in a world of skewed social values, bust his sorry ass for pursuing the American dream (happiness), throw him in prison with a bunch of like-minded fellows for several years, then set him loose, refuse to give him a decent job, and expect him to be far better than you, yes, YOU, ever have a hope of being? We on the outside demand that he take on the patience of Job and build a successful life in the face of odds we don't want to admit are there.

So maybe you're thinking that FS must be one of those freakin clueless do-gooder libbrals.

Not.

FS ain't stupid, y'all. These guys did the crime and they know it. Fact is, most of them are glad they're only doing time for what they got caught doing. And yah, it's easy for a man to be repentant when he's in prison. Or when he's got jailhouse religion.

FS and partner only know about the men what they choose to reveal in class. There's premeditated murder. Drug trafficking. Probably some spouse abuse. Drug trafficking. Breaking and entering. Drug trafficking. Drunk driving. Parole violation. Concealed weapon. Third strike. Drug trafficking.

Nobody's innocent, and everybody has a story. But what stories they are.

Boys living on the street at age 12. Or earlier. Boys abused by mothers, fathers, and mothers' boyfriends. Boys raised by good parents but choosing bad anyway. Boys following in their father's footsteps. Boys acting out in rage at themselves, at the world. Men acting like the boys they never were. Men following the code of the street.

Men dealing because they think the flash and the cash is what makes them real men. Men using, abusing, hustling for the next fix, the next hit, the next deal, chasing madly for significance. Men leaving despair in their wake and hopelessness for their future. At some point, if they are lucky, they see this.

This is the gift that FS and Richard provide: Once a week for eight weeks of their four, ten, 20, 40-year sentences, if their behavior is noteworthy, if they are in Chaplain C's domain, if they are selected, if the prison can find a room, if FS and Richard don't have a schedule conflict, a class of 10 to 12 men get to spend an hour or two as students. For that time, they get to be men free of their past and hopeful about their future. They are students, exhilarated that their jailhouse dreams of making the world which formed them a better place for their children and childrens' children is taken seriously.

They themselves, however, are the gift to FS and Richard by paying the highest compliment possible: They pay attention. They learn. They resist. They struggle. They think, consider, weigh. They grow. They improve on their ability to articulate their thoughts. They push each other, hone leadership skills, build upon the incredible inner strengths they will need to be as changed outside prison as they are while inside prison.

Again, FS ain't naive. She knows that not all these guys are gonna make it. She knows that the men in her class are heavily pre-screened -- that's the only way FS would have it. Prison is prison for good reason.

But it's nice. Really, really nice, to have this opportunity to see these men, some of whom who have simply screwed up in big ways, some of whom were bad, as in the bad sense of the word, all of whom, at this particular point in their lives, have regained touch with their innate goodness.

That's the part that's exhilarating, the part that FS wants to share with others but cannot because they do not want to hear: So many of those people behind bars? They are human. Nice, kind, thoughtful, caring, human beings.

Large Furry Green Character Must Not Have Done It

Item in today's local paper.

--burg police say there were no reports of a large green furry character in --burg that could be blamed for the smashing of a windshield with a pumpkin after the New York Yankees defeated the Philadelphia Phillies for the World Series title Wednesday,

there were no reports of a large green furry character, so that definitely rules out the possibility of a large green furry character having committed this atrocious act of terrorism against the windshield, an innocent bystander caught up in international conflict far beyond its ability to comprehend.

so they are instead looking for a Phillies fan in mourning.

because that would be the next logical thing to look for, right? Anybody know what a Phillies fans in mourning looks like? Dressed in black, that's for sure. And maybe small, and purple and covered with yellow and orange triangles?

The pumpkin that damaged the 1995 Buick sedan parked in the first block of North Washington Street was painted to recognize the New York Yankees,

wow! They have paint that turns pumpkins into sentient beings capable of recognizing things? WHAT will they think of next???

who on Wednesday won the World Series with their fourth defeat of the Phillies.

Pretty green thinking, eh? The local paper saves paper by combining the police log with national sports. Not to mention the money they save by hiring actual college journalism majors to write. Not sure what they're saving by not hiring editors.
*

Let Me Just Plain Piss You Off, Ok?

cruisin' tonight, Flat Stanley found this: 4 Simple Rules for Running Your Sex Life So It Doesn't Piss Me Off.

Depending upon your politics and your sensitivity, it may Piss You Off. So you been warned.

Where-in Flat Stanley Mocks Other-functional Behaviors

Cummin On

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Due to Age Enhancement Effect, FS has a few body parts that are beginning to droop. Thanks to good skin, being fairly fit, Victoria's Secret and small gravy catchers, things are holding up pretty well. FS is embracing AEE by letting her hair go silver.

On Thursdays FS has been working out with the Get Ripped class at the gym. It's for the 20-something guys, and they call each other Girl when somebody can't do all 25 of the third set of ab busters. They think it's kinda cool that there's an "older woman" working out with them. FS is training to do some parkour, so finds the class helpful and it kicks her butt so it's fun, too.

When she was younger, younger-to-hanging-on-to-stud-aged men would jump to FS's aid with "Here hon, let me help you with that." Compare that to the same age and older saying today, "Here Ma'm, I'll get that for you."

FS doesn't always appreciate the kindness.

Last Summer she stood at the local grocery store waiting for two 30-something couples to finish swapping childbirth stories. The six-some were blocking the aisle; FS, on the way home from the gym, was standing patiently when one of the new dads looked up and said, "Oh, please excuse us, Ma'm. If you wanted us to move, you should have just said so." FS, being occasionally an actual Ma'm, refrained from saying "Fuck you, punk. If I'd wanted you to move, believe me, you'd have known."

A few weeks later the president of the company she was doing contract work for casually compared something to his approach to dating when he was a college student: When there are lots of available girls, there's no need to tie yourself down to just one. It was an . . . odd . . . metaphor. FS let it pass, wondering if it was some kind of pass.

Back in the day, back when the phrase "sexual harassment" was newly coined, passes were highly stressful events for FS. It's hard to handle a pass when your boss knows that he won't get in trouble for it and the suggestion of a job or grade may hang in the balance. Gives him a huge advantage. Not nearly such a deal for FS today. Employers are a lot smarter and a lot more careful. Dare FS say it's a lot safer for most women in the US work force today?

This week, FS had the opportunity to ignore several cleverly phrased passes. Just casual suggestions, stories told about sexual opportunities, nothing personal. No requests, nothing so out in the open. FS mulled it over a couple of days, then asked one of the guys at work WTF. He said that FS has been put on notice that the door is open.

Oh for pete's sake. We work in the cow-shit business. Can you imagine anything less romantic? Oh sure, the guy would do the proper wine and dine, and if a woman was up for it, she'd get a good meal and nice hotel room outta the deal.

