Thursday, February 26, 2009

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.

Saturday, February 14, 2009

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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Wednesday, February 11, 2009

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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Tuesday, February 10, 2009

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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Monday, February 09, 2009

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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Tuesday, February 03, 2009

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.