Jude Stringfellow's Blog, page 104

Wisest Man, Huh?

 The Bible is really an interesting read; if you're into murder, mayhem, romance, polygamy, war, and famine, you'll not find a more action-packed book for sure. Now, keep in mind, the Bible is actually 66 books, not one. When I was a kid I was subjected to the memorization rituals that all good Southern Baptist children go through; before I was 7 I couldn't really read the big words of the Bible, but I could sure as heck tell you where to find Deuteronomy and I knew Jude came JUST before the end of the book. For such a powerful "book", Jude is really less than two pages I think. That Jude and this Jude have very little in common when it comes to talking - - just saying! If I had been THAT Jude the Bible would have been about two inches thicker. There's no way I could wrap up the importance of salvation in just two short little pages. NOPE! This blog will end up being longer than the Book of Jude; watch!

So, as kids, we're told by our Sunday School teachers that Jacob had 12 sons, but we're not necessarily told that in order for him to get those 12 sons (and a daughter named Dina) he would have two wives and two concubines! Don't ask me the exact job description of a concubine, but let me tell you, I would never want to have to admit that first, I shared my husband with my older sister, and second, we just simply weren't enough for the man, so he went steady-eddy with two of our closest friends or co-workers, made a few babies with them, and we're just supposed to go along with it - - nope, that just simply would not sit well with me; Jacob would be flat out on his keister BEFORE I married him if I were Rachel; and just after he took my little sister as a wife, if I were Leah. I have NO idea what those two sisters decided to do with the man's laundry, but if you ask me, he would be run out of the house buck naked and he'd owe me every sheep, goat, chicken, and ass he had to his name - - except the ass attached to his backside; he could keep that all to himself!

Children are so gullible; in this case, it's a good thing. Can you imagine if our Sunday School teachers were going over the story of King Solomon in our weekly lesson and the question about his wives popped up in conversation? Jacob had a couple, and that's bad enough, but here we go with the "wisest man to ever live" and it turns out that boy had over 700 wives, and half as many concubines to boot; he had princesses, he had ladies from every country! He was a man whore if there ever was one, and no, there's no mention of King Solomon being like his daddy King David, and being a "man after God's own heart", in fact, we're told that God specifically told ol' Sol not to take wives from foreign regions as they would end up turning him away from his own God...which they did.  How does it work if you're one of 1000+ women and you're "married" to the King? Do you take turns in bed with the man? Maybe wait for him to call you up from wherever you lived in the kingdom for a tryst? C'mon, think about it, you can't have 1000+ women all married to the same (even if he is devilishly handsome) man, living under one castled roof! It would be impossible. This is the best example of what a real kingdom is or could be used for; housing 1000+ women and probably over 3200 children.  

No! Just a big fat, NO...I'd have to decline the offer if it was extended to marry the man. He could ask all day long, but the answer would be no. I mean, I may have to move out of the kingdom if that's where I kept my sheep and all, but I would have to move, and I would probably change my name too so his henchmen couldn't find me and drag me back someday in the future after word of my refusal finally made it back to the son of the greater king. Or, maybe I could say "Sure, why not!", marry the man, get the stimulus check he most likely would have put out for support purposes to anyone looney enough to agree, and when it came my time to sleep with him I could always say "Oh, you know what Solomon, I would, but I'm washing my hair, my camel's hair, my goat's mother's hair, and tonight is the night we play Bingo with the Moabites - - maybe next time?"

I know the Bible is Holy and there are no mistakes in it. I get that. I also know it's been translated a few dozen times, and there are language issues, barriers, changes, and there are different interpretations as well; but there's just NO WAY I can wrap my brain around a few of these men in the Bible who either drop dead because they chose to lie to God (always a dumb decision), they end up murdering the husband so they can have the wife (King David), and there's Sampson - - seriously? It's more than obvious that Delilah wasn't all that into you; why did you tell her your secrets? Oh, OK...they don't tell us that as kids either - - he wanted sex.  Sex.  He gave up his STRENGTH for it. He lost his sight for it. He ended up dead because of it. Men! (Sorry, that was a bit of a rant)  Like I said, I am just not that sure that somewhere along the way someone may have forgotten to mention that the wisest man in our known history had way way way too many women calling him their own; more like "Take a number, I'll be right with you ladies!"  Again, yeah, no.  I'm either #1 or not one at all, but I'm no one's fool.

