treereach

maybe it's time

2011-11-12T09:22:00.001-05:00

to drag out the blog again. Flat Stanley's got so many snarky things to say about those dumb-ass, smelly, ignorant, lazy OWS professional whiners and their equally dumb-ass, wealthy, economically clueless supporters that surely it should be recorded, thus ensuring that she can never, ever, ever run for public office down to and including dog catcher.

There is no Moral to this Story

2010-12-26T19:33:00.001-05:00

*
Who wants to hear a story that doesn't entertain and doesn't have a happy ending? Or that ends without an ending, like a batch of half-baked brownies: All the ingredients in the proper order and proportion; the pan, hot; the air, thick with chocolate; and the brownies, firm around the edges but soupy in the middle.

Some stories are like that.

This story begins about five years ago, when Dave came to live with the Stanley clan. It was strictly a temporary arrangement. He was 20 years old and freshly discharged from the military under specifically non-specific circumstances. His family wouldn't let him stay with them, Dave had been a classmate of the youngest Stanley kid, and the house was overflowing with too many people, too many pets, and only one bathroom. What the heck, why not.

Dave was fastidious about his hair and his clothing and he paid a lot of attention to on-line gaming and his appetite. He paid very little attention to cleaning up behind himself, helping out around the house, putting gas in the car when he borrowed it, and looking for a job. But he was pleasant and talked a good game and helped the Band in the Basement line up local gigs and plan its East Coast Summer Tour Debut.

One morning the Stanley sons took Dave to the emergency room because an ear infection and fever left him insensible. In retrospect, there may have been other contributing factors. One night the cops called our house because a Stanley vehicle was seen racing through a local housing development. It turned out that it was Dave who'd been driving. Flat Stanley put Dave on the phone for a good-ol' fashioned chewing out by the police.

After a few months the situation was losing its sense of do-good. Dave's Dad was practically a stalker, calling a couple times a week to explain to us how bad Dave was, what his history was, and why it was important for Dave to be thrown out so he would be forced to take care of himself. And Dave did have a horrifically sad story for his first eight years of life. The best part was being abandoned by his family, becoming a ward of the state and dumped at an orphanage, followed by adoption by the family that first loved him and then came to fear him.

After about six months, Dave stopped looking for a job, stopped pretending that he was looking for a job, and stopped pretending that he even cared that we cared that he look for a job. He stopped pretending that the Stanley residence was anything other than a personal convenience. He's spend all morning in bed, all afternoon and evening playing computer games, and most of the night drifting in and out of the house according to his own unpredictable schedules. He was starting to get scary, and Flat Stanley was starting to get pissed.

Flat Stanley came home for lunch one Tuesday and waved hello to Dave, who was standing out on the sidewalk waiting for a ride. He'd had a choice – get a job or leave the house by noon. He waved back and picked up his duffel bag as a car pulled up. It was Dave's dad. Flat Stanley checked the bedroom to be sure Dave had actually packed.When she looked out the window Dave was gone and it was raining.

Dave hung around the area and began dealing hard drugs. In and out of jail for small-time crimes such as possession and receiving stolen property. Last week he made local headlines for the attempted murder of a high school friend and the friend's mother about two hours after being paroled. They'll be ok. Dave's still not been caught.
*
Update: Dave taken into custody Dec. 30. He hadn't left the county, much less the zip code.

Gimme Some Pie. Now.

2010-12-26T08:42:00.000-05:00

This explains most of life's anxieties, which are mostly self-inflicted:

link to comic

Saturday Night Scene

2010-10-03T10:40:00.003-04:00

*
Streaming observations from Flat Stanley's spouse from his vantage point Saturday evening sitting outside a bar in the Adams-Morgan district early Saturday evening

6:01 pm— at columbia stattion on sidewalk with jazz trio (guitar, piano an dbass cello) - your kinda volume even though they only 8 ft away - all acoustic

6:03 pm— S'tres bon
Having a perfect manhattan with.
No pickups going on, though :-D

6:05 pm— and i take back pick up remark- restaurant next door has coupl on first date both hot & heavy to impress!

6:21 pm— Btw-i got old couple love, nerdling love, and two eastern europeans with a hooker goin on now!
I LOVE DC!

6:22 pm— An embarrassment of eavesdropper riches!

6:23 pm— The nerdlings are AWESOME! Such a classic look - they could be friends with napoleon dynamite!

6:25 pm— $12 bottomless mimosas & bloddy mary's sunday am@ town tavern (next to col. Stn.)

6:28 pm— YES! I GOTTA LESBIAN FIRST DATE TO REPLACE THE EASTER EUROPEANS! color me happy!
(caps by mistake not yelling)
I love the city :->

6:31 pm— & i can die happy - guy on a bike with dildos tied on string trailing behind like cans on a honeymooc car!
I am fulfilled ??!!??
Woot for adams morgan!

6:33 pm— You can't make this stuff up!

6:39 pm— OMG - nerdlinz are leaving and she has a "hello kitty" hung in a noose made from her hair!!!!

6:42 pm— Lez first date - the "sub" is all googly eyed and ordered "wine" to drink when waiter asked "red or white" she said "yes"
:-D

6:59 pm— Family walking past. Daughter (13 yrs?), "mom, these restaurants scare me."

7:03 pm— It just gets better! guys stumble out of bar, hail cab. Cab pulls over, one guy opens door, other guy pukes on street, cab drives off almost dragging first guy down street. First guy screaming hissy fit@ puking guy.

7:13 pm— I gotta replacement old couple

7:18 pm— There are some awesome looks here that, when deconstruceed, must take a depressing amount of time to look "undone."

7:22 pm— Guy just got off bus carrying a DRUM SET!

7:25 pm— Scoring update: Lesbians going to subs aparment for "more great converstation." I refuse to make tongue wagging jokes.

7:29 pm— Hahahahahaha Fat guy on bike just hit fat lady crossing street.
You CANNOT make this up!

7:30 pm— I feel like i'm at a people watcherz smorgasbord!

7:36 pm— I hate seeing this stuff that's not so funny-guy walking a girl down the street with a grip on her elbow-prettry sure it hurt.

7:43 pm— New use for a bike - girl walking hers up street, guy hits on her & won't let her past, she ram the bike between his legs.
Ouch
Is this like a special nite for me or just a night in adams morgan?

8:07 pm— Moved on to madams organ

8:09 pm— Guy bside me just went to bathroom and left his satchel hanging at the bar!

8:12 pm— guy just came in w/ entourage - looks like Ben Jealous. Hmmmmm.

Lotta fun stories in the big naked city. This one ends when the narrator realizes he's had enough to drink and heads for home. Until next Saturday night, this is Flat Stanley. Reporting on Real Life.
*

Rant: Stinkin' Privileged Fools Have No Idea

2010-09-16T22:17:00.001-04:00

*
The White House Office of Science and Technology Director John P. Holdren went on record this week as standing by his stance to de-develop the US to pre-1973 standards. “A massive campaign must be launched to restore a high-quality environment in North America and to de-develop the United States,” Holdren wrote along with Paul and Anne H. Ehrlich in the “recommendations” concluding their 1973 book Human Ecology: Problems and Solutions.

Yeah, right. So let's talk about what is was like to live in the northeast during the cold winter of 1973. And let's think about what it might have been like to have been more "pre-industrial."

In 1973, Flat Stanley was starting her senior year of high school. There was a fuel-oil shortage. Flat Stanley and her mother lived in upstate New York in a double-wide, on a hill, that had just been put in that summer. That made the family "new customers." New Customers couldn't get fuel oil deliveries that winter. The closest place to buy fuel oil was in a town 20 miles away. Sales were limited to five gallons per purchase, and only on the days when your license plate ended in odd or even.

Practically speaking, this meant that on the lucky Saturdays when the fuel oil store was open on days that matched the family car's license plate, that FS's mother could spend her Saturday making as many trips over snowy roads to the fuel oil station as time and weather permitted. Unless, of course, the owner was feeling pissy, in which case he would only sell to the mother one or two times instead of three, four or five times that day. And assuming, of course, that the driver could afford the fuel to make the trips.

FS and her mother would haul those precious, smelly, heavy five gallon cans of fuel up an unplowable, undrivaeble, rutted, snow-filled, dirt driveway to stand on a rickety stool, lift the can over our heads, and pour into an empty fuel tank. It was a long, cold, hard winter.

There was no running water in that trailer, and so what if there had been? There wasn't enough heat to keep the pipes thawed. We hauled our sewage out to a pit that had been dug to hold an unconnected septic tank that remained empty while our nightsoil drained into the earth. Or froze, then flowed away with the spring thaw.

For showers that year, Flat Stanley walked about a mile to a bar that had an unlit bathroom facility in an unlocked basement for summer campers. Yes, Virginia, wet, frozen hair does break on the walk home.

De-develop? How romantic -- and naive -- can a person get? Roughing it on a camping weekend, my friends, is not the same as a lifestyle.

Sure, the US as a whole can become more energy conscious. But before we go about dictating or legislating simpler lifestyles, let's think about what that really means. As hard as it was, Flat Stanley and her mother were fortunate to have had the income to be able to haul that fuel oil; we were fortunate to have had the strength to drag it through the snow, lift it to the tank, and pour it in. We were fortunate to have been healthy enough to endure the cold (hurray for work and school!).

The Flat Stanley moral of the story is, until it's you who's cold, until it's you who can't get the same basic necessities as your neighbors, until it's you who goes without, your nonsensical ideas about returning to a "simpler" time are nothing more than hot air.

Take it from Flat Stanley: There is a place for hot air, and life-changing policy ain't the place.
*

Big City Morning Commute

2010-09-07T20:17:00.005-04:00

*
The thing Flat Stanley likes most about living and working in DC is the morning commute. No, silly reader, it's not because the rest of the day is that bad. It's because Flat Stanley lands in the middle of the city while its feet are still in slippers, before it's had its first cup of coffee, before it's brushed its teeth, combed its hair and dressed for the day.

By afternoon the city's in full swing and all these little pieces are lost in the busyness of busy.

At the bus stop a homeless man talks about his plans for the day: Go to the shelter, get a shower, then sell socks from a large duffel bag. He hopes to start a community center to provide counsel for other homeless. Flat Stanley's schedule changes for a week or two, and when she next catches that bus, the man has moved on and she doesn't see him again.

A well-dressed bag lady asks the bus driver every single day for a week if he stops at Quinn. "It's between Scott and Ridley." Another passenger, an elegant older woman, always wears huge, Hollywood-style sunglasses. One morning she boards without her glasses, and FS sees the remnants of a big ugly bruise high on her cheek.

The metro (subway to my pre-city readers) stops within a block of FS's place of work, but the chance to greet the rising sun as laborers hose the urine from the sidewalks and the homeless take up their collection stations under a cool morning breeze and red lights not yet holding up traffic — it's too tempting.

At 7:15 on the corner of F and Ninth, a black man dressed in an oversized basketball-style tank and shorts practices fancy foot-work, running in place and throwing jabs, his head bopping to the sound in his earphones and filling the entire intersection with grunts that impress even this former Marine. The porters at the Marriott gather to watch and laugh as FS tells them about her efforts to catch the guy on her cell phone camera. Passersby make a point of crossing the street anywhere but at the corner where the Richard Simmons-wannabe gets it on.

At the Ultra Bar, housed in an old bank building, the sidewalk is never scrubbed. Neatly stacked on the granite wall is a black leatherette mini-jacket and barely-worn stiletto-heeled velvet boots. They're gone that afternoon...FS makes a point of checking.

Lenny Fineman and the Troll perform their amazing violin and guitar duo at the next metro exit. They were gone for a few weeks. Vacation, probably.

The Chinese immigrant, the one FS by-passed a few months to put a buck in the Troll's open guitar case, is a case-study in brilliance, or insanity, or schizophrenia, or maybe all three. She sits on a low wall, her left elbow propped on her knee, and takes a relaxed drag on her cigarette. At the same time, she jabs a pissed-off middle-finger salute to an invisible person and shrieks a curse in gibberish. Or maybe it's Chinese.

One morning an empty old woman who reeks of stale urine drags a white tee shirt while looking in all the trash cans. Looking for something, but she does not know what, and she'll never find it. It's a horrible, heat-record-breaking day. She's still there that afternoon, exhausted and smellier, still lost, still looking, her tee-shirt now gray and ragged.

Today, FS got a laptop at work. Under the bookmarks was a tag "all dudes-gay male porn." Oopsie. Somebody's going to be in trouble.

Tomorrow, FS plans to walk down G Street. Someone scratched an interesting comment about a nearby church into the cement of a freshly poured curb, and FS wants to write it down.
*

Sheets on Fire

2010-06-15T22:00:00.011-04:00

*

*
"Hey," Flat Stanley posted on her daughter's Facebook page, "Wanna come firewalking with me?"

Gotta hand it to the kid, she didn't miss a beat. "Sure. Early birthday present?"

Flat Stanley's a lot like an Australian Shepherd. Why settle for herding just one sheep when you round up 20? (And it's better when the other 19 don't ask for an early birthday present.) Not that people who join in Flat Stanley's wildy varying ideas of fun are sheep, but it is like when you're out drumming up participants for an adventure, you usually end up shepherding most of them toward the destination. And losing a few on the way.

But not Carl. He's a younger guy, and this was pre-Facebook between him and FS, so he used email to arrange a carpool between us. He'd drive two hours to FS's locale, climb into the FSMobile and ride the rest of the way. About 2 pm we headed out, stopping at the local Subway so he could stoke his buff, training-for-the-Marine-Corps-marathon-six-foot-something frame with a footlong.

On location we joined FS's daughter and our peers in affirming "I Am Terrific" "I Feel Good" "I Am Happy" "Yes!" "Yes!" "Yes!" High-fives all round! Each person wrote a self-limiting belief on one side of a board, then BAM smashed the board barehanded.

Take THAT, Bitch.

We participated in the solemnity of watching the start of the fire, placed our broken boards on the pyre, then filed back to the retreat room for more focus and learning. At dusk we trekked back to the fire, which was down to juicy red hot embers that hadn't cooled enough to smolder.

Dave wanted to know: Was this really about walking on them? Uh, yeah, Dave, that's what you paid to do.

Karen was adamant that she was here to observe only, who cares about the fee.

Flat Stanley was waiting for proof that the fire was ready to walked upon. Surely someone would wave a special thermometer over the surface, or test it with a substance of standardized flammability, or at least the instructor would walk on it first to demonstrate its safety . . . but no. The instructor said "Who's first?" And Flat Stanley's daughter walked over top of people 18 inches taller and 150 pounds heavier and said ME.

Chip off the old block, she is. There are not words enough to describe how FS felt at that moment. "Freaked out" would be a good start, though. And "awed."