FS can not imagine knockin' boots just for the hell of it, much less carrying on at work as though nothing happened after swapping spit and other body fluids with a co-worker. How do you people do this?

This isn't about pheromones and hard-ons and sticky panties. It's about little blue pills (Viagra's a little blue pill – who knew?) and playing hide-the-sausage, pack the pickle, nookie, gettin' some, going all the way, a roll in the sack, a roll in the hay, 'friend' with benefits.

Next up: FS tries to make this whole thing funny. Be watchin'!

Flat is Good; Big is Better

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Flat Stanley comes by her name honestly, and she's ok with her physique-ness (or lack of). But golly-gosh-darn, fellas, can you at least pretend not to be distracted by the eye candy when they walk into the room?

Put yourself in FS's shoes: The company president asks for an update on a million dollar project you're working on. You take advantage of the moment to let somebody who cares know of your progress. At the same time, you use the moment to suggest an angle that will put you in a position to go after more funding and in walks Miss-I-Paid-For-These-And-By-Golly-I'm-Going-To-Show-Them-Off.

Don't get FS wrong. The girls appear to be well done, and Miss-I-Paid-For-These-And-By-Golly-I'm-Going-To-Show-Them-Off wears tops that do the job tastefully. FS isn't jealous, and she'd do the same thing if the rack was on her chest. Honest, this isn't a wild rant about another woman's trophies.

But it is a bit of rant. Look guys. Err, don't look. Just think for a second. On second thought, don't do that either.

It's like this: You're telling your best friend an awesome story about how you bowled three strikes last week and suddenly his eyes light up and his face breaks into a warm, warm smile. A really, really, warm, warm smile. It doesn't take a genius to recognize that it's not your bowling game that's got him wound up. Oh no, Miss-I-Paid-For-These-And-By-Golly-I'm-Going-To-Show-Them-Off has just walked into the room to announce that she can't find her stapler.

No matter that the end of your story is that he gets to split the take-home prize of $15,000,000. No matter that the entire team has been invited to travel to Italy on another company's dime for a week. Not important that if the contract isn't completed and signed within the next 15 minutes that all deals are off.

What's most important at this very moment is that the world stops while we find the stapler.



No, no, it's ok, really. FS means it when she says she doesn't have an issue with Miss-I-Paid-For-These-And-By-Golly-I'm-Going-To-Show-Them-Off and her gravy catchers. FS will even help look for the stapler. But please, couldja, just for a few more seconds, focus on t . . .

Guess not.

*

Animal Planet

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The other day Flat Stanley heard the house bird, a cockatiel, singing and clucking most melodiously, not at all the screech she reserves for when no one's home, or the cheeping sounds she makes for a few days before popping out an egg. Curious, FS visited the bird cage to see what was going on. FS understands the temptation to anthropomorphize animal behavior. In this particular instance, however, FS argues that the bird was feeling good. Pretty darned good. In a pre-afterglow kind of way, if you catch the drift.



Note the bird's pleasant, smiling demeanor.



In other news, FS visited a worm farm a week or two ago, properly called a "vermiculture operation." The worms live in climate-controlled bins. Their job is to eat and poop. The job of their human caretakers is to eat and poop, too, but that's another part of the story.



Did you know that 1,000 earthworms weigh about two pounds and can eat about one pound of food waste in a 24-hour period? The SO WHAT is that after they digest what they've eaten, they poop, and the poop is like black gold, or fertilizer on steroids, for plants.

The only other thing worms in a vermiculture operation need besides food and moisture is someone to harvest their poo.

Curious readers may wonder what worms eat. They eat food waste and other kinds of waste. They like poo. Pig poo, cow poo, people poo. The worm in the photo is feasting on people poo. Once the vermicast (worm poo) is harvested, it goes to a pile to be dried. What do you think is growing in that pile?


What do you think those plants are, class? Let's think about it for a minute. Worms eat poo, and maybe even small seeds. What seeds to people eat lots of? Think about it for just a minute . . .



That's right! Tomatoes! People eat tomato seeds, which pass through the digestive track unharmed, travel to the city sewage treatment plant, get fed to worms, pass through their digestive track unharmed and . . . bingo. The result is a pile of vermicastings made from worms fed on people poop. The pile is clean enough to pass muster with the Dept. of Environmental Protection. The bad people-pathogens are destroyed, and any plant lucky enough to get close to it thrives.

Only one problem with this pile of poo: People are so disgusted at the notion that the worms that pooped it were fed on people poop that they won't buy it for their gardens.

Sustainability: It's good on paper, as long as it's not in your back yard. Salad, anyone?
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Bold Yellow Balls

Yesterday, this little yellow ball appeared about 10 feet away from FS and spouse recently moved our yard chairs. It is nestled atop a violet. Bold little bastards.

Obviously they no longer fear discovery.

Hold your loved ones extra close tonight . . . tomorrow may be the end.

Score!

*
Left at 4:30 this morning to drive 250 miles for a 10 am meeting in western NY. Submitted preliminary project proposal to local RC&D for approval. Amount to be determined, probably will be in the neighborhood of $400-600K. Scope of proposed project to include 10-15 farms with manure management problems in PA and NY. Got a thumbs up and the group assigned a sponsor.

YES.

Next step: Get the PA group to approve, then begin scoping out project for the actual application. Oh yah, who's worth the money? WHO? WHO? Me, that's who.
*

Little Yellow Balls

A few months after their high school graduate left for bootcamp, Flat Stanley's neighbors solved the mystery behind an on-going shortage of boy's gym socks by cleaning out his room: Under Chris's bed and in his closet were enough barely-worn white socks to account for his entire senior year. It was a once-and-done deal. They found the socks, washed them, gave them away, and moved on.

At Flat Stanley's house, gym socks weren't a problem. One son only needed one pair, to be replaced when he wasn't looking. The other son supplied his own white socks, selected by his girlfriend. When each kid moved out, FS and spouse hosed out their rooms and threw away everything too big to wash down a drain.

Six or seven summers ago, somebody around here had a pellet gun. The ammunition was a million beebees. FS vaguely remembers strong, fast teenage boys leaping over the fence, sleuthing around corners, ducking and rolling through ambushes and causing some collateral damage to innocent landscape.


FS's house has been cleaned a time or two since those days. Rooms emptied, walls painted, furniture rearranged, old toys thrown out. It's reasonable to think that the vestiges of childhood occupation would by now be long gone. No more legos or broken slinkies, the RPG cards are history, Monopoly and Risk are in the give-away pile. Even the last of the green soldiers have been unearthed from their strategic locations in the yard, window sills, and special niches and been granted retirement or honorable discharges.