Maybe it worked out in the end for Solomon - - oh wait, no, he died without loving God, so there you go, no, it didn't work out for him at all.  What did we learn? I guess that Sunday School is a great, really great place to hear about and learn stories from the Bible, but maybe we shouldn't be too hard on the teachers for not revealing EVERYTHING they found out when they got a bit older. I think I was in my 20's when I realized Eve and Adam didn't have, or couldn't have belly buttons. Go figure.

"When I Found Jesus"

 I almost didn't write this blog even though it has been on my heart for just about two years now. I didn't want to write it out of fear that the author, singer, songwriter of the title song "When I Found Jesus", (Steph Macleod of Scotland) would either be upset with me for using his song as a backdrop for my story or that he would think I was making a comparison of our two very different lives; maybe thinking I was thinking that mine was better - - that's when it hit me that I had to write the blog! Our stories are so very different, and his story is so gracious, so sorrowful, so rewarding, and uplifting, where mine (if you think about it) is sweet, kind, quaint, and endearing.  The truth is, Steph actually found Jesus. I was (and am) one of the extreme blessed, who can say I was born into a Christian home, born to Christian parents, who were born to Christian parents, who were born to Christian parents - - I tell people I was born on a Wednesday and in church on Sunday, and that is not a lie. My mom was probably forgiven by the dutiful ladies in the basement kitchen of the 40th Street Baptist Church that Wednesday evening (November 22, 1961), for not showing up to make potato salad or deviled eggs for the weekly prayer supper. 

Steph's mournful song "When I Found Jesus" can be found on his new EP "O Perfect Father" and can be purchased on his website at www.stephmacleod.com.  In the song, he goes through a few phases of when he found Christ. First, he found Jesus when he was down and out, living on the streets of Edinburgh, and the lyrics literally say Jesus was standing over him. In other songs about his addiction and recovery, Steph admits to being on the streets, living rough, and being sick in the gutters; he was living proof if just barely living, that Jesus will, in fact, find us at our lowest and He is willing to stand over us both to protect us from ourselves and from others who may harm us when we are vulnerable. In the second phase in the song about how Steph found Jesus, Steph says Jesus was walking next to him. Jesus was helping him recover, helping him to find the way to live upright, not alone.  Thirdly, the last phase, Steph says that Jesus was "heavy on my heart", Jesus gave him words to pray, words to share, and Steph both believed and received the love of Jesus - - freely.

My story is so unremarkable by contrast. It couldn't be more different, but it is nevertheless as fulfilling and for it I am grateful. Grateful that I didn't fall down sick in the streets, but was raised by loving parents who remained married until the day my daddy died; by grandparents who also remained together living proof that love sacrifices and fights for what we believe is good.  I was five years old, almost six, and when I found Jesus He was playing in the sandbox with me. He was leaning over and picking me up after I had jumped off the balcony of the church again -- He was swimming next to me in the pond, climbing the fence with me to go ride a horse I didn't know, but was behind the church, so it had to be OK, right? Jesus always walked with me, He was always in my heart. He was always giving to me so I could receive, and I couldn't help but believe because it was all around me all the time, and in everything breath I took since the first breath that I drew - - and then I am reminded that I was born without breath. I was pronounced dead before I was pronounced living.  They didn't have Apgar scores back then, and the doctor who delivered me literally back-handed the nurse who told my mother I was alive after he had already told her I was not.

When I found Jesus He was willing to let me stay a minute on Earth with great people who loved me. He must have some reason for me to be here; otherwise, I would have just gone right back up to Heaven on that chilly Autumn afternoon, the day I was delivered, four weeks premature. There must be a reason. I believe I've answered God's calls a few times in my life. I've managed to not flub up too many of His guided assignments; I'm on one now, one that will likely take years to accomplish, but when God gives me a directive I never say no. I thank Him, ask for help, and move forward -- always forward. I used to argue with God, but then my prayers weren't being answered and I noticed I found myself in a bunch of trouble; over and over and over again - - it didn't take me too long to figure out that when I let go and let God drive the stagecoach things just fall into place.  I keep one verse firmly in my head and in my heart about all of this: Psalms 37:4 "Delight in the Lord and HE will give you the desires of your heart". HE will do it, not me, not you, not anyone else; just Him.