Everyone walked the fire. Even Dave. Even Karen. FS's crazy daughter crossed three times. FS crossed twice. No injuries. Here's proof:

Crossing rural VA on I-66 about 11 pm, Carl said he was hungry. Ten minutes later FS got around to answering. "Wanna stop at Sheetz?"

Carl's from Delaware. Apparently they don't have Sheetz over there. "Excuse me?" he stammered, uttered, stuttered. Great, FS realized. The poor guy's freaking out because he's all alone in the dark with a woman who just propositioned him.

A bit rattled, FS said, "Sheetz. Like Rutters."

Great, just great, FS. Animals rut. Like when you take your second-grader to the zoo to see Mother Nature on a day when she's feeling frisky.

"Orange and red overheads. They look alike," FS blurbled. "We got gas there earlier today."

Whew. Two exits later there were signs for Arbys. So what? We were going to eat at Sheetz. No way was FS going to walk over hot coals, then leave Carl forever wondering about those hot sheets.
*

Well, she died

2010-06-01T20:36:00.004-04:00

*
Faithful readers (wave everybody! all five of yuhs!) may remember that last year about this time Flat Stanley was writing about her mother, whose unexpected re-appearance after a 25-year absence coupled with her terminal illness, a fractured collection of offspring and the hint of an inheritance provided blog content.

The scene ripped holes in the shredded fabric of whatever kind of family you'd call the siblings of a cardboard storybook character, not to mention the delicacy of a cardboard heart. So when the old lady finally died, FS didn't have the heart to write about it.

It's been one year and three hours since the stubborn, scared, sad, bitter, lonely old woman outlasted her visitors, dieing 10 minutes after the last of them shuffled from her room for the night.

Flat Stanley was scheduled to conduct training at an international conference and wasn't going to miss it, so she blew off the funeral and went. The plane flew over Niagara Falls. The old lady and FS's father spent about six months living near there when FS was an infant. Wandering into the local town that weekend, FS was nearly cut off at the knees while visiting a bookstore. The old lady had once tried her hand at running a bookstore. FS threw rocks into the Bay of Fundy. The old lady used to like going to wild places like that.

FS did the training, collected the certificate. Made nice to the lady whose husband died the year before. Got on the plane, flew home. Over these 12 months, the old lady's death has been defined by (a) missing what could have been a great friendship and (b) sorrow that the old lady couldn't/wouldn't/didn't make a few different choices.

The area had several big snows this winter. FS remembers wading through thigh-deep snow looking for traps the years that the old lady tried trapping muskrats. The old lady once built four great bikes by scavenging parts from junk bikes. FS is handy fixing things and recently started riding bike again.

The old lady used to lead FS and any interested siblings on hours-long explorations of the surrounding hills. Today, FS hikes the AT and linking trails. The old lady was well-read and fascinated with ancient culture. FS has a history degree. The old lady finished college when FS was in junior high. FS finished when her kids were grown.

Today, one of FS's brothers refuses to speak to either sister; the other brother calls occasionally when he's drunk and hurting to try to pick a fight. FS refuses to associate with relatives from her mother's side of the family. History repeats itself, and FS is content to let it, to a point.

FS used to worry that she'd leave her own children when they became difficult teenagers. The kids became teenagers and were at times difficult. FS stayed. FS has worried that having a cardboard heart makes her shallow. The old lady's heart wasn't shallow. It was fractured and tender, willed to steel-strong and rendered gossamer weak through overuse. FS used to worry that she'd let anger and bitterness dictate her life, like the old lady did. She hasn't.

FS faces the next 25 years without the mother she didn't have the past 25 years. Here's tipping one to you, Mom, sincerely wishing you the very best that's possible where ever you are, where ever you go, who ever you become.

*

It's Just Crazy

2010-04-13T20:33:00.004-04:00

*
Flat Stanley's been gainfully employed for the last coupla weeks. The honeymoon you usually get at a new job is wearing off, and today FS learned why one of her co-workers is constantly nasty to . . . Bob. Yes, that's a good pseudonym. Bob.

Bob is a hyper little guy, bald on top and Albert Einstein hair on the fringes, wild and wiry and looks like he just did a Ben Franklin with a kite, a key and a lightning storm. Why ol' Ben lived to be famous is beyond FS. Last week, a guy taking a run on a beach got mowed down by a crashing airplane when he wasn't looking, and Ben Franklin got away with attracting lightning and lived to tell the story? Go figure.

So about Bob. Military retiree, probably, and the fact that he wasn't mowed down by his own troops in a supreme act of self-preservation probably reflects (a) the military's foresight in never assigning him a duty station in a conflict zone or (b) dumb luck.

Bob's not dumb, but he does apparently like living on the edge. Otherwise, why would he delay until the last possible moment the completion of high priority projects whose success depends upon the timely submission and implementation of input from others? And once warning others that this project would be extremely high priority, would he delay delivery for several hours? And then, upon delivery, give incomplete direction? And then, when presented with the results, spend the next 45 minutes fussing over the the why's instead of simply saying "go make it right?"

But, yeah, working in the city has its upside. Last Monday, FS climbed the steps from the Metro to the sound of a hauntingly sorrowful, beautifully performed melody on a violin with guitar accompaniment. At the top of 58 steps, FS dug out a dollar bill, ignored a tiny Chinese immigrant begging for funds to return home, and paid it to a tall, sorrowful-looking man in a yarmulke and a troll in a jeans and a suit jacket.

THIS Monday, FS climbed the steps the steps from the Metro to the sound of a hauntingly sorrowful, beautifully performed melody on a violin with guitar accompaniment, only this time it was the tall guy wearing the suit jacket and the troll looked pretty spiffy. What can you do but laugh? FS paid her buck and figured that for the next six or eight weeks, other people can pony up for the 7:30 am serenade.

And it's the city, of course, so FS has learned to keep her eyes down, ignore the guys whose pallets border the two blocks between Metro and work, and step over the pee spots on the sidewalk. Think about it: Where else are they gonna go? Until now, FS has never thought to wonder: Where do they poo?

FS is a do-gooder at heart, so Monday she spent her lunch hour helping people at the homeless shelter apply for jobs. Now here's room for a rant. WHAT IN THE WORLD DO PEOPLE THINK THEY'RE DOING, ASKING SOMEONE TO SUBMIT A RESUME AND COVER LETTER FOR A PART TIME JOB THAT PAYS $8.25 AN HOUR? Seriously. The economy is not that bad. And nobody's who's serious about providing jobs for the homeless can possibly think that a cover letter and resume is a realistic way to help people in that situation move ahead.

The richest part of that experience is that the center for homeless has nine computers. Seven are for general use and two (which weren't working that day) are dedicated for a few hours a week to job search. So not only were FS's two clients trying to apply for nowhere jobs on a broken computer, but the guy sitting at the computer nearby had serious space issues and threatened us all with serious but unspecified harm if we bumped into him One. More. Time.

Well.

So back to Bob. On the one hand we got little crazy guys hanging on by their claws til retirement and on the other, unemployed guys hanging on by their claws til the next bathroom, the next cup of coffee, the next chance to do something right.

Bob's not a bad guy. He's just doin' the best he can, and driving people crazy along the way. Many of the homeless men and women aren't bad people, but they're driving us all crazy along the way. Crazy because we don't know how to help them, crazy because we see in them the same hopes and fears and dreams we see in ourselves. Crazy and sometimes scared because somewhere inside of us we know that between us and them, and you and me, and Bob and his co-workers, the differences aren't any bigger than in the musicians from Monday to Monday. Same beauty, same wonder, same song.

That's just crazy.
*

Global Climate Change is Good

2010-02-15T19:33:00.004-05:00

*
Good News!

Just when a 10-year span of lackluster winters had Flat Stanley resigned to the reality of Global Warming, Global Climate Change came to the rescue, setting snowfall records in the Washington DC metro area this past week. And now, Flat Stanley has discovered how to predict the time and location of the next blizzard. Meanwhile . . .

Last week’s snows make the parking lot behind FS’s apartment building look like an open field dotted with anomalous humps and a lot of broken tree branches. Out front, city trucks with plows attached traveled in threes: The first riding the center line of a four-lane street, the second taking its half from the middle, and the third, herding the snow toward the curb.

This is a city, and they say the city never sleeps, which isn’t quite accurate. Washington and suburbs slept the entire week. It’s the morons driving gas-guzzling SUVs with Save the Planet stickers on the bumper and 16-inches of snow blowing from their roofs that never sleep.

Now Flat Stanley, you say, surely they weren’t the only morons.

And Flat Stanley says, turn about-fair play. You wanna hide your data, I get to hide mine.

Well, what’s a piece of cardboard to do? There’s only so much hanky-panky one little luv nest can accommodate, so FS and spouse bundled up and went walking, careful to stay off the one navigable road. One side street led to another. Eventually we crossed over a limited access highway that leads straight into DC. The plows, the ones that weren’t stuck, were busy piling snow in the access lanes to keep the SUV drivers from killing themselves.

More Good News! After wading through uncharted territory in knee and thigh-deep snow, we stumbled upon a gas station that was not only open, but was also selling off all its beer at half-price. Ever try carrying a 12-pack of bottled beer over icy, unplowed streets? Makes the beer taste all the better.

Spent hours shoveling out, got more snow, damn global warming, spent more hours shoveling out. Saturday we caught the metro to check out downtown DC. FS hopes the city isn’t enforcing parking meter fees, because there’s six feet of snow between the snowbank and meter, and feeding the meter means slogging a half-block to an ice-bank, navigating over the snow, then slogging back to a meter in the neighborhood of your car over an un-shoveled sidewalk at best, icy at worst.

But about this Global Climate Change: It’s not rocket science. It’s Flat Stanley. Follow her moves:

Central Florida, 1983: Unprecedented freezes. Orange crop goes belly up.
North Carolina, 1987: Blizzard
PA, 1995: Blizzard
VA, 2010: Blizzard, record-breaking snowfalls, blizzard.

It’s Global Climate Change alright, but it works like this: When Flat Stanley moves, it snows. Snow is a good thing, ergo, you should be happy about it.
*

Kuntree Mous muvs to Big Citee

2010-01-16T08:43:00.006-05:00

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Things shur r diffrnt, livvin heer in the big citee.

First, Mr. Mous and Ms. Mous leev all dehr stuf in Big House in little kuntre town n cum liv in teenee apartemunt in Big Citee. Big House be vere spensive Storij Shed. Tenee apartemunt be Luv Nest.

This week, Ms. Mous lern Metro Pass n find out why Citee mouses theenk that 30 mph is mayking gud time. Even on hiway.

Fud in Big Citee evreewehr! Diffrunt mouses evreewehr too! Diffrunt speeking evreewehr! Diffrunt dressing evreewehr! Sum gud, reel gud. Sum frum hohmland. Sorta funnee but remind Kuntree Mous of Amish in hohmtown who wehr dehr ohn funnee clozhe. Mr. Mous, now he have office job n wehr suit evreeday. Ms. Mous lookeng for job, wants dress up and relax at same time.

Go to groshuree stor n find Beer and Wine in stor! Ms. Mous act like Kuntree Mous n tayk picture of Spotted Dick on shelf. N wahndr around excited bout Beer n Wine IN STOR! But in shopeeng, manee choices. So many, hard two find simple theengs. Kuntree mousses do not need can ohpenner whut kostes $18.99! That sillee. Kuntree mousses do not need "Simple Human" trash kan for kithin what kostes $60.00! That make no sens to Simpl Kuntree Mous.

But apartemunt iz Big Adventure! Ellevatr wrks but Kuntree Mouses tak stayrs most time. Only four floors. Walk doun hallway to washerdrier room lik in collij dorm. Say hi to naybrz az thay rush away to ketch bus. Go doun street n opn mike nite at coffee shop. Welcum to Big Citee!
*

Tips on Perfect Parenting

2009-12-27T15:01:00.004-05:00

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

2009-12-07T21:29:00.006-05:00

*
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

2009-11-25T23:19:00.005-05:00

*
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.

Prisoners are People, Too

2009-11-18T22:52:00.002-05:00

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

2009-11-08T22:57:00.005-05:00

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?

2009-10-22T22:23:00.003-04:00

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.

Cummin On

2009-07-23T22:50:00.006-04:00

.

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

2009-07-15T22:00:00.003-04:00

*
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

2009-07-07T19:55:00.009-04:00

><
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?
><

Bold Yellow Balls

2009-06-26T08:56:00.007-04:00

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!

2009-06-25T21:53:00.002-04:00

*
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

2009-06-23T21:52:00.002-04:00

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

2009-06-17T08:06:00.007-04:00

*
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
*

Tag, You're It.

2009-06-16T19:47:00.010-04:00

*
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
*

Sorrow and Grief and Grace

2009-06-15T21:28:00.003-04:00

*
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.
*

Random Thoughts and Catching Up

2009-05-25T17:14:00.003-04:00

*
"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!

*

The Rise and Fall of Grief

2009-05-25T17:01:00.003-04:00

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

2009-05-03T08:10:00.014-04:00

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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!

2009-04-30T20:52:00.003-04:00

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:

2009-04-29T20:01:00.004-04:00

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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."

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.
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.
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.
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.
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

2009-03-31T13:32:00.004-04:00

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

2009-03-26T18:38:00.004-04:00

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.

Barf story

2009-02-26T07:47:00.011-05:00

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

2009-02-14T19:26:00.004-05:00

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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

2009-02-14T13:49:00.003-05:00

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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

2009-02-11T20:17:00.006-05:00

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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

2009-02-10T01:49:00.007-05:00

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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

2009-02-09T07:58:00.003-05:00

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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

2009-02-03T16:07:00.007-05:00

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

2009-01-18T20:46:00.004-05:00

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

2009-01-02T22:30:00.009-05:00

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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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Vacation of your dreams

2008-12-18T23:44:00.007-05:00

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DAY ONE: Flat Stanley lay on her stomach and absorbed the rhythmic sensation of long, slow strokes. Deep, penetrating sensations traveled the length of her back. A second application of lubricating oil made the trip even smoother. When every muscle from shoulder to buttock had been coaxed to a state of surrender, the teasing, sliding hands moved to the top of FS's thighs and began another long, slow descent -- this time, to the bottoms of her feet. One delicious stroke at a time; one leg at a time.

DAY TWO: By 10 am, the sun had burned the mists from the peaks. The waves lapping gently at the beach gave no hint of high tide. A few tourists looked for sand dollars while a yoga class entered savasanna. FS shuffled out to waist deep, wary of sea urchins and crabs, and watched a pelican hit the water like a concrete block, then rise. A pool of minnow-sized fish darted around her, as if FS was surrounded by an invisible wall.