The beebees are another story.
FS assumed they were plastic, but this was probably incorrect. More likely they represent a reproductive stage in the life cycle of ancient race of galactic conquerors. They could be an alien invasion waiting for an invisible ray to hatch them open. They'll open in waves. The first wave will immediately contact The Brain. Pinky will be right there with him, of course.


The really insidious part of this monstrous plan to invade and take over planet earth isn't the way the enemy eggs look like a child's toy. Yes, that's clever enough. The truly diabolical aspect of this plan is how the eggs themselves reproduce.

Flat Stanley finds them hiding under furniture in rooms recently emptied, swept bare and re-furnished. They turn up in underwear drawers. Medicine cabinets. The glove box in a car not even owned when the original settlers arrived. In the garden at the roots of an old rose bush. The stump of a tree. Under the grass mat covering a sidewalk that has been edged two or three times a year for years.

It's only a matter of time before these little aliens have amassed enough to take over the world. Last week FS put out three trash cans full. She noticed that the neighbors on either side each had one trash can full of these eggs. This morning one showed up in FS's coffee. It is the end of the world as we know it. Prepare.
*

Little Yellow Balls

A few months after their high school graduate left for bootcamp, Flat Stanley's neighbors solved the mystery behind an on-going shortage of boy's gym socks by cleaning out his room: Under Chris's bed and in his closet were enough barely-worn white socks to account for his entire senior year. It was a once-and-done deal. They found the socks, washed them, gave them away, and moved on.

At Flat Stanley's house, gym socks weren't a problem. One son only needed one pair, to be replaced when he wasn't looking. The other son supplied his own white socks, selected by his girlfriend. When each kid moved out, FS and spouse hosed out their rooms and threw away everything too big to wash down a drain.

Six or seven summers ago, somebody around here had a pellet gun. The ammunition was a million beebees. FS vaguely remembers strong, fast teenage boys leaping over the fence, sleuthing around corners, ducking and rolling through ambushes and causing some collateral damage to innocent landscape.


FS's house has been cleaned a time or two since those days. Rooms emptied, walls painted, furniture rearranged, old toys thrown out. It's reasonable to think that the vestiges of childhood occupation would by now be long gone. No more legos or broken slinkies, the RPG cards are history, Monopoly and Risk are in the give-away pile. Even the last of the green soldiers have been unearthed from their strategic locations in the yard, window sills, and special niches and been granted retirement or honorable discharges.

The beebees are another story.
FS assumed they were plastic, but this was probably incorrect. More likely they represent a reproductive stage in the life cycle of ancient race of galactic conquerors. They could be an alien invasion waiting for an invisible ray to hatch them open. They'll open in waves. The first wave will immediately contact The Brain. Pinky will be right there with him, of course.


The really insidious part of this monstrous plan to invade and take over planet earth isn't the way the enemy eggs look like a child's toy. Yes, that's clever enough. The truly diabolical aspect of this plan is how the eggs themselves reproduce.

Flat Stanley finds them hiding under furniture in rooms recently emptied, swept bare and re-furnished. They turn up in underwear drawers. Medicine cabinets. The glove box in a car not even owned when the original settlers arrived. In the garden at the roots of an old rose bush. The stump of a tree. Under the grass mat covering a sidewalk that has been edged two or three times a year for years.

It's only a matter of time before these little aliens have amassed enough to take over the world. Last week FS put out three trash cans full. She noticed that the neighbors on either side each had one trash can full of these eggs. This morning one showed up in FS's coffee. It is the end of the world as we know it. Prepare.

the mouths of babes

*
Wise words of advice from one granddaughter to her stepsisters:

"You know, when someone calls you names or is mean to you, the best thing to do is turn around and walk away...

...because they might have a stupid last name like yours, too."

L, age 8 1/2, speaking to R, 8, and A, 5
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Tag, You're It.

*
The dealio is to go to your Pictures file and then go in the first folder and pull out the tenth photo to post and write about.

Take a gander at Flat Stanley's tenth photo:

This is the entrance to Brendonk, a concentration camp located in Belgium and used by the Germans to house prisoners during WWII. Flat Stanley visited this place two years ago as part of a graduate class called "Origins of Democracy." This was the only concentration camp we visited. The class was comprised of about 20 young 20-somethings, a coupla professors, and one geezer (FS).

FS's fellow students were a stunning group of people. The trip was awesome. This particular tour, sobering. Everyone: Younger, older, rowdier, more studious — everyone toured this facility with the tension produced by an hour or two of holding back tears in public. The interior of the prison was heavy, gray, concrete, low-light, metal drinking troughs, uneven brick floors, wooden bunks in compressed cells. Oppressive. The tour guide was an historian who had conducted extensive interviews with a man who had been held there. This prison was, overall, hailed as a fairly good place to go, as prisoners were not executed en masse or exported to gas chambers.

The head of this prison was a man, an ordinary man, who was generally not well-liked and looked down upon by his neighbors. Once installed as the head, he and his wife took hold of their new-found power and used it to become inhumane. They had a pet dog they would use to attack, bite, torture and kill prisoners. It is amazing and scary and sobering, FS thinks, that under different, "normal" circumstances, this couple would have bumbled through life and never have done anything remotely as monstrous as this.

On to a happier topic, photo #15:



Same trip, Venice. What is a trip with a bunch of college students if one can't take a moment to kiss some real fine ass? FS stole the idea from some cute girls she saw doing the same thing. The awesome background is the Doge's Palace at St. Mark's Cathedral in Venice. No, not Florida. Italy. Italy, you know? That big boot-looking thing you see on maps next to France?

Over and out, FS, World Traveler
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Sorrow and Grief and Grace

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Flat Stanley attended a funeral service Saturday for the 22-year old son (Eric) of an acquaintance who's a really good guy. Lots of people were invited, for the dad is part of the organization FS has been heading this year.

Most everyone entered the church hoping the family would hold it together. Nobody wants to be the person who breaks into uncontrollable sobs. It's especially bad when you've never met the deceased, but, as most people present had children that age, most people present were tense.

The family held it together with incredible grace. Eric had come to a sudden and violent end, cause unmentioned. The eulogies included references to addiction, anger, being troubled, and even, "Eric would never intentionally bring harm to himself or others." Was it drunk driving? A drug deal gone bad? A robbery? Bar fight? Suicide?

The preacher was on track with the family. He told the mourners, "Don't blame yourself for Eric's bad decisions, or for not having done enough to help him, for when you do, you take away his credit for the good that he did." And Eric did do good. His dad read to the mourners a portion of a note from a friend who had also struggled with addiction. Eric, it turns out, had made a significant impact on the lives of others, even when he was, in the end, unable to live with his own condition.

It was a mighty experience, sharing grief with this group of strangers and near-strangers. Afterward we accepted the invitation to go to the family's home. It was obvious that they wanted this as part of the day. They asked for flowers in the funeral announcement. "It might be selfish," the announcement read, "but we have decided that we want flowers." FS had a great time at their house and exchanged email addresses with a fascinating lady.