Steph Macleod is an amazing soul with an equally incredible story -- his story, not mine. His to tell, his to share, his to live. You can find more about him of course through social media, he has a Facebook page, Instagram, and YouTube videos.  I would encourage you to pray for Steph as you pray for yourself, and include me in a few of those prayers too if you think about it. I would appreciate it. My grandma isn't here to pray for me anymore; she was a warrior, that one. I guess I'm the granny now. I have two precious booger bears to lift up to Christ, and I do.  If you find yourself in a blue funk wondering if you're saved, not saved, unsure of what it means to know and understand the love of Jesus, please reach out to someone - - there are many paths we take in this world but only one that leads to an eternity of peace; that is the journey you take with Jesus. Find Jesus, so you can have your own story to tell.  Here are some links to two pastors I listen to and believe strongly in; they know the word. They love Jesus - - they are great sources of finding your way to Jesus. Blessings.

www.superiorword.org

www.jdfarag.org

www.stephmacleod.com

Self Appreciation - It's a Thing!

 You see people at the bookstores and they'll all lining up to read the latest self-help book, and for some, it's an addiction of sorts. You see them week after week, month after month, reading, searching, researching, trying to find that magical answer to their deep-seated issues regarding self-hate; here's a thought, stop hating yourself! At the risk of sounding real (and I do mean overtly) arrogant, or as my friend Tex would say, "cheeky", I think this blog being my own creation, and my own personal space in the universe where I can say what I want to say, and mean what I say; I think this blog warrants me saying to you right now to stop hating yourself and start appreciating YOU for who YOU are. Simple? No, it's not, but then again you aren't simple either, now, are you? 

Suppose you close your eyes (not now, you're reading my blog) and you think about yourself as a kid; is that when the self-hate started for you? Can you pinpoint the time when you started saying things to yourself that you couldn't or wouldn't say to your grandma without being taken to the shed and whooped with a leather strap? Some of ya'll probably don't even know what I'm talking about, but there was a time when grandmas were the scariest things on the planet, and you tip-toed around them because if you said a word that didn't fit into their cluster of appropriate things to say, you were, as I said, taken out back to the shed and your backside was tanned up a bit either with a good strong piece of leather strap, or the nearest switch she could find laying around the yard from off one of her old fruit trees. Grandmas always had big strong fruit trees too; don't you remember? God forbid she ever asked you to get your own switch so she could whoop you with it -- kids are so dumb, they found the smallest thinnest greenest piece of tree possible, not knowing that was the worst pain-bringer under God's eye.  Grandmas were (and are) the one things keeping you safe -- a Granny prayer can equal 100 standard prayers; you know it. 

If you don't start every single day off with at least a dozen good solid compliments to yourself then you need to regroup, pull all 75 trillion cells in your frame into one big lump, pull yourself by your bootstraps, and look your pretty face squarely in the mirror so you don't lose sight of who it is you're talking to. You don't have to say a bunch of words you don't mean, and you don't have to lie to get the truth out either; you are absolutely and positively the ONLY you out there, and as such you deserve to be treated and admired for that single fact. You have everything you need to be perfectly you and any deviation from that united soul, body, mind, spirit, self is just off-balance and out of place. You have to put it back into place, polarize yourself to who you were created to be, and if you can't find that person, you do what everyone must do if they need advice about a product; you go to the Creator and ask Him what He thinks of you. He'll tell you - - you don't even have to listen for Him to tell you, He'll tell you. You do need to listen to understand. You are awesome.

Start out really simple and look at your face in the mirror. Instead of cursing at yourself, talk to yourself, and say what you want your heart to hear and understand. We all want to belong to something, so start by belonging to you; accepting you. If you need change, be that change. If you need help, ask for it. Look at your eyes, say something about them. Appreciate what they do. Look at your nose, again, out loud say what you think and what you need to hear, without being degrading, belittling, or rude to your nose. It's helping you breathe, isn't it?  Talk to your freckles, your mouth, your teeth, your tongue, your eyebrows; and never forever your ears, never, ever forget your ears. They are so important. Once you get past your head move to your neck, your shoulders, your chest, arms, hands; stop at the palms and really look at the lines. Do you understand the lines? 

