The Great Pant Rip Episode of 2012


With 15 minutes to go before a massage appointment, I discovered my pants had split open in the back- a sizable rip, one that could not be ignored, an 8 or 9 inch split that was growing larger with each movement I made.  This grand canyon of rips could not be remedied using office supplies like scotch tape, for instance, despite my best efforts.  I needed new pants and I needed them immediately, so I RAN to Marshals, which is in the building next door to ours, and grabbed the first pair of yoga pants that I could find, figuring that yoga pants were something I could use anyway and they were stretchy and I had no time to try them on, so even if they didn't fit perfectly, they would at least stay on my body and do as pants are supposed to do- cover what needed covering.

Pants selected, I then waited in a line that turned out to be the one of slowest moving lines in my history of line-waiting, of which I have had considerable experience.  I waited impatiently, all the while  strategically angling my body so that the other line-waiters could not see my back side.  Once purchased, I booked across the parking lot, clutching my bag of emergency pants, abandoning any hopes of covering the rip which was splitting even more as I ran.  After a quick change in the restroom, a look in the mirror confirmed that my outfit was now perfectly hideous, but at least it covered my rear end.  I arrived in the office, sweating profusely, as this happened on THAT day, you remember THAT day earlier this week, when you were positive that the heat was going to kill you?   Sweating, out of breath, price tags hanging off my ill-fitting pants- I was quite the sight, but at least everything was covered, right?

My client, of course, had beaten me to the office and was waiting for her nice relaxing massage.

The pants, for your information, were hand-me-downs.  This was the first (and only) day I wore them. I noticed a tiny tear at the pocket when I put them on, but I didn't think much of it. 


Turns out there is no such thing as a free pair of pants.  Even though my "free" pants ended up costing me, it turned out they were rich in anecdotal value, so in the end, it was completely worth it.

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Meditation Bootcamp (Part Three of a Multi-part Story)



This is the third part of a multi-part story.  To read the first part, click here.

Opening meditation.  

It is made clear that this is meditation bootcamp.  You, Sondra Stinglash, Ms. I-Meditate-Every-Day-Most-Days-Twice, Ms. Liar-Liar-Pants-On-Fire, are so out of your league here.  We will wake at 5:30 am.  We will begin meditating at 6 am for one hour, the first hour of our daily non-stop meditation marathon, stopping only to eat and only doing that twice a day.  No snacks.  No naps.  We will NOT be switching cushions or lying down or coughing or breathing or any other monkey business in the meditation hall.  We will not be writing or reading or looking at anyone or anything.  The only verbs we will be performing during this retreat are: meditating, sleeping, eating, walking, urinating and defecating.  

Got that?  I want to go home.

If you have never been here before (I haven’t)  then you need to meet us in the meeting room after this session for a very important mandatory newcomer orientation.  Of course.  Of course.  I will be there.

But I was so uncomfortable that last hour, the first of my too-many-to-count hours of sitting-just-sitting.  I must find a bolster, cushion, pillow, chair, meditation bench combo that works for me otherwise I might just not make it.  Seriously.  I. might. just. not. make. it.

In record time, I nabbed me a meditation bench from the meditation bench parking area and set it up on my cushion.  Now, to the meeting room.  I glide in my slippers, gazing down as I make my way to the mandatory meeting.   

I arrive, only to find the door closed.  The meditation bench nab (It couldn’t have been more than two minutes!) took too much time and cost me the mandatory orientation meeting.  I can’t knock.  This is a silent meditation retreat.  I can’t open the door.  What if everyone looks at me?  

I go to my room.  I want to go home.

I am missing all the important stuff.  This is the meeting where they tell you the protocol so that you don’t accidentally do something that is irreverent. inadmissible. loud.  Now I will accidentally do all those things.  And I can’t ask, you know, find out what I missed.  Because I AM NOT ALLOWED TO SPEAK.

I do the only thing I can.  I curl up in the fetal position on the bed and cry softly, reminding myself that I signed up for this, that I paid money for this, that it is isn’t going to get any better and that the whole registration thing was a sign that I shouldn’t have come here and that it is only natural for me to feel very very sorry for myself.  

I want to go home.

All cried out, and feeling more than a wee bit silly, I get up, get myself together and grab my little notebook that I wasn’t supposed to bring, but did anyway; I grab a pen and go upstairs to the entryway where the schedule hangs.  Galvanized, I begin to copy down the schedule into my notebook.  Look at me.  I am getting with the program.  I have got the schedule now.  I will be on time for everything.  I will be in the know.  I will be a good little meditator.  I can do this.  

In the middle of writing down the schedule, the lights go out on me and someone says  (SAYS.  Do the rules not apply to you, dude?)  “You are supposed to be in the meditation hall right now.”