About those flowers: Well, hey, yes, we could have donated $60 to an addiction recovery group. But if flowers helped this loving family celebrate the gift of their son, then FS and spouse are glad to have been a part of that.

Twenty-two and addiction and depression. That's a lot for a young person to handle. May Eric rest in peace and his family hold on to joy.
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Random Thoughts and Catching Up

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"People of integrity expect to be believed, and when they are not, they let time prove them right."

Yesterday one of our special, difficult leaders — one of the two who violated campaign ethics referenced a few posts ago (but not the one FS has written about several times this past year) — offered an apology for her actions over the past year and asked to treat senior leadership to lunch. Oh, yah. It's nice to have her back, but FS will certainly remember her ability to get off track.

FS has been invited to provide leadership training at an upcoming conference servicing ~14,000 members. About 200 expected to attend the conference, and maybe a dozen will attend the two-hour session, but it's great experience, exposure and reputation-building. FS still rocks.

Ill parent still alive, hanging on by a thread. It is unbelievable how tightly to life the human body clings, even with the most minimum of assistance.

FS endured a three-hour meeting last week that opened with "We want a weekly report of your activities," followed with a series of uninspiring project assignments, and ended with being assigned the task of exploring and developing a business partnership with a company that sells worm poop. FS went from I-hate-this-job-save-yourself-some-money-and-hire-somebody-cheaper to Oh-yah-that's-more-like-it-I'll-stick-around.

It appears that during the course of the three hours, they came to realize that when when FS warned them that they would not be able to see a direct, immediate correlation between her activities and the bottom line, she was right. BUT, take a look at the multi-state, multi-partner project under development and think what that might look like down the road a year or two. Uh-huh. And those partnerships with government agencies...you think they go from 0 to 60 mph overnight? And that meeting between our poopsters and local and state gov't officials? The one that could net us an entry into the green dreams of the Obama administration? mmm. I thought as much.

FS was surprised to learn from her daughter that the carefully cultivated neutral look that FS wears when not liking what she's hearing is universally recognizable as Danger! Danger! Danger! Having a face that reads like an audio book turns out to be an advantage when your employer likes you, hence the transition from chump to champ in terms of project assignments.

And the weekly report? Reduced to a brief bullet point note.

And that's all the news for now. Ciao!

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The Rise and Fall of Grief

Well I'm too lazy to try to turn this idea into a poem and don't want to lose the idea so here it is, a contemplation on how I experience grief.

Grief brings to me a wash of powerful emotional responses that I feel but do not understand. I am held captive by those emotional responses and must endure them as one caught in a wild ocean surf. These responses -- well heck, they're reactions -- roar and recede, rise up and draw back, cause pain without solace, scrape me raw and leave me bruised and tumbled and sore. They are to be endured. I know that, like the tide, they will crescendo, withdraw, and fade. I will be left on the shore to heal, and as the roaring surf recedes, my strength will return.

The GOOD GUYS WIN This Time

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Election Day! Flat Stanley spent hours planning the agenda, double-checking the organization's by-laws, referencing Robert's Rules of Order, structuring the Standing Rules of Order, helping prepare the chairs of the credentialing and nominating committee chairs for their roles at the business meeting, and building the business meeting packets.

Opened the meeting by explaining who had a vote and who didn't (only about half the attendees had a vote); why those who had a vote had it; making it clear that only voting members could speak; and informing the assembly that members of the credentialing committee would physically check to ensure that speakers had the special sticker and ballot that indicated their status as a voting member. Oh, yah, it was tight, and people of average and even below-average functionality knew right then and there that this year's chair could not, would not be pushed around.

But then, there are always the PITA's, the Clueless, the Unethical, the Just-Plain-Stupid.

We've had to deal a couple of them this year. One was elected to a key role last May because last year's leadership team was naive in the matter of personal integrity and politics, FS included. Another — well, you get some clunkers now and then. Can't fire them because they're not hired, and the organization can cover incompetence at certain levels.

At certain levels of the organization there is an expectation that leaders will progress through the senior roles as a way of preparing for the Top Dog position. You gotta earn it, dammit, because FS has put too many years into this to put up with her successors being rubber-stamped into leadership. Building upon past successes and laying the foundation for an even better year next year, FS has spearheaded the development of a culture of professionalism and value and ain't about to let some title-seeking, self-serving clueless moron gut it.

The Nominating Committee was impeccable for both the character of its members and for their willingness to make sound decisions regardless of past practices. The committee did not place Title Seeker #1 on the ballot as would normally be expected. He decided to run from the floor. That's allowed. Title seeker #2 decided to run from the floor rather than go through the nominating committee process. Why avoid the validation that comes with being placed on the ballot? Simple: Clueless. Never read her manual. Didn't know the process. Not like it's been a secret. It's posted everywhere.

Anyway. Both were disqualified from running from the floor because of flagrant violations of the organization's campaign ethics. Title seeker #1 even signed a form promising to abide by them when he went before the nominating committee. Title seeker #2 was told not once, not twice, but several times during the day to cease and desist her illegal campaign activities. She did not.

A visiting dignitary explained before the entire assembly what their violations were. Explained that in the event that either candidate were elected, each would be subject to removal not just from office, but from the organization by the International body. Suggested that this would be an excellent opportunity for these two to gracefully withdraw their bids for election.

Each decided to run anyway. What the???


Both lost the election. The candidates of choice—the ones groomed by FS and other key leaders over the past year won by a large majority. Bonus: The process cemented the credibility of the process as well as FS's leadership over the past 10 months.

There were big corporate sponsors in the room, and guess what: They were so impressed with the organization that they are looking at the possibility of providing FREE meeting space for future events such as this, which require food and meeting space for 100 to 125 people.

Yup. It may have taken an entire year, but it's clear that integrity and respect for the organization's mission won the day. Here's to you special folks: A message you must infer — but won't — since you don't have the inherent skill set:

It's Election Time!

Last year we had dirty politics, a dirty nominating committee, manipulation of the election process, stolen ballots, and charges of miscounting. The result was the election of an incompetent non-performing, dysfunctional bobblehead to a key role in the organization.

THIS year, however, Flat Stanley and others, having learned some huge lessons, put together a nominating committee of unquestioned and widely recognized integrity, put the word out to the entire organization as to what constitutes fair campaigning, implemented a zero-tolerance abuse policy, and staffed the credentials and ballot-counting committees with high-compliance, strong-willed people.

Therefore, our bobblehead is not on the ballot. He can still be nominated from the floor, and hey, it could happen — but after a year of strong, strong leadership from #1 (Flat Stanley) and #2 (second in command), and an incredibly strategic campaign by #2, the elections have a high likelihood of putting good people in place for the coming year.