DAY THREE: FS checked out a surf-board kind of toy from the beach shack and tried to get the hang of riding to shore on a wave. After about an hour, she got the hang of mounting and staying upright instead of rolling over in a sideways somersault. The tide rose and before long, FS learned to time the waves well enough to be routinely catapulted to shore. The lifeguards, recognizing the danger this posed to mothers and young children, confiscated the board before FS managed to cause permanant injury to others.

DAY FOUR: FS caught a tour of the bay. It was disappointingly tame until the turnaround point, when the boat anchored and guests were ordered ashore. The good news: Guests were encouraged to go to the top of the boat and jump. Nowhere in the safety-conscious USA would this kind of activity be permitted on a commercial cruise. FS climbed to the top rail, third deck above the water line. It was a long way down. Hey, there were people watching. Plus, younger people, much younger people, were jumping. Teenagers and little kid people were jumping. FS drew upon her amply-endowed stock of pride and jumped. Again, and again, and again.

On shore, squeezed in between the base the mountain and the bay, was a restaurant. Sand floor. No walls. Smelly dog under the counter. No habla Ingles. FS pointed. Cerviche. Tasty. Much later, FS discovered fish cooked in lime juice, not fire. Called cerviche.

DAYS FIVE - THIRTY FIVE: Massage, swim, lunch, drink, nap, swim, read, swim, boat ride, drink, nap, party, sleep, hike, swim, nap, read, massage, sleep, nap, swim, read, read, swim, nap, read, swim, Massage, swim, lunch, drink, nap, swim, read, swim, boat ride, drink, nap, party, sleep, hike, swim, nap, read, massage, sleep, nap, swim, read, read, swim, nap, read, swim.

DAY THIRTY SIX: FS meets hot guy. Mucho gusto hot. Cancels her massage appointment. He says he'll do it for free. FS is on the bed. His hands are poised over her. He trembles slightly. FS breathes into the tension, eagerly awaiting his touch. The tension mounts, his hands come closer. FS feels his pulse in their heat. Her breath catches in her throat.

The alarm goes off. FS throws off her blankets and heads for the shower, hoping that she remembered last night to set the coffee pot to automatic.

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Cheap Pine Box

2008-12-13T09:58:00.008-05:00

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In the deep woods of Tennessee, where Flat Stanley's mother is spending her last days, the dead don't have to be buried. Once they're embalmed and put in a box, family members can haul it out to the woods and pile rocks on it if they want. Flat Stanley's mother wants to go out in a cheap box and old clothes. She doesn't care about what happens to the body as long as it's not cremated. She's petrified, though, of being forgotten.

She won't be. She wouldn't have been. One cannot sow the kind of sorrow she has sown and be forgotten.

Twenty six years ago, when her granddaughter was four months old, Flat Stanley's mother walked away. She'd done it before, but Flat Stanley knew that this time it would be forever.

Flat Stanley recognized her grief and allowed it to work its course. A job change took FS to a new state, where her sister lived, and eventually her mother re-connected with FS's sister. FS lived within an hour's drive of her mother for five years. The mother moved away and remained in sporadic contact with FS's sister.

One morning, says FS's sister, the mother woke up blind in one eye. Her ailment was misdiagnosed; one morning a few months later she woke up blind in the other eye. A few years later, she developed throat cancer. She got weak. Eventually, FS's mother agreed to move to FS's sister's home on the condition that none of her three siblings ever visit.

Within days, the mother was diagnosed as having only a few weeks to a few months to live. In the car on the way home from the doctor's office, FS's mother said she wanted to see the family: FS and FS's two brothers.

WTF.

While FS was digesting this, one of the brothers asked if FS would like to speak with the mother on the phone.

WTF?

This topic -- how to speak to an estranged family member who suddenly wants to reconnect -- and happens to have only a few weeks to a few months to live -- isn't covered in any of the self-help books FS has read. What do you say? "Nice to meet you?" "How the hell you been?" "So, how yuh feelin'?

FS handled it like a bad comedy: She spent 10 minutes talking non-stop to her mother about her father's family, the people in her life that FS's mother most hated. It was like meeting a stranger with a big nose and saying, "Nice to meet you, Ms. Nose." Or offering sunglasses to a blind person. Woops. Forgot. She's blind. Bad analogy.

FS likes to be prepared, so she prepared for this phone conversation by putting a date and time for the phone call in her planner and making sure the evening was empty of appointments. That gave her two days to figure out what to say. Which, obviously, didn't help. At the appointed time, FS pulled two cold ones from the refrigerator and bought a box of tissue. Dialed the phone. Talked about the most inappropriate topic she could find. Hung up. And wished for the 10,000th time in her life that she hadn't been cursed with an inability to process alcohol without a hangover.

Word came that FS's mother wants a professional portrait of herself to be distributed to each of her children and grandchildren. FS wished for the 10,001th time in her life that she hadn't been cursed with an inability to process alcohol without a hangover.

In November, FS paid a personal visit to her mother. Creepy as it may seem, having the ol' lady blind helped those inevitable awkward moments a lot less awkward. Blindness means that FS can stare and gaze and wonder and not get caught doing it.

At that visit, FS's mother hugged her twice and kissed her twice. Only times in FS's memory. FS is returning to spend Christmas. If the law grants permission, her paroled brother will be there as well. For the first time in 37 years, FS's mother and her four children will be in the same room. We'll observe a holiday and allow this woman and ourselves to end well.

FS's mother spent a lifetime rejecting relationships only to learn that, at the end, relationships are what mattered most. Without intending it, FS's mother has given herself and her children the gift of reconciliation. Now, we can say those most important words: It's ok. Even if it wasn't at the time, it's always been ok. Go in peace.

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Santa Claus is for REAL

2008-12-08T21:20:00.004-05:00

Some Christmas Wish Lists are predictable

Son-in-law: Slim wallet

Son #1: The same metabolism he had when he was 10

Daughter: Gift certificate from Charlotte Russe

Son #2: Send Money Now

and some point you back to the magic

Granddaughter:

A REAL motorcyle
A REAL fire engine
A fairy wand

Improper Energies

2008-12-02T07:54:00.008-05:00

Flat Stanley is envious. She's envious of WOW and his ability to captivate the reader mostly by charming him or her through his version of life's ordinary moments. She's envious of Cunning Linguist and his irreverent rants against, well, everything. She's envious of Karen for her ability to be both serious and interesting. FS wants to be equally inane and/or interesting.

But no.

The Feng Shui is wrong. The bathroom's in the wrong corner of the house. The color in the bedroom is supposed to be in the kitchen, the live plant in the living room is plastic, and the furniture arrangement in the dining room is impeding upward counterflows. Not to mention that the furniture is pine, not teak, causing Sagittarius to lean on Aquarius and Jupiter to dampen the crystal. Making things even worse, the false heartiness of the plastic plant's aura is wreaking havoc on the quantum energies, so the Q is now actually the number 7. Did you think that FS was going to say that the Q is now actually a P? That's how bad it is: FL was actually going to say that the Q is actually a P, but the impact of sub-atomic particles on over-arching superstructures is vast and unpredictable.

Why just the other day, FS was thinking about how we are now being told by scientists — real ones — the kind that wear bright white lab coats — that the mere act of observing particles at the sub-atomic level changes their behavior. The behavior of the particles, that is. FS imagines that it might take a lot to change the behavior of people observing tiny particles that only they can see. Little tiny particles which somehow know when they're being observed, and respond accordingly. These same people in bright white coats, by the way, somehow know that the behavior of the particles has changed, even though no one's ever actually seen the particles behaving in the way they behave when no one is observing them.

So, as FS was observing, vast and unpredictable. Like business. In FS's world, running a household has powerful similarities to running a business. Revenues, capital expenses, operating expenses, rainy day funds, investments to meet future needs, succession planning. Manage and adjust course regularly to stay in alignment with short- and long-term goals, mostly being that one reaches pre-determined increments of time with a balance of $0 or better. FS, not being of the bright white coat world, is of the opinion that vast and unpredictable changes should fall into the categories of finding a winning lottery ticket or being named an heir to the DuPont fortune.

Or maybe FS is of the bright white coat world, and her casual observation of the business world is what has rendered it vast and unpredictable. Observe with FS the business model of one local company:
(1) buy a failing business and merge it with yours;
(2) employ the entire management team of the failing business to run things;
(3) wonder why, 5-10 years later, market share of the business has dropped from 95% to bankruptcy; and
(4) watch same management team move to another company.

What if FS had not been watching? What if FS put a real plant in the living room, painted the bathroom puce to compensate for its poor placement in the house, and moved the bedroom to a location where the frequencies are more sex-friendly. Say, way more sex-friendly. Say, guaranteed to generate hot, grinding, tirelessly horny, f-me bedroom vibes? Talk about a good chi! Chi-it!

Business. Yes. Vibes and observation and energies. Say, FS thinks that anytime someone can get a government to pay their way out of a history of poor decision-making and unwillingness to act as a responsible citizen of the world that maybe the sub-atomic particles of leather furniture, executive teak bathrooms and corporate jets are aligned pretty well.

And FS is considering taking a closer look at those sub-atomic particles. But first, FS must investigate the powerful energy field currently swirling through a particularly sensitive portion of her cardboard.

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Cat Vomit

2008-12-01T07:39:00.010-05:00

Veterinarians have a strange sense of humor. Comes with the profession, just like a room full of accountants might laugh themselves silly over one liners such as

What do accountants use for birth control? Their personality.

and

A person decides to become an accountant once they realize that they don't have the charisma to become an undertaker.

As a pet caretaker, however, Flat Stanley wants real answers to real important questions. Important questions along the lines of "Why does euthanasia cost so much?" and "Are my pets gay?" and "How is it possible for one cat to vomit twice its weight in cat food?" "Several times a day?" "And not lose weight?"

And, how is it that when a cat bites and scratches its caretaker, it's called love, and when a dog does, it's called "an unprovoked attack?"

The most pressing question is, why is Flat Stanley paying $75 for the privilege of hearing a physician to domesticated animals laugh at her own jokes?

Two cows are in a field.
First Cow: "Do you worry about getting Mad Cow Disease?"
Second Cow: "Nah, I'm a penguin."

Why don't anteaters get sick? They're full of anty-bodies

Why don't blind people bungee jump? It scares the crap out of their dogs

A chicken and an egg are lying in bed. The egg is frowning and looking annoyed, while the chicken has a big smile on its face and is smoking a cigarette.
The egg says, "Well, I guess we answered that question."

How do you make a cat go "woof"? Dip it in gasoline and light a match (OK, Flat Stanley's just kidding. That's not a joke a neighborhood vet would tell. To the public, anyway.)

Flat Stanley didn't get her most pressing question answered, but the vet did offer the latest scientific explanation for her cat throws up after every meal: Because it's a cat.

That cost me $75. I paid it. Maybe the vet is laughing at her own jokes because it pays so well.

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Flat Stanley Takes a Car Ride

2008-11-20T20:51:00.010-05:00

Flat Stanley saw her life flash before her eyes the last time she spent a few hours as a passenger in a motor vehicle driven by Thing One (eldest son). It was 6 AM. All five feet, two and one-half inches of FS had become one with the reclining seat when the world came to a rumbling, alignment-destroying, 60 mph trip down the unevenly graded median of a four-lane highway. By the time FL managed to sit up enough to see out the front window the view had changed, as the car was sliding sideways at 50 mph down the middle of two lanes. In less time than it takes for a parent to say never-jerk-the-wheel-to-get-back-onto-the-pavement, the back end of the car had swung around so that we could see in full detail what it looks like to have traffic coming at you head on. One breath later the car had traveled to the far edge of the highway. Now all we had to worry about was the rock wall that would stop the car but smash Thing One's head into shapeless pulp.

Thank goodness for big mud puddles. One load "whump" and the windows were covered in mud and the car -- stopped.

FS said, "you ok?"

Thing One: "Uh-huh"

FS: "I'll drive."

Thing One: "Ok."

We got out, walked around the front of the car and switched positions. The cars that had been headed straight at us whizzed by. FS started the car, looked carefully in all directions, turned the car around, and drove away. Fully alert.

That was nine years ago. Thing One is now a more mature driver, but not necessarily a more...reassuring driver. So when 11 pm rolled around and FS's older, tireder body had already put in a full 11 hours of driving, she turned the steering wheel over to Thing One. Who's a night owl. So he should be ok. Which he was. Except for the part where he kept the car in its lane by constantly jerking the wheel. And the part where the brakes are touchy so instead of gradually slowing down, all objects in the car were thrown forward when he tapped the brakes. And the part where he kept the cruise control on regardless of traffic and road conditions. And the part where FS apparently suffers to this day from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder brought on by that earlier experience.

After several near-misses, FS was jolted from her uneasy rest by an especially violent decrease in speed and a loud "Oh! Oh!" from Thing One. The occasion? Gas prices were down to $1.89. FS begged for and was granted a reprieve of uninterrupted rest when Thing One agreed to pull over at a gas station and read. An hour and a half later, we were back on the road.

FS was out. Really, out. Deeply slumbering. Blissfully resting, only vaguely aware that she had placed her very life into the hands of an offspring when. Deja vu. It was happening again. As in, as if for the very first time. Big thumps. Vaguely reminiscent of traveling across a grassy median at 60 mph. Only different this time, because there were. Two. Distinct. Thumps. Followed by an "Oh, No." And then smooth travel. Holy mother-of-all-mothers. FS was so far gone she couldn't even panic. Her first words were "If you turn the cruise control off, the car will be easier to drive."

The next two minutes included several thought fragments along the lines of "My watch says I can't tell lunch in the pasture where the house is bedroom and up there thumb drive in my purse, is it here?" and "I didn't buy supplemental insurance on this rental vehicle."

Thing One had run over a deer. In his defense, he noted that the deer had already been run over by other vehicles. Nonetheless, the thumps were impressive. I am sure that the rental car made a significant contribution to the flattening process.

When daylight came, and after we'd both slept off the all-nighter, we looked for damage to the car. The only evidence was blood on the rims of both rear tires. Front bumper intact, headlights intact, nothing metallic dangling from the undercarriage.

On the return trip, we left early. An hour later our hosts noticed a dead cat on the road near their home. Since I was driving, I am able to say with a clear conscience that it wasn't us. But that PTSD. As if raising Things One, Two and Three to adulthood wasn't trauma enough.

The more things change, the more they change

2008-11-06T07:45:00.004-05:00

been too busy lately to do much posting, so here's a spin-off from a post from Cunning_Linguist, on his rant to 20-somethings:

hmmph. back in MY day, kiddies, Atari whatever hadn't been invented.

Only rich people had color tv and we had a tiny black and white with rabbit ear antennas. High tech was wire coat hangers and tin foil. Low tech was when you made your little brother stand in just the right place so the rest of yahs could see the last five minutes of National Geographic.