Shit!  

Shit.  Shit.  Shit.

Nice touch with turning out the lights.  Very well played.  

I want to go home.

(End part three.  To be continued.)  



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A Story, in Multiple Parts, in which this is the Second Part


Dear Readers,

This is the second part of a multiple part story.  Please be a good little blog reader and read the first part first.  

Sincerely,

Sondra Stinglash




So, I go to the nice little silent meditation retreat, put on by the nice Canadians, lovely people who want me to be there and everything is going to be great.  Everything is going to be fine and aren’t I happy that I ignored that nagging feeling of doom I got about the whole thing when my registration got fouled up?  Yes I am.  I am going to have an enlightening experience- all silent and spiritual and life changing for ONE WHOLE WEEK. Yipee!

I show up, park my little liberal car neatly in between the other cars with the Canadian license plates, all lined up orderly by a bunch of enlightened, nice people. 

I go in.

Registration taken care of.  Room assigned.  Karma Yoga assignment gotten.  Karma Yoga?  Yep.  Karma Yoga.  Turns out to be a really pleasant sounding term for “job.”  In my case “crap job.”  My job, which I will be required to perform throughout the retreat, is simply called “bathrooms.”  Note the plural.  The retreat manager happily gives me the two page laminated instruction sheet in order that I perform the job perfectly (no pressure) and asks me to please memorize it and then give it back to him later that night. (no pressure)  Seriously?  I have to memorize these instructions?  I paid $300 for this?!  I take the instructions from him and smile sweetly.

Sprinkle bowl thoroughly with powder cleanser, include all interior aspects of bowl.  Brush bowl thoroughly with toilet brush.  Flush.  Sprinkle bowl again and let sit.  Spray all exterior surfaces of the toilet thoroughly with the general cleaning spray blah blah blah...

The instructions are detailed.  And not very fun to read.  I am supposed to have this memorized and give this back to the manager TONIGHT?  Seriously?  I can’t memorize this shit. 

I bring the instructions to my room, leave them there, unpack and go to dinner. 

Dinner!  

Dinner is lovely.  The food is good!  The conversation (we are still allowed to speak) is pleasant.  


Beautiful bell sound!  Announcement Time!  

A few announcements before we go into silence.  It seems that there is are two cars that must be moved immediately.   Cars parked inappropriately.  Cars parked incorrectly.  Bad spots.  Bad cars.  Bad people who parked in the bad spots.  (Not exact words, but it was totally implied.)    First car:  plate number: #NOT-YOUR-CAR.  Sigh of relief.  Second car:  plate number:  #YOUR-CAR.  All eyes on me.  


Seriously?  

Move your cars as quickly as possible and then try, just you try to make it back to the meditation hall in time for our very important and reverent opening meditation and we aren’t giving you two suckers any extra time.  (Not exact words, but you get the idea.)  

I walk as fast as my little slippered feet can carry me to my room, grab my keys and speed walk to the front door where I put on my outside shoes.  There is another woman feverishly putting on her outside shoes, keys in hand.  We walk out together.  The light is dim.  I offer my arm to help guide her down the stairs.  She ignores the gesture and says, “I only parked there because you did.”

Nice.

I move my car and wait for her to move her car so that we can walk back together.  You know why?  Because I am totally a nice person, that’s why.

But she, the other bad parker, does not move her car.  This is because, as it turns out, her car is stuck in the mud.  Stuck deep.  She is not sure what to do.  I can’t help, other than lending moral support, which is really no help to her at all, so we decide to walk back inside where she will tell her sad story to someone with the requisite amount of muscle mass with which to help her.

In the meditation hall, I slide onto a cushion as quietly as I can so as to not disturb the opening meditation, which is already, of course, in progress.


To be continued.






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An Open Letter to the Year 2011, from Sondra Stinglash





Dear 2011,

I am concerned about you.  How are you faring with all of this?  All of the over-eager, nary-a-glance-backward goodbyes.  The casting away of a perfectly good year, with all the requisite seasons and months.  Four of the former and twelve of the latter- you delivered what was promised.  You made that trip around the sun in just the right number of days.  365 of them.  Or was there an extra one for the leap thing?  I don’t remember, but you did well.  You delivered all the days you were supposed to.  You were solid and dependable that way.  But now you are quite literally yesterday’s news.  So 2011.  

Don’t let the door hit you in the rear as you leave.

We shed the old like a pair of worn sneakers, and welcome in the swaddling year with open, eager arms.  

You are our favorite year now, 2012.  Our darling.

I feel badly for you.  It must be tiring to hear about our plans for the new year; we are going to lose weight, start exercising, eat right.  2012 is the year we get that job, meet the love of our lives, travel the world, read War and Peace, go back to school, solve that theorem, write that memoir, change that lightbulb...  You remember when we felt that way about you?  We had such high hopes.  