Yes. It should be good. Oh yes, it should.

FS is a Sexy Blogger and Here's Why:

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Flat Stanley has been tagged with the Sexy Blogger award. Being of a good nature, and appreciating the touch, Flat Stanley investigated first, what the heck a meme is, since the person who tagged her (Karen) is someone who FS doesn't mind humoring every now and then. Oh! There you are, Karen. I was just talking about you. ;-)

A meme (pronounced /miːm/ - rhyming with "dream"), a postulated unit or element of cultural ideas, symbols or practices, gets transmitted from one mind to another through speech, gestures, rituals, or other imitable phenomena.

Cultural ideas, symbols and practices that identify FS as "sexy."

1. Hair. Hey. For an old lady, FS is vainly holding her own. Aiming for a beautiful head of silver, FS gamely pays a hairdresser to camouflage the transition from childhood blonde to 30-something dark to woops-that's-lotta-white-you-got-coming-in-at-the-temples.
   
2. Physique. FS is blessed with a body that is recognized in her culture as acceptable. Some would say cute. Many would kill for. Not boob-acious in any stretch of the imagination, and not even curvaceous, but lithe. And lithe works for FS.
3. Powerful. The little woman is a five-star general disguised as that nice little lady who lives on the corner and is universally addressed as "Mam" by small children and growed up 30-somethings alike.
4. Feminine. Can you belive it? FS has always thought of herself so far from feminine that she feared being mistaken for butch. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Turns out that people see FS as incredibly composed and, therefore, lady-like. Heh. Little do they realize that FS learned that by observing other powerful women. OK, FS owns it: She's feminine and don't you dare fuck with her.
5. Universal. FS gets along with just about everybody except for self-sabotaging morons who swaddle themselves in the filth of their own dysfunctionalities. All that high-falutin' talk about love and acceptance stops right there at the door. But, hey, the reality is that people generally enjoy being around high-energy, eternally optimistic, simultaneously cranky people such as Flat Stanley.
   

Dang, FS IS cool, eh?
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Crying is the Shits

A counselor-friend mentioned to Flat Stanley's husband that FS's dying, dysfunctional parent issue might blow the dust off of FS's long-resolved issues with the ol lady. F***er. Hate it when people are right about crap like that.

Flat Stanley's mother had her caseworker and nursing home professionals fit to be tied last Friday when it was discovered that the old lady had spent the preceding few days on the phone bollixing up financial and legal arrangements that took FS's sister months to straighten out. The old lady removed FS's sister's Power of Attorney status and demanded that the nursing home take charge of her financial affairs. Nursing home refused, leaving FS's sister in the unenviable position of caring for the old lady's bad habits (cell phone bill, cigarettes) without having access to the old lady's money to pay for it. Without power of attorney, there's no one to pay the nursing home, meaning that they'll have to sue the old lady's estate for payment. Which will totally tee her off.

Eventually, somebody's going to step in and remove the old lady's last right to any semblance of independence, and from what FS hears, hospice was advocating that on Friday. Thank goodness for weekends, for they provide space. But. Now FS is being told that the hospice guy is taking back his suggestion because (now that he's all calmed down) he realizes that the old lady's plenty smart enough to convince a judge that she's in complete control of her faculties.

And she probably is. Because the old lady's a carrier. She carries the gene for emotional instability. It's a very powerful gene. It's so powerful that the effects of the gene can be passed outside the usual DNA pathways. This gene makes the saying, "Insanity is hereditary — You get it from your kids" look like a platitude.

This gene for emotional instability has access to local and long-distance carriers. It's transmitted through specific, seemingly innocuous actions such as phone calls and time-of-day conversations. This gene for emotional instability leaves its source (FS's mother) determined and immovable and leaves its recipients blubbering basket cases who have to take the day off work to deal with the oceans of sorrow welling up in volcanic explosions of soul-wrenching depth. Bullshit. No wonder the old lady says she hates emotions. FS does too, at this point.

today

today i received a phone call from my mother. first phone call in almost 27 years. what a weird feeling that was. but it was nice and i think she enjoyed it. i think she even wanted to talk more, but there is only so much strange that two people can absorb in one sitting.

maybe tonight i'll tell some stories from the prison class. next week is graduation already, and this past week the assignment was for each student/inmate/prisoner/bad guy/good guy to give an entertaining speech of 5 to 7 minutes.

these guys are great, and i hope that my re-telling of their stories captures even just a touch of how far the class has come in six weeks -- and how funny their stories were.

Hell-Bound

Fifteen years ago, the house that shelters Flat Stanley's delicate fibers was quaint and cute. Fresh paint, wallpaper and nicely arranged furniture gave the house a homey, welcoming feel. Being busy with three Stanley-ettes, FS and spouse occupied the house as

Barf story

Someone mentioned a puking-while-drunk event in the comment section of "Wooster" over on WOW's blog, which reminds Flat Stanley of the last -- the LAST -- time FS made the mistake of ignoring her self-imposed limit of one beer for pleasure, two for celebrations, three, let's-really-tie-one-on.

FS isn't a big drinker -- never has been -- but when in Rome. Which is where FS was, along with 20 other college juniors and seniors of the normal college age. The occasion was a three-week trip through Italy, Switzerland, Germany and Belgium with travel through Luxembourg and France, all part of a class called "Origins of Democracy." FS knows. Awesome, right? Si, Oui, Yah, it was.

We started out in Siena, where the punks were in Shock and Awe at the sight of the ol' lady with her very own bottle of wine at midnight on the campo just two hours after we'd left the travel bus and treated the town to the sound of a mob of suitcases thumping across six blocks of cobblestone. That very night, the Mr. Popular of the group blessed FS with the blessing of acceptance by throwing his arm around her and inviting her to pose for a photo.



Not bad, eh? Watch this guy. Future state governor, without a doubt.

In Rome, a group of classmates invited FS to go with them to a great little Italian restaurant they'd discovered. From there we went to a bar scrunched into the side of a building built when Charlegmagne was a boy. They bought FS a shot of Jaeger. Yummy. Tastes like cough syrup. FS likes cough syrup. Mildy disappointed, but encouraged, they bought FS an Irish car bomb. More yummy. FS declined more that evening, but no worries. There were two weeks to go and the best, though unknown, was yet to come.


A few nights later, FS was invited to a hookah bar by another great young guy named Eric. FS wasn't sure what hookah bars included, plus tobacco makes her too sick to have fun, plus she was out with the professors that night at an unpolitically correct restaurant enjoying the best steak-frites in Geneva. This photo was taken in Trier, Germany. What, you say, no women? Well, sure, there were lots of women on the trip. In fact, one of them turned out to be very kind to FS in her time of need. FS hung out with them a lot. Give FS a break, though: Given a choice between clinking drinks with a handsome fella or any woman, FS will pick the guy every time.

