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

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Dear Howard,


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


Sincerely,


Sondra Stinglash


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Dear Sondra,


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


Fondly,


Howard

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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

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Dear Sondra,

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

Fondly,

Howard

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Dear Howard,

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

Sincerely,

Sondra Stinglash

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Dear  Sondra,

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

Fondly,

Howard

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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

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Dear Sondra,

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

Fondly,

Howard


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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

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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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