I hear you sneering, “That’s all anyone wants to talk about.  New Year.  New Year. New Year.”  That snarky voice really doesn’t suit you, 2011.  But I understand.  It must be hard to be

So. Completely. Over.  

I just wanted to check in- see how you are doing, you know, offer my thanks.  You did all right, 2011; you gave us all the days you were supposed to, but this is the way of it.  You are the husband who snores and leaves his dirty underwear on the floor.  2012 is the on-line profile that promises candlelight dinners, walks on the beach and all that kayaking.  It’s hard to compete with that.

But I really did appreciate the effort you made.

Sincerely,

Sondra Stinglash



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A story, in multiple parts, in which this is the first part. The story gets better as it goes along. I promise. Stick with it.



Once in a while, you are the keeper of a story so good that each time you tell it, your audience, fighting back tears of laughter, begs you to write it down.  This, my friend, is not that story.  But it is a long story.  And because of that, lately, when I tell it, I find that at about the midpoint of the story, I get tired of telling it and I start glossing over details, which makes it a less good story.  So, I am writing it down, folks.

This story starts with our heroine attempting to better herself by registering for a week long silent meditation retreat.  This is a good thing.  The retreat is close to home, but is run by people out of town.  It is run by people out of the country, actually.  It’s run by Canadians.

Now, I am ashamed to admit this, but it seems that I have a bias- a stereotype, when it comes to those folks north of the border.  Guilty of generalization, I know, but my impression of Canadians is that they are, well, nice.  Nice, friendly, helpful, all healthy with their free healthcare- this is my impression of Canadians.  So, I was ill-prepared for my interaction with the particular Canadian who handled my registration.  


The website, it seems, botched my registration, or at least it seemed to have registered me for a different retreat than I wanted, with different dates, a retreat-that-didn’t-exist.  This was troublesome because this retreat-that-didn’t-exist cost me over $300.  And the solution proposed to me by the woman in charge of registration, who couldn’t find a record of my registration, was to re-register.  I was not eager to do this because my credit card had already been charged for the retreat-that-didn’t-exist.  What I wanted, and this didn’t seem unreasonable to me, but you be the judge, was for the charge for the retreat-that-didn’t-exist to be taken off my credit card so that I could re-register for a retreat that did, in fact, exist.  

In my mind, this was simple, but I couldn’t seem to get the registration woman to understand what I was talking about.  Finally, after weeks went by with no action or understanding, I decided to just ask for my money back and forget the whole thing, thank you very much.  As soon as I sent the e-mail saying that I was no longer interested in the retreat, I received a flurry of e-mails and phone calls.  The message was loud and clear.  It was a misunderstanding!  We want you to come to our retreat!  We are Canadians!  We are nice!

I signed up.


(End part one.  Yes, I know that this first part was kind of disappointing.  It is to be continued.  Stick with it.  Part two is here.)





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Love Notes





Dear Sondra,

If you were a porch light, I would be the moth who is drawn to you.

Fondly,

Howard

----------

Dear Howard,


If I were a sentence, you would be my exclamation point.


Sincerely,


Sondra Stinglash


----------


Dear Sondra,


If you were the weather report, you would be unseasonably warm. 


Fondly,


Howard

----------


Dear Howard,

If you were a writing implement, you would be a fine fountain pen from which polished words flow effortlessly.  Also, you would not leak.

Sincerely,

Sondra Stinglash

----------

Dear Sondra,

If you were a PC, I would be your Norton Utilities.

Fondly,

Howard

----------

Dear Howard,

If you were a bowl of jelly beans, you would be all the flavors, even the spicy ones.

Sincerely,

Sondra Stinglash

----------

Dear  Sondra,

If you were a school board budget, you would be increased funding for music and art.

Fondly,

Howard

 ----------

Dear Howard,

If you were a four hour stretch of time, you would be a relaxed summer afternoon spent by the seashore, wearing beachcombers and hunting for shells. 

Sincerely,

Sondra Stinglash

----------

Dear Sondra,

If you were a shoe, I would be the laces, hugging you tightly.

Fondly,

Howard


----------

Dear Howard,

If you were a pair of shoelaces, I would be the little plastic ends that encircle you, helping you glide through life's many eyelets.

Sincerely,

Sondra Stinglash

------------

Dear Sondra,

If you were the little plastic ends encircling my laces, I would be the scotch tape that holds you together when you fray.

Fondly,

Howard


-----------






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Wherein Sondra Stinglash Makes a Comeback and Explains Her Brush With Clown's Disease





Callithump?  Is that you?  It's me, Sondra!  It's been over a year!  What have you been up to?  It is so good to see you!  You look great! 