Woops! Where did HE come from? Venice was fun, too.

On to Trier, a quiet, touristy, town with a great historic district and an Irish pub which the students sniffed out before you can say "Where's the party tonight?" By this time, FS and Beth had hooked up as buddies. Beth was 20 and desparate for an "experience" that didn't inlcude her almost-fiance. Early in the evening, FS stopped by their room and discovered Beth was already half-way through a bottle of Strongbow. Beth said, "I'm desparate for an experience that doesn't inlcude my boyfriend. Take me out. Show me how to have a good time."

Which tells you how desparate Beth was -- asking a 50-year-old piece of cardboard to show her a good time.

Our first stop was a local pub right across the street. It held about a dozen patrons, max. The regular crowd of five perked right up when fresh meat walked in. We ordered a shot of Jaeger each. The skuz-man next to Beth started a conversation with her. FS kept a wary eye on it. Skuzzy bought Beth her second shot. She turned to FS, big baby blues on fire and said, "Someone actually bought me a drink!" FS smiled. We tossed back our second shots. The crowd started paying more attention. Skuz man moved closer. FS reached for her side arm. Damn. Wrong story. FS doesn't carry a side arm. But she would have checked for it if she did.

Beth was enjoying her moment. Skuz man was getting warmer, probably even starting to look good to her. They chatted; FS watched. After about 10 minutes, Skuz man offered to buy a third shot. Beth said yes. FS said no. Skuz man hesitated. Looked at the hard-ass bartender. He winked. She winked back. FS saw trouble. "C'mon Beth, we're leaving."

"But I wanna stay!"

"No. We're leaving now. C'mon."

"But."

"Now!"

FS pulled her from her chair and we ran out of the bar, laughing like loonies and stumbling on the cobblestone.

"Oh my gosh, what just happened in there?" Beth wanted to know.

FS said, "Not sure, but it wasn't good. Keep running."

Like magnets, we were drawn to the Irish pub, where FS spent the next several hours being plied with Jaeger shots and Irish car bombs. How many? No way to tell. FS is greatful that she was old enough to stay put on her stool and spend the night telling Austin how he had a radio announcer's voice.

FS is directionally impaired. Drunk. In a strange town. At 2 am. In a different country. Doesn't speak the language. Erin found her, took pity, and walked her back to the hotel. Where she found Beth, safe and sound and not quite as intoxicated as FS. Close, but not quite.

Beth and FS laughed and giggled and woke up the hausfrau next door, who started talking loudly. Some messages don't need a language translator toe be understood.

FS fell off the bed and broke her toe. This was funny. We laughed louder. The hausfrau complained more. We laughed harder. Then FS noticed that she didn't feel so good. This was funny, too, so we laughed some more. Then, FS realized what kind of not-feeling-so-good she was feeling and stumbled to the toilet.

Acoustically speaking, FS barfs at high volume under the best of circumstances. These not being the best of circumstances, it was loud and voluminous in all senses of the word. Beth patted FS's back and handed her a warm, wet washcloth. We laughed some more, then wound down. The hausfrau settled down.

The next day, FS did not have a hangover. This is unheard of in FS's world, who is subject to a hangover with the over consumption of being in the proximity of alcohol.

A week later, FS's toe was still twice as big as normal and sporting brilliant reds and blues and greens. Despite the discomfort, FS smiled with every painful step. It's been two years. FS is still smiling at the memory.

Sappy Valentines Day

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Way back in 1975, when FS was in her first year at college, FS thumbed rides home to see her boyfriend (a three hour drive) nearly every weekend. FS thought it was safe to hitchhike back then, which was stupid, considering that there was a serial killer running around the area that year picking up female college students and that one of his victims was taken from campus that Fall. There surely is something to be said for ignorance and good luck. But this post isn't about that.

FS's roomate that year was a hottie named Cheri. Cheri played it cool with the guys, and they flocked to her. Back then, long (naturally) blonde hair was the prize guys sought. Maybe it still is. FS had long (naturally) blonde hair back then, but no figure. Unless "stick" counts. Cheri had nice teeth (bonus in the days before most people had braces) and a good complexion (better yet, in the days before acne was considered treatable). FS had absolutely great skin, too -- but then, most people with the body of a 12-year-old do -- and her teeth were decent, not the best, far from the worst.

Cheri, though, had something FS did not have: Charm. Cheri could charm the pants off any boy, and boy-oh-boy, were they ever eager to return the favor. But no. Suitor after suitor spent long hours at night sharing hot, heavy breath with Cheri. Did they get any? Hard to say. FS would lie in her bed at night and wonder. Did they get some when she wasn't there? Were they just really quiet about it? Was Cheri a tease?

There was one boy by the name of Frank. Maybe. Maybe it was Bill. Or Joe? It wasn't Kurt. FS remembers Kurt. She'd uh made a play for him herself if she'd thought she had a snowball's chance.

Whatever, "Frank" had it bad for Cheri. Maybe Cheri felt sorry for Frank, maybe she needed a fill-in for slow nights. FS never understood why, but Cheri allowed Frank to remain in her stable. Cheri managed her make-out schedule incredibly well. Boys who showed up at the wrong time were led to understand that this was not a mistake worth repeating. As for Frank, well, he wasn't ever going to cut it in Cheri's book. She and I both knew that.

But Frank was smitten, and when Valentine's Day came he professed his undying devotion with the ugliest, most over-sized, garishly colored and hideous Valentine's Day card ever. Ever. The background was reddish-purple, sort of like the squirt of blood that pours into a test-tube after a lab-tech hits the vein on the fourth try. The card-board was embossed with roses which were highlighted with rosier reds on the petals. These rosier reds were reminscent of the watery-looking blood that arises from knees and elbows skinned on a gym floor. There was some pink on the card, and probably some white lace. It was bad. Really bad. The text matched the card perfectly, being heavy on romance and intention and light on mystique and innuendo.

Cheri was way too cool to be horrified--which she was, of course--and handled it by allowing me to share 15 minutes of mockery and laughter at the expense of Frank and his pathetic taste in Valentine's Day cards.

In FS's mail the next day was a special envelope from FS's boyfriend. The envelope was white, the same as the card Frank had sent to Cheri. The envelope was large and rectangular, the same as the card that Frank had sent to Cheri. The envelope had the same dimensions as the card Frank had sent to Cheri. And the card was the same card. The laughter was even better the second time around.

Frank didn't make it to the next semester, and FS dumped the boyfriend the second she recieved her AAS. The guys are long gone, but the memory of that card still brings a chuckle. To this day, FS doesn't do sappy.

Today's lesson is: Know Your Audience. Or go down in your intended's memory banks as fodder for a great story -- one that will be told with relish, and surely embellished, for years to come and at your expense.