Once you're finished with your hands, your fingers, your nails, and even the hair and freckles that cover you, move to your belly, and if you say something mean to your belly you deserve to be taken out back twice (tell your belly thank you). Move to your hips, your productive organs, even if they don't or haven't produced they are marvelous, they are created to create. They are so intricate and unique. There's that bum! Grab it! Let it know you see it and let it know you won't forget about it today as you thank you for all the things you mean to you. Those legs are not just for standing, walking, or crossing. When we think of what we would do without our legs we are immediately reminded of the sacrifice many have made for us in war, in combat, through surgery, diabetes, accidents.  Thank your legs. Take a minute to rub them and let them know you'll drink more water to assist them with their responsibilities. 

Finally, you're at your feet, aren't you? You can't over compliment your feet. It's impossible. They are some of the most interesting things you'll ever encounter and there they are just waiting to be loved by you. Polish your toenails, file the callouses, check your heels twice because they really need to be reminded sometimes, just how superheroish they are from time to time. God bless our heels! Once you've loved your body - - move on to your soul, your spirit, your mind. Don't chinch on this! This is WHO you are, your body is WHERE you are living. Find YOU and remind YOU of all the creative and wild imaginative things you want to see, hear, feel, touch, taste, walk through, and explore with that body of yours.  Don't let your mind be a place you would not feel safe. Create within yourself the gardens of hope, peace, brilliance, and of course love - - places you build, places you want to share with others; but first, you have to feel good about it; about you.

You can't appreciate yourself without believing that you're worth appreciating; it's impossible. If you need to get a journal and write out the reasons you know you're fantabulously great, do it. You don't have to lie - - tell the truth. You have nothing to lose, and everything to gain and share with others. No one said you have to be arrogant, "cheeky", or conceited, but there's no reason to hold back, lie, or mislead yourself into believing you are less than what God Himself created. If you will sing a hymn about your assurances being blessed, and you don't love yourself, then why would you waste your own time trying to impress God with your song? He made that too. He knows already just how marvelous you are - - you won't ever over thank Him - - you can't. Love God, love you, love others. That's how it works. 

"For God so loved the world (which you are a part of) that He gave His ONLY Son that whosoever (you included) believed in Him shall not perish, but have everlasting life."  YOU were that important. If you were the only one on the Earth needing Christ to die; He would do it all over again just for you. Let that sink in for a minute. You must truly be amazing, and you are. We all are. 

Photo: Emma Gatewood "Gramma Gatewood" to some.

Kilts for HIRE! WHAT? Are you Serious?

 Yes!  I mean, YES, let me say it again, only this time out loud so you can hear me...YES!!  I will most certainly look into hiring a kilt the minute my feet land in the land of my people! I am so very excited to have found this advert while skimming and searching for houses to buy on RightMove. I think you should check them out of course at www.rightmove.co.uk, but MY GOLLY GOODNESS, you can also call the number on the photo below and get your own personal kilt for hire; God only knows what you can ask your kilt to do, or what the service(s) come with in the first place. I just really hope the kilt is filled and full of some brawny, big, beautiful, bearded, brute when it is delivered. PLEASE, let this be true. I'm telling you, Scotland is the land of plenty; forget Australia, it's not the place! Apparently, West Lothian is the PLACE you want to be! (I wonder if there are any kilts for hire in the Fife)

I often find myself minding my own business and things just happen, but this time no, this time I specifically went looking for love in all the really really really right places. I went to my web browser and did a search for homes I could buy in the Fife, and I was directed to RightMove, and of course, I put in the correct criteria to find a good little house, maybe a 2 or 3 bedroom semi-detached home (you and I would call them duplexes, they seem to be a real thing in Scotland).  After finding said lovely homes I was searching other areas within 10-15 miles of the Fife, just in case the houses were prettier, cheaper, cute and fun - - something an author would want to buy; and there it was! I found houses and I zoomed in to see what sort of shops and stores were near the house(s) I preferred. I also needed to find a bus stop close by since I won't have a car.  I won't have a car, but baby, I will walk my happy bum to the kilt for hire store! I will sit outside their window and drool I guess, as they make and/or create their sensually seductive and ceremoniously glorious kilts stuffed with ... you know; them.  I will pay extra for one that happens to be a little round and fully bearded.  No skinny smooth boys for me, no thank you.