I am so sorry that I haven't kept in touch but I have just been so busy.  You know how life gets.  Busy, busy, busy...what with my new production, The George Foreman Grill: The Musical, finally taking shape and my new chia pet, I totally let Callithump get away from me.

What do you mean you don't know who I am?  I am Sondra Stinglash.  The Sondra Stinglash.  I live with my son, Eckhardt and a palpation slave who lives in our guest room.  I can't believe you don't remember me.  Remember my inner editor, Edna?  Does that ring a bell?  Edna and I gave birth to this here blog.  People used to spit coffee onto their computer screens because of me.  Those were great days.

But what happened was, just over a year ago, I got  a near terminal case of Clown's Disease* and decided that I was going to dedicate my writing skills to serious pieces that would help people live better lives, blah, blah, blah...

But I have missed you, Callithump.  It's great to be back.



*Clown's Disease is a syndrome that affects comedians and humorists who grow weary of being laughed at and react by turning to serious pursuits, such as writing novels and publishing blogs dedicated to extolling the benefits of bodywork and living a balanced life.  The first official case of Clown's Disease was documented by Dr. Ivanov Rakhmelevich in the year 1912.  His patient, Fyodor Prokopovic, a tiny clown with the Dimitrovgrad circus, was known for his popular and somewhat disturbing act that consisted of his swallowing an elaborate number of toy cars, one after another, and then spitting them out, a feat that would a elicit cries of, "I can't believe how many cars fit into that tiny clown!"  Later, when Prokopovic's protege, Stevan Vlelekovich, gained instant popularity by reversing the idea and piled a ridiculous number of clowns into one tiny car,  Prokopovic became despondent.  Having been laughed at his entire career and then being outshone by his 19 year old protege, immediately following the now famous clown car act, Prokopovic developed an acute case of Clown's Disease.  Within hours he exhibited the now classic symptoms:  a decrease in shoe size, obsessive mustache stroking while repeating, "No one takes me seriously,"  and becoming an tax accountant.  Dr. Rakmelevich spent countless hours with his patient, squirting him in the face with lapel flowers and having him open cans of nuts that sprang forth springy snakes.  But to no avail.  Prokopovic would only respond to Rakmelevich's treatments by informing him that he could write off the props he was using and then asking to see his receipts. 







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Sondra Stinglash's Guide to Kindergarteners






















Fact #1- Kindergarteners are very curious about people:

Kindergartener- "Who your husband is?"

Ms Stinglash- "Pardon me? I didn't quite understand the question. Can you ask me again?"

Kindergartener- "Who your husband is?"

Ms. Stinglash- "Who is my husband?"

Kindergartener (smiling)- "Yes"

Ms. Stinglash- "I don't have a husband."

Kindergartener (frowning)- "Why not?"

Ms. Stinglash- "Well..."

Kindergartener- "You are still a kid?"

Ms. Stinglash- "Yes. I am still a kid. I am way too young to get married."

Fact #2- Kindergarteners are not really very good with numbers.

Kindergartener- "Ms. Stinglash! How old are you?"

Ms. Stinglash- "How old do you think I am?"

Kindergartener- "Eleven."

Ms. Stinglash- "How old are you?"

Kindergartener- "SIXTEEN!"

Ms. Stinglash- "That makes you older than me."

Kindergartener- "AND BIGGER!!!"

Fact #3- If you want kindergarteners to avoid stepping in the throw up in the middle of the hallway, the only way is to pick them up and hurl them over it.

Ms. Stinglash- "Walk next to the wall here...you need to be closer to the wall....Why are you walking in the middle of the hallway? WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?!? STOP!!!! YOU ALMOST STEPPED IN....WHY ARE YOU ALL GOING OVER THERE? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?!? THIS WAY!!! I SAID THIS WAY!!! GET OVER THERE!!! NOW!!! AUUUUUGGGHHH!!!"

Fact #4- Kindergarteners are lousy spellers.

Kindergartner #1: "Ms. Stinglash! Ms. Stinglash! Clinton said the m word!!!!!

Ms. Stinglash (thinking) What the hell is the 'm word'?


Fact #5- Kindergarteners are not as lousy at spelling as you think.

Kindergartener #1- "I can spell a lot of words."

Kindergartener #2- "Can you spell the B word? I can spell the B word."

Kindergartener #1- "I can spell the B word too!"

Kindergartener #2- "I can spell the B word and the s word."

Kindergartener #1- "So can I!"

Kindergartener #2- "You know what word I can spell? I can spell THE F WORD!"

Teacher from across the room- "Great job kindergarteners! I like how you are all sitting and chatting so nicely with your neighbors! Looks like you have earned some marbles for our marble jar!"

Kindergartener #2- (whispers) "I can totally spell the F word."







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