Eight tracks were cool, and only pot-smoking city kids knew what FM radio was. Rock and Roll was what you could pick up on AM radio, 62 WHEN, when the signal wasn't blocked by a mountain or clouds.

Library. Right. That big room at school where you did your research because the nearest library was a half-hour drive on good days. Conveniently located in town, next to the school.

You think a Dot-matrix printer was tough? Try writing a perfect 10-page report, in ink, by hand, on college-ruled paper. The word-count part is especially fun. Typewriter? Go to the library, chump. What, your mother works and doesn't get home in time to drive you back to town? Well, I'm sure you'll figure out a way to get it done.

Telephones: Party lines—listen for the ring. If it's not yours, it's your neighbor's, so pick up the telephone very quietly (so maybe they won't notice the click) and listen in. Sort of like conference calling, only you don't get to pick the participants.

Microwaves: There was a rumor when I first went into the service that someday you'd be able to have one in your own house. At the time, "microwave" referred to a large antenna-looking dish that conventional wisdom said could fry you.

First microwave oven I ever saw was a cast-off a neighbor gave to my dad. Being of a scientific bent, the first thing we did with it was try to cook a sugar ant that happened to come with the microwave. We turned the dial (yes! DIAL!) and set it for five minutes. We jostled for position in front. We watched. We waited. The ant crawled. We waited. We watched. The ant continued crawling. We were discussing the merits of stopping the microwave to position the ant closer to the center of the cooking area when the glass plate on the bottom of the microwave split wide open with a loud CR-AACKKK!!! My dad and I jumped out of our skin, looked at each other, started laughing and turned off the microwave. We opened the door and turned the ant loose, apparently unharmed. Who the heck knows what that microwave was doing to us while it was busy not cooking that ant.

Cars. Ah, yes, we did have those. But shiny and sporty weren't high on the priority list, so when our white Datsun got too rusty our mother went to the store and came home with a case of Candy Apple Red. It's not as easy as it looks, folks. The car was Candy Apple Red when every can had been emptied, but the concept of "full, even coverage" did not apply.

Running water: You run a mile to where the local tourist spot keeps two toilets and a shower stall in an unlit, unlocked basement. Luckily, you're so far out in the sticks that the only bad guy you worry about is the boogeyman.

Hair dryers: Hair dries or freezes on the walk home. Depends on the weather.

Electronic Entertainment: The sky is clear, you have a fresh C battery, and the transistor radio you got for Christmas still works.

So, offsprings, please quit asking me for another subscription to World of Warcraft; go log in to your state library accounts to research your papers; and submit it on time via BlackBoard.

Text your buddies to arrange a ride to the game, remember to download your favorite music to your Cells, and someone please order more ink for the laser jet and have it delivered overnight at no charge.

Meanwhile, I'll load the dishwasher, move the laundry to the dryer, check to see if the dry cleaning's been delivered, and set the coffee pot for 7:30. Put my cell phone on vibrate and check my email while listening to voice mail. Then I'll log in to work, and while I'm at it, pull up my favorite Internet radio station and check the news while I work on that report. Dang, I can never seem to get enough done!

Good Care

2008-11-02T19:03:00.006-05:00

Thing Three's surgery went well; he is mending nicely.

For a doctor's eye-view of overweight patients, consider the following comments from surgeon's team about patient #2 (Thing Three was third in line that day.) Note that Thing Three was called to the hospital at 12:30 and that surgery didn't happen until 9 PM that evening. Those guys did three gastro-intestinal surgeries that day, beginning at zero-dark-thirty ("call us at 6 AM," said the hospital staff) and ending at the stroke of midnight.

The Anesthesiologist: "Oh good. He's [Thing Three] is healthy. The last guy was three times this size. At least."

The Nurse Anesthesiologist: "Oh good. He's not like the last guy. Nice and thin."

The Surgeon, after the surgery: "I don't mean to be insensitive, but your son was almost recreational. So nice to work with good muscle tone. That last person. So heavy. So difficult."

The message we took away was "If you want your surgeon to like you, take care of yourself."

Kudos to the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center (Montefiore and Presbyterian). This organization has been outstanding. Every staff member has been friendly, caring, and competent. The doctors have been warm and interested and we have seen very little (none?) Dr.-Knows-Best attitude. The staff has, without exception, been very helpful to long-distance parents and taken a common-sense approach to privacy and HIPPA, helping us navigate their systems while maintaining a sense of respect for the individual.

Last comment: Thank you very much for paying your taxes. I know that some people think that too many people abuse no-cost health care—but there are a whole lot of people who simply cannot afford health care.

Most people want to be well enough to work. Some will never be well enough to work...but well enough to live and love, that's important, too. We and Thing Three are excited that, with continued access to no-cost (but very costly) medication, he will be well enough next year to go to college. Graduate. Get a job. Work. Pay taxes. Maybe even have an insurance plan that provides the medication he needs to stay well.

Looking to donate? Charity Navigator rates this organization well: American Autoimmune Related Diseases Association

Two jokes

2008-11-02T11:24:00.004-05:00

Two jokes culled from email:

Fifty-one years ago, Herman James, a North Carolina mountain man, was drafted by the Army.

On his first day in basic training, the Army issued him a comb. That afternoon the Army barber sheared off all his hair.

On his second day, the Army issued Herman a toothbrush. That afternoon the Army dentist yanked seven of his teeth.

On the third day, the Army issued him a jock strap.

The Army has been looking for Herman for 51 years.
______________________________________________________________

A Polish immigrant went to the DMV to apply for a driver's license. First, of course, he had to take a vision test. The optician showed him a card with the letters C Z W I X N O S T A C Z.

The optician asked, "Can you read this?"

"Read it?" the Polish guy replied. "I know the guy."

When is it OK for Someone to Touch Your Butt?

2008-10-25T22:02:00.009-04:00

Flat Stanley's youngest child (age 22, hereafter referred to as "Thing Three") has spent way too much time in a hospital this year. It's not all bad, however, as Thing Three has a few observations to pass along to Thing One and Thing Two, and since the trouble is with his bowels, you may wish to wash your hands before leaving the room.

Today's Wisdom for Male Patients:

1. When a pretty female nurse or physician touches you in any Area To Be Covered By A Bathing Suit, it's strictly business.

2. When a male physician puts his finger in your butt, it's not because he's gay and thinks you're cute.

3. And the camera's legit.

4. Once the pain medication's kicked in, always be sure to set your bed pan aside before trying to walk unassisted to the bathroom. Otherwise, you risk flinging a puke-filled pan all over your street clothes.

5. The advice above really isn't worth much, because once the pain medication has kicked in, you won't notice the puke-filled bed pan in your lap.

6. Older brothers are for moral support. Do not expect an older brother to lovingly gather your puke-streaked street clothes into his arms, cart them across town on a city bus, wash them, and return them neatly folded the next day. The Bio-Hazard Bag will have to suffice, and you can wash them at your house when you're feeling better.

7. Boost is a poor substitute for wings and beer.

8. Do not expect your roommates to share your liquid diet in some kind of sentimental solidarity. The closest you can hope for is that they are kind enough to leave the room without spending more than a half-hour discussing the great time they're planning after visiting hours. Your truly sentimental roommates may skip a serving of wings when the next keg is tapped.

For Your Consideration

2008-10-22T10:37:00.002-04:00

Flat Stanley's world has been...interesting. Here's a letter FS recently wrote. See what it does to your perspective.

To Whom It May Concern:

My [relative], ------------, has requested that I send this letter in support of his request for modification of probation conditions so that he may travel out of the county for work, family and personal business.

----- and I have been in regular contact via telephone and email in the three years since he was released from prison. While ----- was incarcerated, we exchanged letters a few times a year over the last three or four years of his time served.

------- has impressed me with his relentless drive to realize his potential as a human being. He has invested a tremendous amount of energy into understanding who he was, who he is, and who he wants to be. ------ believes that the world can be a better place and works hard to find his role in achieving that goal. His passion for helping former prisoners develop skills necessary for re-joining society has encouraged me to join him in that effort in my own world.

As of this writing, [another close relative] has been diagnosed with a rapidly spreading terminal cancer. Doctors predict that she has less than one year to live. She would like to see her [relations] and end on a peaceful note. It would be very nice for her and ------ to have that opportunity to say goodbye in person.

More importantly, however, I have come to accept that -------ʼs crime was the result of who he was at the time, rather than the result of an irrevocably formed personality. ------ has never expressed sexual interest in children and has been extremely careful to surround himself in conditions which can in no way compromise the terms of his parole. He has been adamant that we be careful in what kinds of family photos and junk email we send so that there can be no appearance of prurient interest.

As a family, we would like to get together next year. We will honor whatever conditions ------ requests in order to avoid the appearance of impropriety. This is a mark of respect for ------, in that we trust his good judgment, respect his boundaries, and would not dream of placing him in a compromising position (such as asking him to babysit). While at first glance this may seem unfair, I believe that recognizing and respecting circumstance is in the best interest of everyone and is the highest honor we can accord each other.

----- has a sound and supportive family with whom he initiated and maintains regular contact. He is a hard-working person who messed up badly and was punished for it. Without reservation I fully endorse his bid for modification of probation conditions. I will gladly answer questions or provide further input if necessary.

Grandmother at 26!

2008-10-22T09:34:00.002-04:00

(no real names used)

Parents of adult children will appreciate this. Parents of young children will shudder, cross their fingers and swear silently that this will never happen to them. Parents of adult children will then smile and nod sagely.

Phone rings. It's Flat Stanley's daughter. She says, "Mom! Joan just called and said that Marti has something to tell us. I can't imagine—"

Flat Stanley interrupts: "She's pregnant."

Daughter: "Oh Mom, it's probably not that. It's probably that she got engaged to that guy, or she wrecked the car. I'm pretty sure that she wouldn't get pregnant. Joan would freak! She's only got one semester of school left. She just met this guy. She wouldn't get pregnant."

context: FS's daughter married a guy several years older than she is. This guy, FS's son-in-law, adopted his first wife's two children. Hence, FS has a 26-year-old daughter whose step-daughter is 20.

Daughter: "Oh Mom, I can't imagine what you guys must have felt, since I feel this upset and Marti's not even my daughter! I'm sure she's not calling to say that she's pregnant. She must have wrecked the car. Oh, I can't believe how upsetting—Oh! There's [FS's son-in-law] calling. I'll call you back!"

more context: It wasn't too many years ago that FS's daughter called home from college (on FS's birthday, of all days!) to tell her parents that she was pregnant. At the time, FS felt like we were the only parents in the world to be so shocked and confused and should we be happy? sad? angry? disappointed? supportive? condemning? In the spirit of ignorance and adventure, we took turns with the full range of emotional options, including, for FS, complete numbness.

later on...

Daughter: "Mom! Marti's pregnant!"

FS: "How about that...you're going to be a grandma at age 26."

Daughter: "Mom, it's so weird."

FS: "You're telling me."

Marti's lucky, though it will probably take her a while to understand it, because she's got FS's daughter and son-in-law ready to give her moral support, wise counsel, and distance enough to make her own decisions, none of which will be easy, few of which will lead to immediate happiness, all of which have the potential to set the stage for a great future soon, should she have the foresight to choose them.

Elevator Speech

2008-10-16T20:33:00.004-04:00

An elevator speech is that 20-second blurb you use to tell people what you do. Nice, quick, simple, easy-to-understand. My elevator speech: I help people get rid of shit.

I'm not making this up. For a cool mil and a half, I can see to it that you have the means to rid the manure stream generated by your confined animal feeding operation. It's pretty simple. A hose here, a tank there, a coupla pumps, some splashy things, a squisher, few more hoses, a tube, some chemicals, sieve or two, more hoses and splashy things and a conveyer belt. Oh. and a lagoon. And another hose. Maybe an aerator. Another pump. Bingo. Put this pile here and re-use it for that...this pile goes into a composter. And, yep. Yep. You just got ridda shit. And I helped.

This technology won't be really, really useful until we can apply it to problems such as desk tops, junk drawers, garages....

my modeling career

2008-10-04T08:51:00.012-04:00

inspired by Jake the Snake's telling of his early career as a stripper.

I was 19, newly graduated from a two-year school with a degree in science laboratory technology, particularly talented in two highly desirable skills: (1) Drawing blood from humans and (2) Preparing slides of rat livers from rats that I had personally seen raised. (Note to PETA readers: I did not participate in the killing, eviscerating or placing of tiny little rat innards into vials of formalin for preservation. Science is good.)

I was also particularly about-to-be-unemployed, having just barely escaped being fired as a breakfast waitress at a big fancy hotel in downtown New Orleans. It seems that the failure of this rough-edged bumpkin to bring a patron's strawberries at the proper time was huge faux-pas.

Hey, even in the sticks we have French class. I knew the meaning of the concept, just not the behaviors which would prevent me from committing such unimaginable acts of social disgrace. Plus, I didn't know enough to serve from the right. Or the left. Whichever, my choice was wrong. To this day I'm not too aware of the difference, which is why I'm now a somewhat gracious restaurant patron. Sometimes ignorance is bliss. Besides that, I still struggle with figuring out left from right. Which was a lot of fun when I was marching Marines in formation, but that's a story for another day.

So I needed a job, didn't have the social skills to find one, and was looking to get out of the one I'd held for the last three hours. And there was my opportunity, succinctly worded, clearly stated, plainly printed in unpretentious black and white: WANTED: MODELS.

Well, hey, I thought: I'm cute and tiny and have blond hair, lemme go try that. Unlike Mr. Jake the Snake, it never occurred to me that being a model meant that you had to know something. Unlike Jake, I did not take modeling classes. I did not learn how to dance. I did not know how to move. I did not know how to flirt. I did not know how to be sexy.

My base tan, though, was excellent. Not a single tan line anywhere. Nothing but pure, natural, creamy, silky pale skin on my body. Unless you count the shirtsleeve line on my upper arms. Which I didn't, because why would I? I'd never heard of a base tan, much less recognized that it was desirable.

Being somewhat more sophisticated than my peers back home (graduating class of 96, including 17 juniors who'd managed to build enough credits to bail early), I did know enough to take a shower and get a haircut prior to the interview (which was a walk-in process.) And I was, if nothing else, confident that if anyone could walk in and take the prize, it would be me. Reference my earlier observation about ignorance.

The haircut should have been an indication of things to come, but I didn't yet possess the social literacy skills necessary to read the clues. I made an appointment at one of upscale department stores on Canal Street. Woe. The salon! I had never been in such an environment in all my life. An Asian woman (another first!) in a silky blouse (boy, she sure did dress well for work) shampooed my hair (holy cow! This was much better than the cold spray bottles that were part of the three or four paid haircuts I'd had growing up). I didn't want color, I didn't want curls, I didn't want a shag, I didn't want a bob (bob? what was that, anyway?). I wanted beautiful, sexy, and no maintenance. I wanted to walk out of that salon a new woman. A woman. Complete, sexy, curvaceous, confident, experienced, and knowing. And tall. And sexy. And tall and sexy. And curvaceous. And knowing. Did I mention sexy? Undeniably, head-turning sexy. My Key To The World.