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Heartless Bitches Live Longer Than the Rest of Yuhs

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You got these four adults whose mother severed all contact for 25 + years agreeing to let bygones be bygones so the old lady doesn't end up dying abandoned in an apartment or forgotten in some institutional home somewhere.

Of course, each of the offspring has their own issues. And of course, stress puts the spotlight on those issues. There's the one who's addicted to legally prescribed pain killers and in a co-dependent marriage; the convicted felon with his own abandonment issues; the one who struggles with setting appropriate boundaries and a too-large sense of obligations and . . .

. . . one's perfect. That would be FS.

Hah! FS is a heartless bee-yotch.

At least, she'd like to be. So it's easy for FS to tell the primary caretaker to let the ol' lady stew at night. Let her ring that damn bell for two straight weeks. Refuse to get her coffee at 3:30 in the morning. Refuse to leave the televison on all night a high volume. Drug her drink at night with painkiller so she sleeps. Refuse to cook whatever the ol' lady wants whenever she wants it. Keep healthy snacks around and let her munch on those between meals.

Refuse to respond when the ol' lady gets querolous. Refuse to defend people when the ol' lady starts trashing them. Refuse to change the tv station 30 times a day. Refuse to jump back and forth between radio, television and cd player every 10-15 minutes.

Lock the office door and refuse to respond to her demands while you're trying to do important work such as save your sanity or pay the electric bill. Move the air mattress into the bathroom and lock the bedroom door at night so that it's harder for the ol' lady to disturb your rest. Put a child lock on the front door, baby gates at the kitchen, lock the other doors and take her lighter away at night.

If after all that the ol' lady won't give you any peace, put her in a home and sleep the sleep of the innocent.

Yah, that's what FS says. Then she wonders what she'd do if she were the primary caretaker. Would she have the heart to put the ol' lady in a home somewhere? And if she did, would she bother visiting? How often? How long would the ol' lady last?

Would FS feel guilty for spiking the ol' lady's coffee? For requiring healthy boundaries and mutual respect? For dumping her in a home for someone else to deal with? Not FS the bee-yotch. FS the person might, though.

So, Madame Primary Caretaker, I hereby confer to you permission to be a Heartless Bee-Yotch and do whatever you have to do to come through this caretaker roll with a sense of sanity. The ol' lady made her choices; she's reaped what she's sown, and she's still sowing shit. Love her and leave her with a clear conscience. I guarantee that none of the rest of us could do what you've done for the ol' lady to date. I respect you for doing what you've done and you've done all that can be done.

Sincerely,

FS, Heartless Bitch. (You can be one, too!)

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Flat Stanley Unplugged

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Every now and then even nice cut-out dolls like Flat Stanley gotta let their hair down. So here goes:

The big, bullying, emotional train wreck of FS's leadership team all BUT took a swing at FS's significant other last week. Oh, but would he have...darn the luck! Of course, FS is only hoping for a glancing blow off the shoulder. That's all it would take. Just one swing and BINGO, grounds for removal.

The big bozo gave the usual lame-0 report at the recent executive committee meeting. "Marketing, I've learned, is very different from sales." Woo boy..any chance of putting some wood in that pencil? Maybe something like...oh, FS doesn't know...something really wild and crazy such as "Membership is down 20% over the last six months and here's my proposal for reaching our target by year's end."

FS did have a chance to live the ultimate seventh grade experience, though: When the bozo showed up to the meeting, FS ignored him in front of everyone, so when he looked around for a friendly wave from anyone, none was forthcoming. heh.

Regular readers may have figured out by now that when FS gets a bug up her cardboard, things happen. And tonight, things happened. FS gets bawled out by a member who's ticked that no one in the organization warned her about another special member: The Stalker.

FS stakes her claim -- can't act on hearsay. Either make your complaint or be quiet (of course, FS was much more sympathetic and politic while driving the stake). Complainent agrees to file a round-about complaint.

FS calls The Stalker to tell him he's fired. Phone disconnected. Sends email. Stalker calling. He's ticked. Wants to know what "harassment" is. FS doesn't back down. He's fired. Stalker says no need to notify International. FS says too late. Stalker says no fair. FS says she saw the email. Stalker wants to keep his job. FS says no. Stalker hangs up angry. GO! GO! FS!!!!!!!!!!!

Ok, who's next. Huh?

Any takers? C'mon.

Make.

My.

Ducking.

Day.


Chump.

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FS Takes on the Man and WINS

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Flat Stanley got mad back on Dec. 26 and fired off the following snarky letter to the Delaware E-ZPass Violations Center in protest of a $25 fine levied against FS for running a toll booth. It was FS's second appeal; the first was denied. Turns out, getting mad was the right thing to do:

To Whom It May Concern,

Your rejection of my appeal for consideration of dismissal of violation notice number xxxxx states the reason for disapproval as "you have not provided us with sufficient evidence to support your appeal for the date and time of the alleged violation."

My "alleged" violation, photo "proof" provided courtesy of a DE camera, does not take into account the circumstances of this violation. You have placed the burden of proof of innocence on me, the accused, and your proof of guilt tells an incomplete and therefore inaccurate story.

Unfortunately for me, I did not carry with me on this occasion a digital camera to capture the image of a sign clearly posted at the exit of the unstaffed toll booth, which read "Do Not Stop."

Further adding to my misfortune, neither do I have access to the photos immediately following the one taken of my vehicle, which likely shows a stream of vehicles doing exactly as I did that day:

• Stop
• Look blankly at the empty toll booth
• Look ahead
• See sign referenced above
• Look at passenger and ask, "Does that sign say 'Do Not Stop?'"
• Check rear view mirror
• See line beginning to form
• Creep ahead
• Read the sign again
• Stop
• Wonder what the hell kind of set-up this is
• Leave

Please inform me as to what process is expected of persons traveling through this lane under these circumstances in order to remain in compliance with toll road laws.

Sincerely,

Flat Stanley

Result:

Dear Flat Stanley,

Thank you for allowing us to address this matter. We have carefully reviewed the above appeal for consideration of dismissal and based upon the supporting documentation submitted, it has been determined that you are not responsible for the payment of this violation.

...and they enclosed a refund check. HAH!
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You Gotta Laugh

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Old woman, terminally ill, can barely walk, is blind. Should be a snap keeping up with her. Right?

Right.

Click here and imagine the story as a comedy. And if you are feeling especially kind today, leave a comment for the poster. Perhaps a congratulatory note for not snapping. :-)
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converts and perverts and Real Good People

Flat Stanley headed for Tennessee early Sunday morning amidst media-hyped promises of ice, snow, sleet, thunderstorms and genuinely disasterous weather from Arkansas to Maine. None of which materialized, and all of which was dismissed as "potential" by weather mis-casters. Cresting a hill just north of Harrisonburg, travelers on I-81 south are treated to a surreal vision of three giant white crosses, with a giant US flag strategically posted on either side of the center cross. The road curves, the crosses disappear from the horizon and the radio fades from one Sunday morning sermon to the next.