What an unnerving experience. The hairdresser had no sense of personal space, and at first, I didn't understand the implication. I loved having my scalp massaged, loved the drape of her hand across my shoulders, the sensuous caress of her fingers as they trailed across my forehead, fondled my ears, tracked lightly across my skin. Then she got down to business. Now it wasn't just her hands, it was her entire body. Brushing up against mine. Leaning into me as she picked up a few strands of hair, snip. Move, lean, touch. Snip, snip. Move in closer. I could feel the heat of her body warming mine. Snip. Snip. Getting a little uncomfortable, here.

Reach across the top of my head. Lean in closer. Warmer. Oh. My. Her silky blouse rubbing softly across my cheek. Oh man, I've heard of women liking women...is this woman like, uh, one of those kind? My breath quickens. I am conscious of only one thing in the entire world, and that is the realization that her breast is now resting on my face. There is nothing more than a thin, filmy fabric between one of her parts-to-be-covered-by-a-swimming-suit and me. If I so much as take a deep breath, my mouth will move against her nipple.

I froze like a deer in the woods at the sound of a branch snapping under a hunter's footstep. I froze like the ice covering one of the Finger Lakes in February. I froze like a non-dairy treat in the freezer section of your favorite grocery chain. And stayed frozen for the rest of the haircut. And walked out looking like: Myself. Not tall, not sexy, not curvaceous, not knowing, and quite confused. What had just happened in there? Was that the way of all haircuts? Did I misunderstand her behavior? And if I did, did that mean I was queer? And if I was queer, how come it was news to me?

I wore my nicest dress-up outfit to the interview: A pair of soft lime-green slacks two sizes too big (I wore baggy back then) and a stylish, billowy, multi-colored blouse. (This was, afterall, the 70's). I found the address a few blocks off Canal St. and took the elevator to the fourth floor. The elevator opened onto a plain corridor covered with a barely-not-avocado green, plush, carpet. The corridor was lined with plain doors, trails of crushed and dirty carpet leading faintly to each one.

Where was the frosted glass double entryway? The polished granite? The ostentatious display of real estate and over-sized furniture? The cool, clean, crisp smell of wealth and sophistication? Must be behind Door Number 402.

Behind Door Number 402 was more that same carpet and a sad rendition of a small-office desk squeezed into a reception room the size of three janitor closets. The woman behind the desk took a drag off her cigarette and appraised me in one dismissive glance.

She said, "You model nude?"

I thought about the answer. I pictured myself as a tall, confident, curvaceous, knowing, sexy, complete, tall-and-sexy-and-curvaceous-and-knowing woman standing naked in a doorway welcoming guests to an upscale, high-society event.

I pictured myself as a short, skinny, un-curved, unknowing, incomplete, barely-more-than-a-kid person standing in that same doorway fully conscious of her nudity and completely unwilling to fill whatever roles that naked ladies might be expected to fill under such conditions.

I said, "Uh, no."

A week later I joined the Marine Corps. A place where men were men, women were women, tan lines appreciated, and where "model" referred to how well you wore your uniform, laid out your gear, and performed on the drill field. No nudity required.

this isn't news

2008-10-03T08:08:00.005-04:00

Quiet news from the Washington Times. It goes back to honesty, and the practice of supporting of a bill that you know doesn't make sense in exchange for some good publicity is political posturing. And I know these folks are floating on an entirely different plane, (plain?)—but bottom line is that political posturing is a form of ethics that values the end goal above personal integrity. There are not too many real-world scenarios where the trade off is justified.

EXCLUSIVE: Pelosi paid husband with PAC funds
$99,000 for rent, utilities, accounting fees
Jennifer Haberkorn (Contact)
Wednesday, October 1, 2008

EXCLUSIVE:

House Speaker Nancy Pelosi has directed nearly $100,000 from her political action committee to her husband's real estate and investment firm over the past decade, a practice of paying a spouse with political donations that she supported banning last year.

Financial Leasing Services Inc. (FLS), owned by Paul F. Pelosi, has received $99,000 in rent, utilities and accounting fees from the speaker's "PAC to the Future" over the PAC's nine-year history.

The payments have quadrupled since Mr. Pelosi took over as treasurer of his wife's committee in 2007, Federal Election Commission records show. FLS is on track to take in $48,000 in payments this year alone - eight times as much as it received annually from 2000 to 2005, when the committee was run by another treasurer.

Lawmakers' frequent use of campaign donations to pay relatives emerged as an issue in the 2006 election campaigns, when the Jack Abramoff lobbying scandal gave Democrats fodder to criticize Republicans such as former House Majority Leader Tom DeLay of Texas and Rep. John T. Doolittle of California for putting their wives on their campaign and PAC payrolls for fundraising work.

Poop Kitty

2008-09-24T20:27:00.003-04:00

Karen made a comment about squeezing the poop out of a kitty, which reminded me of this blog post from 2006. It's still funny.

We have a houseful of three granddaughters and two extra cats tonight. The extras are natives of Cuba. They look like cats, and have been living with people since near birth (they are about five months old now) but have enough wildness in them to be completely upset by our dog, who's lived peaceably (make that "as peaceably as one can") with cats for years.

Our dog reacted to their hisses and full tails by chasing them, which made them screech and yowl, which upset our very nice house cat, who in turn tried to get into the fray, which lead one of the kittens to wet herself when she was picked up. The would-be rescuer dropped the kitten, which then ran into a corner and cowered while I pulled off the dog and someone shooed away our formerly docile house cat.

The wet-ee then picked up the petrified kitten, sending her into further spasms. She pooped a hard little turd, then hung by the scruff of her neck, body stiff as ice, eyes wide open and staring straight ahead, tongue protruding. The kitten didn't move a muscle the whole trip up the stairs and into a nice, quiet room with a door tightly closed to restore and preserve what little peace was left.

And then we had supper while three wild little girls whooped, hollared, giggled and thumped their way to bedtime.

So far, it's been a great visit!

$5 an hour

2008-09-19T12:58:00.004-04:00

may not seem like much, but it ain't bad when you stare your contract-employer in the eye and say you think you're worth that much more than the first agreement you signed.

it ain't bad when your contract-employer sits his six-foot-something imposing male physique a little—a lot—straighter in the chair across from you at the conference table and your wiry, under five-foot-two, fit-but-flat feminine physique doesn't flinch under his hard, hot eyes.

and it's good, really good, when you hold his glare with your stare, then break the continued silence with "I didn't throw out that figure as a bargaining point."

it's most excellent when he says he'll re-write the agreement and that he doesn't expect "too many more" such discussions.

heh. all in a day's work. Happy Friday!

Consistently Boorish

2008-09-11T23:53:00.004-04:00

*names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.*

My poster child for leadership challenges called into a scheduled conference call tonight to finalize details on the annual budget. He called from a baseball game in Philadelphia. I dunno who was playing. You can google it to find out.

Said Poster Child did not have a copy of the budget with him and claimed not to have seen it in his inbox, but "supposed it must be there, since [our treasurer] told him she'd sent it." I chimed in with yes, it was sent yesterday, Sept. 10, but aforementioned Poster Child didn't acknowledge my presence.

He borrowed a cell phone from a stranger in the stands to make the call. The cell phone's owner got upset that he was abusing her minutes and yelled at him to give her back the phone. He's a really big guy. He ignored her. She probably stood up in the seat and made a grab for it. He told her he was on a conference call. She really got mad and yelled at him. Called him some cuss names, I think. He said to her, "Can't I at least tell them I have to get off?" Didn't phase him a bit that she was in the background loudly calling him out on his boorish behavior. Did he think we couldn't hear her?

I was DYING! Next, he borrowed someone else's cell phone or called from a pay phone, not sure. [Our treasurer] asked him to move so the background noise wouldn't drown out the conversation. He shouted, I CAN HEAR YOU! [Our treasurer] said, "But [you nincompoop], I can't hear anyone else on this call." He said, IT WILL BE LOUD IF THEY HIT A HOME RUN.

Right out of a Harold and Kumar movie. Absolutely, positively, insolently amazing. [Our treasurer] asked him several times to move to where the noise would not interfere with the conversation. He eventually lost interest, said goodbye and hung up. Inside, I am still laughing the laugh of the incredulous. Is he for REAL? He IS! And what can you do but laugh? And feel sorry for him. And admire him. At least he's consistent.

But dang. I thought he saved his especially bad behavior for me and now I know I'm not so special. Say...can I borrow your cell phone?

Appreciation

2008-09-10T08:13:00.003-04:00

Last night was our next-to-last class at the prison. The experience has been transformational for all of us — the students, the chaplain, us. Two months ago my partner and I weren't sure how we could work this in, and now we can't believe it's over. As demanding as it is, we both want the privilege of participating as the students further their individual journies.

The students spent about an hour discussing the next steps, potential costs, funds, and room availability (space at the prison for such luxuries as class is a luxury in itself) necessary to formalize this class or conduct a different one. Rooms are so dear that our next series can only be held at 5 pm on Fridays.

Before we left, the chaplain asked permission to pray for us. The men gathered into a circle and joined hands or linked arms. I have never before had my right hand dwarfed inside the giant, tender clasp of a convicted felon, nor experienced the gentle weight of an arm resting lightly on my left shoulder from a man who's spent half of his 57 years in prison (and shares my birthday :-) I've never heard men who have virtually nothing sincerely pray that I be showered in earthly riches and monetary wealth.

In the training that I do, I rarely have students come to me afterward to ask for clarification on a point brought up in class. People don't leave the class in tears. Students don't beg to continue receiving a card each week. (My partner spends, literally, 16 hours each week creating a personalized to send to each man.)

Really, nothing profound to say. The privilege has been all ours. Maybe this is the best way to describe the transformation: The first few weeks, their handshakes were firm to the point of causing pain. I thought that maybe I was developing arthritis in my hand. These last few weeks: Same firm handshakes, no pain.

Graduation next week. The warden will be there. The men are nervous. They will do themselves proud.

Praise God. These guys are helping me see past the christian-uck I've known to maybe what it is that Jesus really was intended to bring to the world.

Leadership and Spiritual Development

2008-09-07T08:24:00.005-04:00

A particular member of the organization with which I am involved has a long history of being self-centered, mean, dishonest, and unwilling to recognize the negative impact these traits have on his ability to lead. Due to circumstance and dirty, dirty politics, this person is now an elected, key member of my leadership team. Not surprisingly, his behavior hasn't changed in the two-plus months he's been on board.

I've provided clear expectations, timelines, conference calls between him, the rest of the team, and higher leadership; stepped in and done key portions of his role (if key tasks don't get completed, our mission will by definition fail). I've put up with his verbal attacks on me; his provocation of other team members; refusal to take guidance from those he claims to respect; ardent defense of unethical behaviors; missed deadlines; and outright lies. The latest from him is a blithely worded confirmation that he does indeed value cooperation and that I have his—coupled with a big, fat lie about his most recent activities.

Dealing with his behavior has taken a huge amount of time. My concern is that I always respond in the best interest of our organizational goals. I spend a lot of time counseling with mentors to ensure that my communications with this guy are on track and foward-looking. The hours I spend figuring out how to keep my head and heart in the right place when dealing with this guy could be spent on some really exciting ideas for our organization and membership. To help deal with the personal resentment I feel towards this guy (because he's distracting us away from our goals, because dealing with him keeps me from other important tasks) I keep returning to the concept of non-attachment that Dyer promotes. More about that later.

Last week I spoke with two leaders who are equals, one step above me. One leader has been through a similar experience with her leadership team. She recognized that while the organizational goals were important, they could not be met until specific behaviors were changed. As in my situtation, past leaders had neglected the opportunity to address these issues, and she decided that, for the good of the organization, the buck would stop with her. She didn't achieve the standard organizational goals during her term at the helm—but, the organization has every year since her term ended. Why? Because this woman was willing to look beyond her own resume for that one year and think about the long-term interests of the organization.

The other leader with whom I spoke has her own history of ignoring personnel issues in favor of achieving organizational goals. In fact, she once scoffed at me, saying, "Oh, sure, we've had this problem for years, and you're going to be the one who rides in and fixes it? Why don't you leave that problem for the next [leadership role]?" And, oh, it was so tempting to say, "Like you did? Because I wouldn't have this problem if you had dealt with it." And what she doesn't realize: That you can get by with letting some of this stuff slide for years, but eventually, unless the problem-causer leaves the organization or is too clumsy to gain significant influence, the organization will pay dearly at some point down the line.

That point is now. And I'm the one who's paying. And if I don't deal with it, it will be the membership who pays. I have observed that in our organization it takes several years for membership to recover from just one year of unethical, self-centered leadership.

So keeping my head straight: There's nine and a half months left on this ride. My heart (I want to crush this guy into an unrecognizable smear in the dust) wrestles with my soul (detach from the outcome, it is what it is) and my head (how do I effectively convey organizational goals and values when a key team member is so actively off message?)

My fears coming into this year were that the administrative tasks of leadership would be my downfall. Therefore, I staffed my support roles with good people and let them know that their jobs were to keep us on track, administratively. Hurray for these great people, who are excited about what they are learning on this year-long journey!

I thought that my leadership growth this year would be about the nuts and bolts of performance. Instead, I am finding that my task is to help other members of our leadership team find their own ways through the mud stirred up by this guy's ugliness, negativity, deceit, and non-performance.

My leadership journey this year has become a deep and soul-searching discovery into maintaining a connection with the Source, God, Goodness, whatever, while learning how to not be stressed, how to function well in the midst of difficult people and situations, and how to find and live in peace in the midst of negative forces.

Their Stories

2008-08-06T00:06:00.003-04:00

Tonight the men each spoke for a few minutes to introduce themselves. The idea is that each knows his own story best, so can be fairly comfortable talking about himself.

The men chose to talk about what brought them to prison. Their stories were startlingly similar: Parents who cared but didn't know what to do with children who didn't; lousy, loving parents who placed unfair (no, not little stuff...really, really unfair) demands on their children; parents with big huge, moral failings of their own; drug addiction, abuse, violence, murder, robbery. Yah, these guys are doing big time and they know why.

And yet—remember, we got the best of the best—most of them see a chance to make a real, positive difference in the world. Meet a murderer and see a guy with a tremendous sense of humor and a love for others. Meet a drug abuser and see a man who wants to make it right with his girlfriend. Meet a bank robber and meet a man who thought, hey, do I want my kids to have to tell their friends their dad is in jail because he robbed a Safeway???