Just outside Nashville, two elderly sisters enjoy coffee at McDonalds. While Flat Stanley impatiently waits for two managers and a server to notice that customers are waiting in line while they chat, one of the sisters floats joyously to the counter. A second server floats over the the woman, who blessses the girl with a beatific smile. The woman's face is framed by a halo of white curls and finished with a fall of straight white hair reaching the middle of her back.

The server is a girl about 17 years old. She says, "Why, yea-us, Ahh doo know whah yew-eew ahr-ruh smahlin', May-uhm. Eet's b'cawz of the Lawd Jay-Zus Chrahst." The angel-lady blesses the girl with a smile and the girl says, "Ah know this b'cawz she tol' me ovuh they-uh." And a third server smiles. They all smile together.

Flat Stanley hopes the love feast ends soon so she can get her coffee and get back on the road.

An old guy bumps his way to the front of the line while FS waits for the cream that didn't come with her coffee. He orders 13 freshly-baked oatmeal raisin cookies. "These cookies ahr-ruh fray-ush, suh. Ahh jis' bay-kt 'em mah-sef. Ahh praw-miss." The old guy decides to accept the promise, FS gets her creamers, the angel is satisfied with her evangelistic outreach efforts, and the day continues.

The radio tunes in two channels. One is a woman preacher. She ends most of her sentences with a loud "HUH." FS has heard of such preaching. It's a treat to hear it in person. The other channel is a male preacher who ends his plural nouns and final words with "zuh" and "uh." "The crowd-ZUH gathered round-uh." "The Bible tell US-zuh that this is true-uh."

On Tuesday, Hospice volunteers pay their regularly scheduled visit. Today it is Joshua and Debbie. Joshua thinks he's moonlighting as a hospice worker. In real life he's a preacher for, no surprise, a small non-denominational church which was the focus of FS posts a few years ago.

Mr. Josh is a greedy collector of visual images for private contemplation at his leisure. He walks in, appraises FS, and consumes what he sees. Being quick to pick on Mr. Josh's kind of perverted energy, FS retreats to a corner and lets the hospice workers conduct their interview with their patient. The creep leaves, taking with him a scrotum-load of fresh images for whatever goes on in his gummy little brain. In his church life, he's also a youth worker. Someday the world will allow people like him to be sexually neutralized on the strength of what people like FS know. Maybe that's what heaven is.

Anyway, Day Two of FS Relief Care is half over. The days outside are glacier-fresh; the days inside are smokey and filled with arranging blankets, lighting an invalid's cigarrette and listening to one crime-show after another. The cable channel shuts off at 3 AM and if it's a good night, the patient sleeps on, giving FS a few quiet hours on an air mattress.

God bless, and FS really means this, God bless those who are full-time caretakers of the terminally ill. Thanks, Sis, for being the one who's doing this.

FS's Brag Page

Flat Stanley Update:

January: Employer receives first installment of $250,000 low-interest loan awarded in a competitive application process. YOU ROCK, FLAT STANLEY!!!!!!!!!!!! Next challenge: Help accountant develop tracking system so that someone else can track spending and generate quarterly reports when FS provides due dates. Reuslt: Company receives second installment and FS is the hero, because her full-time, male, business-guru predecessor didn't have the foresight to do this, found the reporting system overwhelming, and never collected on the rest of the award he'd gotten for the company.

January: Bad News: Flat Stanley's motion to remove an absolute lu-lu from office is defeated by a mere four votes. Good News: Flat Stanley did not politic for votes; lu-lu did.

January: First two sessions of semi-annual training events receive rave reviews. FS and her leadership team continue to ROCK despite the presence of one absolute piece of work.

January: FS's brother, the one who needed approval from parole officer to visit dying parent, has paid the visit and managed to understand that sometimes, tying up loose ends mean that you forgive, forgive, forgive without thought of getting anything in return. Which is the point, right?

January: Flat Stanley travels to Tennesee to act as relief pitcher for her sister, sole caretaker of dying parent, while her other brother takes a few weeks off to care for his own family. Wow, it's a lotta work taking care of the dying, especially when they want to die at home. What a stinkin' privilege it is, to die at home! And especially, to die in the home of the family you ditched. Holy cow. FS is tremendously proud of herself and her siblings because they have become persons capable of providing this care. What a privilege that is, in itself — to be not only willing, but able, to do so.

Bumper Sticker Snobbery

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How do trendy social climbers do a one-up on bumper stickers? Why would they want to?

Seriously now: Studies somewhere show a correlation between the number of bumper stickers someone's plastered all over their car and the likelihood of the car's owner erupting into some crazy road rage act—fully-justified, of course. Is there any other kind?

But in this day of $300,000 starter homes and On-Star; mortgages, SUV payments, satellite radio and Blackberries established BFS (Before Fiscal Sense), keeping up with the Jones' has taken a new twist.

Flat Stanley's keen eye observes that it's not enough anymore to be jonesin' for your neighbor's address or wife (or husband or boyfriend or girlfriend or children or—) or lawn care service or even their SUV. Now, even the bumper stickers are trashy-chic. Is this the true indication of the current economic climate, when the trappings of the would-be nuveaux riche are reduced to bumper sticker fashion?

So maybe you're wondering, what the hell is Flat Stanley talking about? Maybe it's an East Coast thing, but around here, the sheep are separated from the goats not only by the number of inches between the ground and the drivers' seat, but also by the shape and location of the bumper sticker.

Regular middle class people have rectangular bumper stickers stuck to conventional locations. This car climbed Mt. Washington – right rear. Ok, poor example. That's definitely less than middle class. How about Question Authority. Nah. Too counter-culture, although edging toward junior-year respectability. I love my cat. FS is kidding. Not even eccentric rich people sport that one. A-ha. My kid is an honor student at F.U. Elementary School. Soccer parents. So not cool.

OXB Black lettering centered on a white oval with a black ring. Getting c-l-o-s-e-r-r-r. USA Black lettering centered on a white oval with a black ring. CBF Black lettering centered on a white oval with a black ring. All fine indications that the vehicle owner is an aspiring social climber, but the true test lies in the real estate.

Location, location, location. The truly classy don't permit their ovals to accentuate random bits of chrome or color-matched bumper. Realizing the value of understatement, rejecting the values implied in disorder, and embracing the implications of upscale, those aspiring to the status of Have Arrived indicate their ambition by arranging their collection of ovals in rows or colums on the back window of their SUV.

FS has told the reader how trendy social climbers notify fellow travelers of their social aspirations. As to the why? When all ya got is the delusion of substance, the illusion of subtance is all yuh need.

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