Am I saying they should all be let out tomorrow? Heck no. They're doing their time, fair or not fair, and I am not in a position to determine how able each is to function in the pressures, the huge, ugly extra pressures of being an ex-con with a lousy paycheck or unemployed, in the free world.

What I am saying is, through all they've been through, people they've killed, banks they've robbed, women they've abused, children they've neglected, families they've hurt—through all of that, they are our brothers. Funny, sad, quirky, joyful, perverse, loving, or just plain twisted, they are human.

And because I am human, a caveat: One of them, I think, should never, ever, ever, ever, be let out, ever. And I'm thinking that maybe that's why God tells us to be kind to prisoners.

From Lockdown to Invocation

2008-07-31T10:09:00.004-04:00

The first class got a late start because the prison went on lock-down seconds after we arrived at the classroom. It wasn't scary because it wasn't one of those where they make all visitors leave, which is very good, because somehow or another we did not put our names in the log book— although we had our badges, so presumably they would have sent someone for us had it been deemed necessary.

The chaplain had assured us that were getting a very special, hand-picked group. The group consisted of 10 men, each whom, she assured us, is highly talented. Well, she was right.

They were quiet to begin with, checking us out to see how much credibility they'd give us. The lead in this class is my partner, R (not as in relationship--as in working with). R is 67. They liked him and they should have. He is the only white man I know who thinks nothing of donning a bright yellow or bright red or bright lavender suit jacket. People tend to misjudge him, like the Columbo character on tv back in the 70's. And like Columbo, R is sharp, sharp, sharp as a tack.

The chaplain tried to prepare us by telling us a bit about each participant before they arrived. I don't think she is accustomed to people being able to roll with what's coming. She told us that T is very, very gay and to not make any remarks about it, and that L's nickname is Doughboy and please don't call him that. It wasn't hard to tell when L arrived. In his baggy white tee shirt and big, loose jeans, he looked like his nickname. T was in one the units still on lockdown so I don't yet know just how gay he acts, but it must be really something for her to caution us about it.

Some of the prisoners requested permission to engage in a ritualistic chant in support of whoever was speaking. That was an awesome opportunity for each to receive positive energy, and, as R's assistant, I not only joined in the chant, but was also chanted when it was my turn to model the speaking exercise. Now that is a cool experience.

We ended the evening with a brief talk about invocations. Since this group is strongly Christian (except one Muslim) a lot of the talks touched on the topic of Jesus. I explained that an invocation is not tied to a religious faith, but does call the audience to reflect on the higher or universal values recognized by humankind. They asked me to give an invocation to show them what I meant and there I was, conducting closing prayer--uh, invocation--at the conclusion of a powerful evening.

I really look forward to next week.

who needs Jesus?

2008-07-29T09:04:00.003-04:00

Inspired by Jim Palmer's blog:

Over the years that I've been on this walk (the one away from organized religion and (hopefully) toward God) I have been heading toward the conclusion that Christianity, the religion, is way, way too small for God.

It's a scary walk, though, when all your life you've been taught that God fits neatly inside this carefully laid out organizational structure complete with inflexible walls, highly defined boundaries and strict membership requirements. Metaphorically, the church as I have known it is neither earthquake-resilient (architecture metaphor) nor sustainable (business-model metaphor).

The questions I'm now asking/living are, can one follow Jesus while allowing God to be big, way, way big? Is that what defines the Christian mystics? And, finally, if we look at Jesus as God's attempt to reconnect human-kind with God, and we recognize the triune God, why bother with Jesus?

If you already figured out the connection between yourself and all of creation, Jesus serves as a model but is no longer necessary in your faith walk.

So yeah, those are some scary questions.

knowing

2008-07-19T21:57:00.003-04:00

Here's an 'out there' post about the first visit: Met four trustees (prisoners with special privileges). Throughout the visit, I kept turning around to note the location of one of them. Over the next four days his image kept popping into my head until on the fourth night I was awakened by a voice inside my head that said three phrases about this guy (call him X). Each phrase was very short, different from the preceding one, and increasingly emphatic. I wish I could remember the phrases, but I do remember the message, which was a very powerful, DO NOT TRUST X.

I emailed the chaplain and asked her if she was interested in warning bells, she said, "please," I told her about X, and she said, "spot on, thanks for the heads up, I will immediately stop ignoring the situation."

In the conservative fundamentalist church I used to attend, the preaching denied such things as premonitions or psychic phenomenon, knowing things that one "should not" know, as being derived from evil spirits. That was troublesome, since I seem to have a slightly higher-than-average ability to read people and know them in ways that I "shouldn't." Lots of people read people, Christians and non-Christians alike. Sometimes we call it "common sense," which gives the preacher some wiggle room in his argument against non-objective knowledge.

Some stuff goes beyond reading people. I call it my "woo-woos" and can tell that it's kicked in by the nature of its divulgence. I know it's my woo-woos at work if, after meeting someone I find the memory of them floating around the edges of my conscience for a few days—and then—out of the blue—I give a pronouncement of who they are or how they will affect other people or what act they will eventually perform that will have a significant impact on people I know. My woo-woo pronouncements usually catch me off guard because, well, face it: Who wants to go around stating the future as authoritatively as if it is already fact and you are merely reporting it? C'mon, it makes you feel like a bit of a nut. Yet, there it is. Spoken aloud, forced into words because you cannot hold them back, and seemingly based upon nothing more than personal prejudice or dislike.

But crap. Eventually the woo-woo happens, or has happened often enough that I've learned to (a) recognize that it's happening; and (b) trust what it says.

So X is not to be trusted. He is wavering on something important. He is (or was) a prisoner in a trusted position. He has the power to cause harm or bring danger to someone I care about (the chaplain). And next week I'll be involved in a weekly meeting with other hand-picked, trusted prisoners. X won't be one of them.

Still working on how to fit the woo-woos into Christianity. Interesting thing is, the further I get away from church, the bigger God gets. I think there's going to be room.

My First Day at Prison

2008-07-10T23:18:00.001-04:00

The prison visit was...amazing. So much hope. Such powerful clinging to hope in the name of Jesus. Such incredible talent and deep, soul-shattering loss.

I over-committed and agreed to help run a six-week speech class. Don't know how or where I'll manage the time, but at this point I do not feel as though I dare let this opportunity pass.

They had a song service and a chorus. I have not heard such joyful singing since a year or two before we left church. That summer we organized a great big VBS with help from a congregation a few hundred miles away. They sent most of their youth group and during that Wednesday night's Bible study, the visiting students and the many children from the neighborhood absolutely raised the roof with song. Well, that lasted until we were scolded for having too much fun during worship.

But tonight! I don't know what prison life is really like, but the stories I've heard from my relative tells me that tonight was a privilege. The prisoners are privileged to have the chaplain they have and privileged to be able to attend such an event, Wow, am I ever glad to have been a part of it. And despite the over-commitment, I am so excited to see what the next few weeks bring.

Prison

2008-07-07T16:00:00.001-04:00

Visiting a prison this week. My first interaction with "real" prisoners.

I tend to be an emotional person (I've found incredibly creative ways of postponing/disguising/hiding emotional responses in the short term). And thought it would be all cool. But today I find myself getting a bit wound up about the visit. Being out-of-touch with my emotions, I have learned to read clues that tell me a topic is hitting emotional hot buttons. Today's hint: Slight teariness and thoughts about the tragedies brought to and caused by these prisoners whom I have not met.

Good grief. It's not as if most of them aren't exactly where they belong, given our criminal justice system. And it's not like they are innocent of all wrong-doing. I know that much.

What it is, however: They were all born with choices. Some were born into circumstances that would have led you and me down the same path they chose. Sure, they didn't have to go there. But from where they stood, it may have seemed easiest, the most natural, or the most who-gives-a-damn-anyway choice available.

That's the part that I find tragic—that they didn't find or choose a way out and now, here they are, dug into a hole so deep, patterns so ingrained, skills so undeveloped or out-of-touch, barriers so solid, and for many, hopes so high.. I would not want those obstacles.

I don't want to look at them and see my relatives, feel a sense of their past, have a sense of what it will take to make it on the outside, know a bit about the baggage they carry.

"They" are they. "I" am me. Can we find or build a bridge that will let us meet?

Healing Magic

2008-07-06T07:23:00.003-04:00

over at Jim's Blog, Lori wrestles with her struggle to figure out the Jesus of conventional faith, asking, "Why do I self medicate when my emotional pain is unbearable? Shouldn’t I be strong enough? I have JESUS!!! Nothing is impossible with JESUS!!!"

Religious people tend to say that "Jesus" will fill in those big empty holes in us. As if they think that the word JESUS is spackle for the soul and maybe church is the bandaid that holds the spackle in place.

For most of us, or all of us, it does not work like that. Most of us don't wake up one morning, discover this Jesus-figure in our heart, and suddenly find our life laid out in a near-perfect rhythm of bible reading, church attendance and true inner peace.

What is the saying? "Nature abhors a vacuum?" Those holes in our soul are a vacuum. We spend our lives trying to fill them, whether with rage, or helplessness, or self-injury or self-harm or promiscuity or whatever toxic, empty, dark actions or attitudes offer temporary respite from an ongoing awareness of our own emptiness.

It's not until we begin figuring out how to heal ourselves that our holes transform into a less destructive presence. I agree with Jim that healing begins with an awareness of our own value. Scream the word JESUS all you want—but the word itself is not a talisman. Nor is church, nor is the bible.

The magic of healing begins when a person recognizes the hole, then makes peace with its presence. At that point, peace begins soothing, covering, protecting, the dangling nerve endings, dripping capillaries, and torn flesh at the hole's raw edges.

Church and bible-reading and Jesus can play a huge role in this process when they reflect an awareness of humanity's significance in God's grand plan. But—and this is the part that most church-based faith doesn't seem to recognize—healing is a process, not an act. If we push the idea that JESUS will fix everything for us, we short-change our hurting brothers and sisters and neighbors out of the one thing that the Jesus story really provides: A sense that, as individuals, we matter. We matter so much that God created the story upon which Christianity is founded—that God sent his child to die a painful death for the benefit of individual humans.

To Lori, to myself, to you, I offer this: Be brave enough to heal yourself. If you want to bring Jesus into the mix, do it because of what you believe Jesus did for you, and allow your healing journey to be about you and your journey rather than about whether you and your faith in the word "Jesus" are good enough.

For many of us, filling the hole will be a lifelong process. It may never be filled. But we can learn to live peacefully in its presence. And that's pretty good healing.

Choosing Greatness

2008-06-05T07:30:00.003-04:00

Now here's one part of growing older that is really cool (the quote below is an email from a brother I have not seen in 19 years. Names in X for privacy)

YES XXX, I would like to see you.

Like I said: No one can change their past, so just sweep it off the table and enjoy the Life that we have all built, from our mistakes in part.

Later,

Xxx

And trust me, between our group of siblings, there have been plenty of mistakes and pain and past. The cool part is that we each had the opportunity to overcome incredible odds to become who we are today. Well, heck, everyone has that opportunity. The cool part is, we each engaged in the opportunity to change radically, and we did.

RIP to family members who died before they saw their own potential for greatness.

coming soon...

2008-05-26T10:43:00.004-04:00

an essay which treads where few dare to tread: claiming an event as "God's will" is nothing more than side-stepping our own reluctance to accept responsibility for making difficult decisions.

disclaimer: touchy and tender topic centered on real life. Intended to explore the issue, not attack the decision-makers.

Knight on a White Horse, or, Reconciliation Begins Before Time Served

2008-05-11T07:18:00.004-04:00

...so tell us about the last time your church community practiced reconciliation and restoration with a local convict.

How receptive was he or she to the experience?

How did the community react or respond to the divergences in values, perspective and expectation between itself and its new member?

What was the long-term plan in terms of providing on-going spiritual and social skills development and support? As well as job-skills, not to mention finding an employer who was willing to hire this person?

It's a great concept, the church being the organ of reconciliation, but the bottom line is that the local congregation is made of people. Those same people are members of the same society which has bought into the "tough-on-crime/soft-on-crime" baloney and in the process contributed to the development of a massive prison complex. Those same people who put bumper stickers on their cars that say "meet me in church on Sunday"—they sure as heck don't mean You/Me, the convicted child molester; You/Me, the mentally ill former addict; You/Me, the unkempt; You/Me, the bitter; You/Me, born a wonderfully unique person whose circumstances led You/Me to make choices that seemed as natural and as reasonable as selecting white or whole wheat bread.

If the church truly wishes to be an organ of justice and reconciliation, it should begin at the beginning, before there is a need to reconcile. A congregation which limits its concept of justice and reconciliation to a rescue operation without a serious focus on examining its role in the society which creates criminals is not practicing justice. It's showcasing or grandstanding. It’s playing with Godliness, dabbling in good works. It’s naïve. It’s self-serving. It pads the “good-works” side of the ledger with feel-good projects while ignoring the rickety foundation of its own unwillingness to create change where it counts: In our own, personal attitudes; what we teach our children; and the social values we are willing to tolerate in the name of politics.

laugh or pray?

2008-05-11T06:46:00.003-04:00

Surely this church sign is not intentional—

No one can become so rich that they can forget their past.
Please pray for our Pastor.

Assuming it's not, it's hilarious. If it is intentional, well, there's a sadness unfolding down there at the congregation on the corner.

The Church as Social Institution

2008-04-26T09:12:00.002-04:00

My husband and I are the babies of the baby-boomer generation. We did the church-thing with our children. He did a lot with the teens and almost-teens and we spent several years heavily involved with that age group.

We left church because of its steadfast refusal to change the way it considered itself and the way it interacted with the changing world around it (culture war blah-blah-blah). We replaced church with an international non-profit communication and leadership development organization. In this secular organization we have the very same culture war.

We now hold senior roles in this organization. And guess what the biggest challenge facing not only our territory, but the organization world-wide: World views shaped by differences in age and attitude.

We have done quite a bit of reading about post-modernism and find ourselves uniquely situated to understand a bit about both worlds. The challenge facing our organization is to help the older people hang on loosely, don't let go (Fleetwood Mac?) while constantly referring membership back to the organization's mission, which, fortunately, bridges cultural divides by focusing on self-development goals.

For authority, we point to the mission of the organization. To shake loose the chains of command, (or wring them from the death-grip of those who have used the organization to create personal power) we appeal to the incredible power of our younger members. We tap into their energy and enthusiasm, point them toward opportunities, then cheerlead, encourage and mentor. How: By specifically directing our energy and direction toward them.

Does this ignore the older members? Yes, it does. Does it mean there is no place for them? No, it doesn’t. There is a place for any member who is sincerely interested in another member’s growth. There is no place (opportunity-wise) for members who consistently display words, attitudes and behaviors detrimental to the growth of others in this environment. What happens is, those types find their circle of formal influence rapidly shrinking. We intentionally reduce their opportunity to influence others.

The real challenge at this stage is that we don't have a huge supply of mentors. The older-style members understand mentoring as "do it the way I tell you to." The newer-style don't have the experience to provide a lot of information. Our response is to focus on attitude, information, encouragement, adventure—and forgiveness. We’re non-church, though, so we don’t call it forgiveness. We call it mentoring, and we cast it in terms of collaboration. Teamwork, with a twist: The success of individuals and teams is a mutually interdependent process.

Why wouldn’t this work in a church environment? For the same reasons we have in our organization: People with older world-views identify their approach as “right” and new ideas as “wrong.” Will our younger members become like this as they get older? Don’t know, but I do know this: My goal, as I continue to age, is to stay connected with the vitality, excitement and eagerness that comes with youth. To remain immature in the sense that I value the learning path of those who don’t know yet—or may never know—what “can’t” be done.

My goal is to remember that:

Life is a learning opportunity
Failure isn’t final
The value of lessons learned through failure is priceless

Could the church do this? Not until it lets go of the idea that its structure is God-ordained and therefore inviolable. Not until it decides that the way it understands worship is cultural- and time-specific. It’s one thing to say that God ordained the church as His body. The idea that He also ordained its social structure and behavior patterns is something altogether different. The idea that church can only function in its current terms limits its ability to give space to the energy and creativity of young people and give them encouragement, advice, but also freedom on this journey.*

I think that “the church” as an institution won’t be able to “partner together to imagine something new”* until it is willing to reconsider its understanding of why it is created and what it is truly created to be.

*phrases from April's blog post

Reiki is prayer

2008-04-14T16:29:00.003-04:00

Last week my employer hosted an "Alternative Health Fair," which, as it turned out, was about not about trans-gender bandages, vegan-based antiobiotics or even environmentally safe tattoo inks. Practitioners who were invited (paid) to participate ranged from the standard—but awesome—chair massage to Reiki to craniosacral therapy. Lucky me got there during the last 45 minutes and was therefore permitted to sign up for THREE CONSECUTIVE SESSIONS. Who could reasonably be expected to be a productive employee after 45 minutes of that kind of heaven-on-earth? The upside of having to return to the ball and chain that is my desktop computer was that I was too relaxed to care.

The Reiki guy talked about the foundations of Reiki practice for the entire 15 minutes, touching on a lot of spiritual issues which have been knocking around in my head: There is a universal life force (aka God?) which connects all of existence (God?) All humans have access to this force or energy (soul? God?) and are free to access it at any time (prayer?).

He said that Reiki can be applied to another person whether or not they are physically present, and Reiki helps the body heal itself whether or not its recipient believes in or is aware that Reiki is being directed toward them (just like prayer. I sense a pattern.) The power of Reiki to assist the body in healing does not come from the person delivering the Reiki. Rather, the power of Reiki comes from the universe. Just like prayer, just like God.

Prayer assumes that no healing can come without God and forces the body toward passivity. Reiki is active and trusts the body to aid itself. At the same time it bases that aid on a God-like alpha-and-omega force.

The idea that there is shared space in the vast metaphysical distance between the creator and the created transforms the Christian idea of God from separateness to, to, I'm not quite sure yet. Bridging, perhaps. Fodder for another post, another day.

Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood—the book

2008-04-07T19:11:00.002-04:00

Read this book cover-to-cover for an in-depth look at the personal cost of reconciling difficult relationships.

If you lean toward standard Christianity you'll likely be distracted by the book's decidedly extra-Christian faith struggles. Readers who lean toward a more ecumenical understanding of God-is-love will appreciate the personal, private rituals the characters develop as much as for help in coping with pain as for connecting with something—anything—beyond the pain of the present.

Glancing at reviews on Amazon, the consensus seems to be that the book is a light-weight narrative that is only slightly believable. Not believable? Lucky you. Caution to those with unaddressed significant family issues: This book is an in-your-face emotional journey. If you're not ready for it, put the book in the give-away pile and buy it again after you've spent a few years seriously working on forgiveness, reconciliation, and peace.

Otherwise, grab your box of Kleenex, send the family away for the weekend, and have yourself a good, cathartic release.

Ignoring the Head while discussing Headship

2008-04-06T13:21:00.003-04:00

A long discussion (17 comments so far) on what the topic of gender roles, aka, headship, as revealed by some versions of Biblical Christianity (Abandon Image) has me wondering, why spend so much energy on the multiple questions of opinion generated by the Bible?

What kind of God would create a faith/doctrine/Bible that serves to distract people from worshiping God, the thing that, I guess, God is asking from us, first and foremost, and suggests that we do by extending love to each other in His name?

Usually, defenders of doctrine blame the distractions on the fallibility of "man," which I think is a cop-out. They're really saying that if you would just accept their version, there'd be no distractions and then we could all be Godly together.

The interesting thing is, while the body, the church, spends its energy on such issues it ignores its own purpose. In arguing/debating/discussing headship, the focus is on intellectualism, not God, not worship, and not those who don't know about God.

The conversation reminds me of why the institutional church doesn't work for so many of us. Is there any "truth" at all to be found in the institutional church of our time and place?

There is no such thing as Unconditional Love

2008-03-23T09:43:00.005-04:00

Can we honor “God is Love” while categorizing our fellow humans into “neighbor, believer” and “neighbor, non-believer?”

When we sort livestock, we assign value: This group for breeding; this for milk; this for slaughter. When we categorize people, we fence humans off like cattle. These fences are what separate humanity from itself—and when we allow ourselves to classify each other as worthy or less-worthy, we can't extend love unconditionally.

When the state of another's belief or unbelief becomes the fulcrum upon which the conditions of love are balanced, the phrase "unconditional love" becomes an oxymoron.

This sounds more like the devil's work than God's.

God without Church?

2008-03-23T09:30:00.003-04:00

Hey Rick asks a great question in a response on April's Blog <here>.

Or, you can read and ponder here:

Just go with me here for a minute.

Imagine no churches, buildings or formal groupings, programs or youth groups, no meeting based relationships, services, bible studies, community groups, no religions (Christianity, Muslim, Judaism, Buddhism, Mormonism, etc) and along with it no religious materials, publications, music, sermons, tapes, cd’s, podcast, websites like theooze, no bible or Koran, no gospel message, no special people like preachers, priest, deacons, bishops, popes or guru’s, no special clothing, liturgy, systematic theology, no liberal, conservative, no spiritual foundations, no special numbers, days, ceremonies like baptism, sprinklings, laying on of hands, prayer meeting, healings or events. No church history, no preconceived notions about God. No seminaries, bible colleges, religious schools, or programs of education. No verse, thought or daily devotion.

What’s left?

Love and Loss

2008-03-23T09:13:00.004-04:00

Midnight: Some dummy crashes his car into a telephone pole.

7 AM: A major street in our town is closed.

9 AM: The local on-line paper says the street is closed due to a car hitting a telephone pole. Driver unidentified.

10 AM: A co-worker receives a phone call from her daughter. A friend of the family has been killed in a car accident—he crashed his car into a telephone pole on the street which is still closed to traffic.

The "dummy" was 23. His parents loved him enough to bring him home when he was arrested on a DUI in another state last Fall. They loved him enough to try to get him through his growing pains. They loved him enough that they waited by his crashed vehicle from midnight to 7 AM, when rescue crews were finally able to extricate his remains from the wreckage.

In the space of just a few hours, an inconvenience caused by some "dummy" regains the life he just lost. Strangers to the family mourn with co-workers who know them because now, we recognize and share in this loss of a life lost before its holder gained or regained a vision of its joys.

Seems to me that this is what Love is: An ability to accord value before personal connections help us transform our cold hearts to warm.

church sign conversation

2008-02-28T07:28:00.004-05:00

Time to bring back another popular feature...unintended humor generated by the church sign. This week's chuckler:

Join us each week as we try to get a grip on God

The last time we got this close to pinning down the slippery bastard was just over 2,000 years ago. He got away that time by doodling in the sand...but this time, we're covered...the event takes place in a fully air-conditioned, carpeted auditorium. Get your tickets now, ladies and gentlemen, for this promises to be one GREAT show! Free seating!

You've Come a Long Way, Baby

2008-02-22T10:30:00.003-05:00

Family News in Focus (WCRH, The Compass, Pointing Hearts to Christ) featured an article yesterday on the increase of gambling addictions among women over the last 20 years. The article attributed the rise to the greater economic and social independence gained by women during that same time frame.

“In the push towards equality, women have not found a way to shed some of the more destructive traits of power and independence,” noted Steve Jordahl, the journalist. He concluded the article with, “You’ve come a long way, baby.”

In lamenting the loss of the paternalistic structures which fostered economic and social inequalities, Jordahl is, in one sarcastic sentence, employing the power-based tactic of derision and diversion. Derisive comments set the conditions for discussion by establishing the person delivering the dismissal as one who has the authority to do so. A cool head can parry that blow by ignoring it. The diversion is tougher: Where does one begin when the opening gambit attacks the very foundation of your stance?

Jordahl’s insult equates past history of social and economic injustice and inequality with Godliness, and paternalistic protectionism with success. His gloating over the fact that given the chance, women will falter at the same rate as men, seems a far call from Godliness. His solution—keep women safe by removing their access to social and economic equality—shows a fundamental lack of respect for the ability of men and women alike to function in ways that move each other toward deeper spiritual growth.

We left church to get away from outdated, inflexible, fear-based dictums on WHO God is and WHAT God demands of us. I tune into this (formerly?) moderate Christian radio station now and then just to touch base. Yikes. If this is where mainstream Christianity is, I’m checking out of that, too.

leaders and pornography

2008-02-17T08:53:00.003-05:00

MD Delegate Robert A. McKee resigned from his office Friday after it was learned that deputies found child pornography, including 30 videotapes and "significant" amounts of printed material, in his home. He also resigned from his position as Executive Director of Big Brothers, Big Sisters of Frederick County. Delegate McKee joins an ever-increasing list of a crime that I am beginning to understand.

This isn't to say that the posing or placing of children into positions intended to provide sexual stimulation for the viewer is acceptable behavior.

I propose that it is you and me, however, and our daily attitudes, that drive persons such as McKee to succumb to the temptation. Outrageous, ain't it? Where in the hell have I come up with such nonsense?

Having served in increasingly larger leadership positions in a non-profit organization for the past few years, I've observed a few things:

1. The higher up you go in leadership, the more you become identified as being a personal link to the organization.

2. When you're in higher leadership, certain kinds of people begin treating you as though you are an unfeeling institution rather than a person. Doesn't matter if you coach a children's community soccer team, head a Girl Scout troop, are a CEO, preacher or politician: It's all leadership and subject to the same mis-treatment.

3. You end up taking all kinds of pot shots, most of which it would not be appropriate for you to respond to or are so off the mark that there is no responding to them.

4. It's smart to have a good leadership team that sees itself as a united team serving the organization rather than as a group of individuals, each serving their own purpose in the organization.

Sometimes I wonder if those meanies taking pot-shots have any idea of how deeply their attacks wound. Learning to parry their blows by not taking personal attacks personally is not only good for the leader. It's also good for the organization. Being charged with leadership of institutional goals means focusing on the big picture. Leaders who can't find ways to cope with the crap can't function.

I'm lucky. I have support in my fellow leaders. We function as a team, recognize each others' strengths and look for ways to accommodate each others' shortcomings. When one of the 6-12 cranks in our organization of 2,000 takes aim at one of us, we band together to consider the merits of the complaint, provide a safe place for the person under attack to vent emotions, and plan a united response.

We are human. We have human feelings and failings. How would you respond if you were publicly castigated every time someone was unhappy with a decision? If you were tempted to self-abuse, or substance abuse, gambling, porn, shoplifting or whatever tempts people when they are stressed (and I freely admit that at times I have been tempted to certain of these behaviors); if you had not the skills or option of turning to others for support, what behaviors would you turn to for relief?

Again, I'm not arguing that it's really "ok" for someone to turn to child pornography. Instead, I am suggesting that it is how we as a society treat our leaders that is the root cause of the problem of failed leaders. Sure, as someone who as accepted a leadership position, the responsibility for my behavior lies with me.

To put it into church-terms, Christians are admonished to not tempt (aggravate) their children. As loving parents, partners, and family members, we consciously strive to create environments to bring out the best in each other.

Why treat our leaders in any other way?

judgmental

2008-02-15T07:47:00.004-05:00

Scene: Teen-aged girl with a past history of sexual abuse from a family member engages in sexually promiscuous behavior, much to the distaste of the congregation, aka "church family." She stops attending church services and sends the message that she doesn't want to face the judgmental attitudes there.

Back then, it was hard to understand: Wasn't the girl really saying, "Let me alone to do as I please?" And at the same time, if she recognized that her behavior was doing wrong (aka "sin") and the church family knew she was doing wrong, where was the judgmentalism?

The judgmentalism begins at that place where we replace "That behavior is wrong" with "Your heart should be like my heart."

Judgmental attitudes kick in when we refuse to walk in another's shoes, when we dismiss the context of another's anguish, when we deny the depth, the impact, the very validity of another's struggles. Being judgmental is easier than being compassionate: Compassion demands that we open ourselves to a sense of another's predicament. The problem is that in opening ourselves, we risk understanding. Understanding leads us closer to acceptance of the person regardless of their behaviors. Acceptance leads us away from judgment and suddenly, we're lost.

We're afraid of acceptance because we don't know how to live with one of the foundational tenets of Christianity: Humans are sinful. We try accommodating this tenet by upholding a fairy-tale world of perfection. We trot it out on Sunday mornings, pay lip service to human frailty while we rub elbows with our church family, then stow it for another week.

To put away judgmentalism is to practice grace. It's the recognition that if you experienced your neighbor's situation as they experience it, that you, too, might sin as they sin. In terms of your religious practice, grace doesn't change the terms of sin. It does change, however, your response to sin. And isn't that what love is supposed to be about?

free at last

2008-02-06T15:13:00.000-05:00

Woe. It's been a long time.

Thought for the day: On the radio the other day I heard a well-known Christian personality give the low-down on all-or-nothing thinking...you know, if your love for your partner—ehr spouse, I mean—isn't growing, then it must be shrinking, if you your spiritual life isn't moving forward then the only other option is that it is declining, etc.

And I realized, first, that I used to say and believe stuff like that and now I don't. No wonder, I thought, that Christians struggle so much with being judgmental. With a mindset that dictates either/or-ness there is an implication that one's progress must be judged for direction. There is no room for "rest" or "uncertainty." Sadder still, there is pressure to perform, always perform, because you take a look at yourself and don't see/feel/experience/lie about growth, you've just judged yourself condemned.

From an outside-the-church perspective I am here to proclaim that sometimes, "resting" is the perfect place to be. Resting allows contemplation, reflection and the freedom to not judge yourself. Most importantly, it sets one free from judging others. Hallelluia!

CA fires

2007-10-24T08:34:00.000-04:00

When the fires struck California two years ago, I wasn't too concerned. It was too far away and I had no personal ties there.

Today, however, it is a different story, and suddenly, those fires are hot news. Our daughter and her family live in Temecula. There are several fires within a few miles of town (all part of the Rice fire). News reports from the area offer conflicting accounts: The two evacuation sites are full; schools are open today; a section of town is only two miles from the fires; the evacuation order is a rumor; evacuation is expected in the next 12-16 hours. Our daughter sent us photos taken from the back yard, showing the hills dotted with fire. Here's a map of where that is: http://maps.google.com/maps/ms?uid=109103557032275200740&hl=en&gl=us&ie=UTF8&msa=0&msid=117631292961056724014.00043d21dedd02f5ae1f7

http://www.cityoftemecula.org/Temecula/Fire+Information.htm

I realize it is easy to blame the confusion on incompetence. I, however, believe the confusion is based on the chaotic nature of a disaster and is a reasonable outcome of rapidly changing circumstance.

Long story short, it's a mess. For those of you inclined, please keep the residents of CA in your thoughts and prayers. I'll keep you posted on news of our daughter and grandchildren, and of our son-in-law, who is stranded at Camp Pendleton (one fire there is now 100% contained; the other, 0%).

Concentration Camp

2007-07-19T22:03:00.000-04:00

We had a guided tour of Brendonk,Belgium (a concentration camp for political prisoners during WW II). The tour was conducted by the head of American University in Brussels. He had studied the camp and experiences of its prisoners extensively, aided by the input of a survivor. Therefore, the story was quite telling – and compelling.

The students were subdued and several of them, guys included, were struggling with the horror of this place, which was really one of the "better" ones because they only murdered a hundred people or so (no gas chamber; death was by shooting, hanging or torture).

The camp commander, his wife and dog are central to the camp experience. He was an uneducated, lower class person with few prospects until he had the opportunity to rise in prestige through the German army. He and his wife personally participated in torture of prisoners. They trained their dog to eat prisoners alive.

I think, perhaps, that this is the real horror of war: Its capacity to permit ordinary citizens to develop their most base instincts. Hearing the story, all I could wonder was, who would this couple have been under peaceful circumstances?

Fiction Explains the Human Experience Better than Religion Alone

2007-07-19T21:50:00.001-04:00

An unloving response to certain religious people who disdain fiction writing (but have no problem at all renting movies from Blockbuster...trust me, it's more common than you'd think):

People who think that non-fiction is for the unenlightened are first degree relatives of the self-described "enlightened" morons who want to separate emotions from the human experience; knowledge from surrounding values; mind from body; and sexuality from soul.

The human experience is unique because of how the rational (as we can perceive it) is inextricably combined with the irrational (subjective, unmeasurable).

Fiction writing captures that mix and uses it to explain the human experience in a way that makes sense even to those who claim aforementioned separation.

Siena, Italy

2007-07-12T07:50:00.000-04:00

I play any sport that involves a ball, including basketball. I play them with all my heart, I play to my utmost ability, and I cheer good plays no matter who makes them. I don’t “get” sports, however. I don’t “get” strategy, which, in my mind, simply means playing to the best of your ability, setting up team members to play to their strengths, and scoring as many points as possible. In my world, calling a time-out in order to run down the clock undermines the spirit of the game and is akin to cheating. Therefore, it is understandable that the single most unlikely place for me to be found on the night the local team brings home a big trophy is in the plaza celebrating.

And there I was, on the campo of Siena drinking straight from a bottle of wine (I’d lost the cup), enjoying the buzz of the crowd, drinking in the excitement of being in Italy, in awe of the cobblestones of the plaza, trying to comprehend what it meant to be standing in a location built 700 years ago–full of touristy thoughts, in other words–when a wave of excitement revived the crowd. The mood had been starting to die down when the news rippled through the campo. Was it true? Was it rumor? What could we expect next? Would there be a riot? It was certainly worth sticking around to find out. Besides that, I had no idea how to get back to the hotel.

Several tiny police cars parked themselves inconspicuously at the streets leading to the campo and turned off their lights. Nothing happened for 15 or 20 minutes, and then out of nowhere, people started streaming into the plaza carrying the green and white Siena flag. We gathered where the crowd was gathering, and then, out of nowhere, the outside ring of the campo–the place where the horses run during the Il Palio–was filled with people riding miniature motorcycles. Engines revving, people screaming, firecrackers, excitement, noise, flags waving, around the campo they went. They headed in the same direction as the horse race, which is the opposite direction I had pictured.

The team bus arrived. The crowd morphed to surround it. Then, as if the crowd were a giant amoeba, a great pod shifted to the middle of the plaza and created a gauntlet of celebration. The team players walked the pod-path waving to the cheering crowd. The players were short!

What an incredible beginning for our tour, to be on the campo witnessing the same kind of communal participation that the campo was originally built to accommodate. It wasn’t the Il Palio, but it certainly helped provide a taste of what it might be like and that in itself was worth the price of the trip.

Return of the Traveler

2007-07-10T07:37:00.000-04:00

I have returned and am consumed with papers due, internship to find, research to complete. The trip was awesome, unbelievable.

I may post excerpts of reaction papers over the next few weeks. Maybe even include a few photos.

One observation, however: We toured at least a dozen cathedrals. I was amazed at not only the power which the buildings themselves reflected of their human creators, but also at the spiritual power these same buildings seemed to exude. As though God found a place to reside in spite of human intervention, despite the perversion of the concept of the church building from glorifying God to glorifying human power.

World Class Traveller

2007-06-14T08:05:00.001-04:00

Yes, I've been slow to post lately. The trend will continue over the next three weeks as I travel to Rome, Venice, Trier, Amsterdam. And yes, I am name-dropping. Eat your hearts out. Ciao!

Twinkie Church

2007-06-07T03:54:00.000-04:00

been pretty busy. once again plagarizing myself with this post i left as a response at the emerging women blog.

i planned to go visit a local congregation a few weeks ago(none in particular) when i remembered it was mothers' day.

i do not appreciate going to church on romanticized occasions (mothers' day; fathers' day; veterans' day; grandparents' day), which congregations tend to treat as opportunities to serve nutritionally deficient concoctions made of alternating layers of transfats, artificial sweeteners, thickening agents and artificial colors to provide a fully sensual experience.

Like Twinkies for the soul: immensely satisfying in that guilt-ridden way that stuffs its face with mass-produced goodies, assuring itself that the yawning hunger one feels during such a feast is nothing more serious than a passing fancy for something sweet.

Movin' On

2007-05-19T12:51:00.000-04:00

When I was 17 my mother helped me carry a half dozen boxes containing all that I owned to the third floor of Fake Hall, where I, being the last of three roommates to arrive, moved into half a cramped closet, two dresser drawers and the top bunk. A few weeks later I caught a ride back home, hooked up with a friend, and stopped by the trailer to visit her and the family dog, in whom resided the tear-strained story of my family's life. By this time my younger brother had spirited himself back to Florida, hitching a ride with our dad, who had once before snuck into New York and taken both my brothers and my sister, with their permission and without our mother's knowledge. She'd returned the favor a few weeks later by dropping me off to spend the day in Georgia with enough money for lunch, and returning that night with one brother and one sister. My sister hadn't returned to Florida and was at this point dividing her time between not-our-kind-of-people families in the neighborhood.

As visits go, the visit fit our family. "How are you?" "Fine." "How is school?" "Fine." She was packing her car. "Would you go to the store and buy a quart of oil? Get it in town." That was strange, but then, she was too; I obeyed. An hour later I returned with the oil. She was gone.

Thirty three years later there remains the rare, unexpected occasion when this still bothers me.

Religious Icon?

2007-04-11T10:47:00.000-04:00

Sometimes people see what they want to see...

genocide, politics, hope

2007-03-23T20:55:00.000-04:00

The constitution of Rwanda

is carved into the skin of a million dead men, women and children murdered for the crime of being born into the wrong place at the wrong time.

it is words burned into flesh freshly carved from the bodies of the innocent—and not so innocent.

it is wounds still bleeding,

tears still hot,

hearts still broken.

it is a political document.

it is hope and despair and determination.

it is agony and law, protection and promise.

it is a document meant to create suppleness and life in the face of rigidity, intolerance, and murder.

it is here: http://www.rwandaparliament.gov.rw/rapport/constitution_uk.pdf

What is Church, Anyway?

2007-03-23T17:21:00.000-04:00

Beverly Butterfield. Hilarious.

http://www.bohnsplace.com/betty_butterfield/testimony.mov

passion unbound

2007-03-17T09:05:00.000-04:00

worth the read. Lifted with author's permission from another forum unidentified to preserve anonymity. (C o C refers to Church of Christ, a largely fundamentalist off-shoot of protestant Christianity.)

I just gotta be all papist and share what's up. I've been bottling.

Here's the deal for me...I don't care whether there's shaped notes or hand clapping or ritual or none or blue jeans or panty hose or immersion or relevant rhetoric or whatever. Where the rubber meets the road for me is on the altar.

People think Catholics worship statues. That we're idolaters. Fact is, according to other Christian faiths, we kinda are. And it ain't the statues. It's the Eucharist. We BELIEVE that piece of bread is JESUS. We bow to it, pray to it, go visit it and chat about life. I swear, I don't know what God looks like, so when I pray, that's the face I see.

As a C of C, I believed that my God was humble enough to die on a cross once adn hold it over my head till the end of time. As a papist, I believe He continues to humble Himself everyday by showing up as what to everyone else is a rather tasteless circle of matzo. Changes my whole view of Him. I wanna snuggle Him every chance I get. If He's humble enough to show up as a cracker...buddy, I'm willing to get on my face in front of a cracker. I just wanna be near Him. So ya'll, all that other stuff pales in comparison for me. Eucharist. That's where it's at.

I hope that's not offensive. If it is, please blame the Prosecco. I just had to get it off my chest. It's been hurting me not to say it. Eating at me not to tell ya'll. I may be a big old fashioned nut, but if my God is hanging out somewhere and I can rub my finger across His face, I'm there. I don't care how awful the priests are, or how weird Purgatory sounds. I hope ya'll can still be my friends knowing that I'm sneaking time away from the family to go talk to what everyone else would think is a wheat thin. But, when I see that tabernacle. When I see that little candle. When I get as low as I can on the carpet and say to myself "Behold the Lamb of God." I'm more confident and more free and more myself than I've ever been in my life.

all i can say to that is,

here you come along and lay it all out there, passionate, full of heat and belief and you are believable and it's nothing like that jesus-as-lover b.s. that you hear on the radio and i wonder, i wonder, where can i go get me some passion like that?

Who Heals?

2007-03-16T14:48:00.000-04:00

It's risky business, assigning personal responsibility for illness, as I tend to do, especially when I, the assigner, become ill, as I have several times over the course of my life.

Last year I underwent a "procedure" to repair a heart condition that I was born with. This week I have been hit with vertigo. Oh, it's all fun and positive thinking until you take a hit on your grades because you cannot drive to class much less make it through an hour without having the room—and your stomach—spin out of control at the same time.

Where do positive thinking, wellness and illness meet? What is the dividing line between your body's response to internal (of the mind) and external (of the body, fate, germs, heredity, etc) factors? What are the roles of God and faith in God in maintaining, achieving or recovering wellness? Or illness?

What illness has done for me this week: Made me extremely grateful that I live here and now and have the money and insurance coverage to go to the doctor for prescriptions. I am extremely grateful that I am much better today than I was Tuesday. I DO pray that I recover completely, that this never happens again, that it was a fluke. I DO pray for a forgiving, not judging, spirit when others fall ill. Maybe that's the most important thing?

loving response or criminal response?

2007-03-09T09:41:00.000-05:00

letter submitted today to the Tallahassee Democrat. Getting sick to death of self-righteous Christians (and others) who want nothing to do with rehab but think more people in jail is just fine.

In the March 8, 2007 on-line edition of the Washington Times, Representative Sandra Adams (Rep) is quoted in an article about the Anti-Murder Act recently passed by the Florida Legislature. The Act proposes returning convicted murders to prison for “any non-technical violations of probation or supervised release.”

"These individuals are the worst of the worst." "I say let's lock them up. They didn't take their chance, their opportunity." (Adams is referring to convicted murderers who violate terms of probation.)

I have a brother who was discharged last year after serving 10 years in prison. The circumstances of his release and the on-going sabotage of his efforts to become the man he was created to be is the story of massive disinterest in the success of former prisoners. The main goal of release appears to be re-imprisonment. His experience has opened my eyes to the hurdles, hoops and barriers by which our justice system ensures failure rather than the rehabilitation and return to society of former law-breakers.

If members of our society truly understood this, there would be much outcry against the punitive approach of this proposed legislation. What would recidivism rates be if incarceration were truly a rehabilitative experience rather than a punitive measure?

What if part of a prison sentence included an intensive transition process once a prisoner was discharged? What if that transition process included ethical employees who took pleasure in the success of their charges?

The article further mentions that some black lawmakers suggested that “Florida needs to provide more services to help newly released inmates find a place in the world,” and quoted Rep. Curtis Richardson (Dem), as saying that Floridians “can never incarcerate our way out of crime.” This very valid point is not that crime should not be punished. The point is that our criminal justice funds are mis-spent on a system which metes out punishment and ensures failure instead of meting out punishment and helping to create success.

While I recognize that there are people who truly pose a danger to society, this proposed legislation is more about contributing to a culture which finds it easier to lock away offenders than explore options which, in the long run, will benefit all our society.

If you, as a citizen, think recidivism is a problem, form or join a group which helps newly-released prisoners develop the life-skills and job skills that will enable them to respond to freedom in productive ways. Give money, give time, give votes. Pray, even. Push for a rehabilitation of the criminal justice system and participate in a society which enables rather than hinders the transition from prisoner to citizen.

Semper fi

2007-03-04T08:41:00.000-05:00

Marine Humor for my fellow Marines who serve(d) with pride:

Three men sat stiffly in a row, trapped on a long commercial flight. Once the flight was airborne and the plane had leveled off, the man in the window seat abruptly said in a loud voice, distinctly and with confidence, "Admiral, United States Navy, retired. Married, two sons, both surgeons."

After a few minutes the man in the aisle seat stated through a tight lipped smile, "Admiral, United States Coast Guard, retired. Married, two sons, both Judges."

After some thought, the fellow in the center seat decided to introduce himself: "Master Gunnery Sergeant, United States Marine Corps, retired. Never married, two sons, both Admirals."

1976-1980/2881, 2882