Once you get your kilt for hire I wonder how long you can keep it.  I wonder if you can request the same kilt the next time, or if you should just go off and purchase said kilt. Great questions!! I wonder about these things. Should I hang up my kilt or fold it and put it away? Should I sleep with it in my room or give it its own room? Do kilts sleep? Do kilts need to eat? Do kilts like curry, beef stroganoff, what about pie? Would a kilt prefer a simple chocolate cream pie or something more robust and meaty like a good old-fashioned American apple pie with hard cheddar melted over the top of it? Oh, I think I may be onto something right there, but what if I get my hired kilt dirty if I wipe my greasy cheesy hands all over it? I would probably be asked to clean it before returning it, right? Do you bathe a kilt?  (Dr. Teals, or not?)

I'm thinking now. I'm thinking of how often I may actually need to hire a good kilt. Would this be something I need to budget, say a weekly hire? Would it be best to hire one a couple of times before investing and buying my own? Do I just want one? Can you even have more than one hired kilt at a time? Would that be rude or inconsiderate to the first kilt? I really do need to do a bit of research before I go off and make a really big or possibly embarrassing mistake. I mean, I don't want to come off as the dumb American coming over to Scotland, an old-world world, and making rookie touristy boo-boos. Hiring my first real kilt could be a landmark for me. I need to good decisions and do it right the first time.

Wow, just too much! Just too much to think about and too much to dream about tonight. I can't wait, I can't wait to hit the ground running and find this shop in Maddiston, Scotland. I will be first in line on the morning after I arrive; now that I think about it, I should take at least one night to breathe in the heathered air before falling headfirst into this really monumental experience. I can do that, I can wait - - a day.  I have it in me; I can wait - - a day.  What does one wear to the kilt for hire shop to pick out one's new kilt for hire anyway? See, more questions! More questions. I can at least wear a big smile! 

(CREDIT) The men in kilts below are wonderful and can be found online. Kilted Coaches Stephen Clarke and Rab Shields Yoga master and author and Finlay Wilson.

Detox! Natural Poopy Pills!

 IF you have the privilege to know my comprehensibly rude and overtly inappropriate family, you would know that my three children will at times have competitions that involve poop -- yes, you heard me, human waste.  They will, independently, collectively, competitively contact each other through text, messenger or through a game on the headset, and they'll talk about their last poop. They'll make it a joke of course, but they're very serious about making it a one-up situation; forcing the other one (or two, depending on how many of them are on the call) to either lie about their last poop, or to admit they were inferior in their production of said waste, unless of course; and this is huge (no pun intended) they are telling the truth, and they can prove it - - yes, I said prove it. They are (and never have been) above sharing graphic photos to each other. THANK YOU, children, for not sharing with the rest of the world! I did at least get that part right when I tried my dangedest to raise you - - I did something (if only one thing) right!

We have always been a family of poopers, I can tell you that. With the vast amounts of protein being blended in shakes, cooked on the stove, and just eaten out of cardboard cans, my family will out fart any family I know; and I'm not above admitting to being a part of that statistic. Reuben wins, we all agree, there is no one in this family arrogant enough, willing, or able to challenge the man, he's the King, and we give him that crown. I have written in another book that it's sad (to a degree) that as a mom I can literally walk into a fart and know which kid produced it - - KNOWING that I was about to walk through the door or hallway; it's a thing, and they all get the biggest kick out it - - sometimes I literally sit in my overstuffed chair just thanking God for their individual homes while I breathe in the clean fresh conditioned air of my home...and say a little prayer of gratitude for the years I raised them too.  How many moms can undisputedly claim that all of her children continue to communicate on a daily basis at least two to three times, and even if it's just to compare waste, it's sharing love. TRUE love.

One of the ways I personally stay in the game is to eat raw fiber and protein vs. protein shakes, but I do drink those if I work out. EVERY day I pop in a few natural poopy pills (as I call them), somewhere between five or six dates, four to six figs, and a handful of raisins throughout the day. I can be seen putting cranberries in my oatmeal; I have trail mix which incorporates nuts, seeds, and either raisins or cranberries, and I try to drink about 100 ounces of water a day. I think that's about 3L, let me go check that out for my UK friends. Yes, Siri just told me that 100 ounces equal 2.96 liters. There you go! I am so close to being prepared to go to Scotland! (I'm laughing) I also prefer to say I am 167cm tall than five feet and seven inches. My weight in kilograms looks so so so much better than it does in pounds, believe me. 

When I was a kid, my mom and my grandmother used to pop prunes like candy so I did too. I just never got over it I guess. I love prunes to this day, but do prefer figs and dates when given a choice. I'm flat out amazed at how many of my friends (all but one) don't like fresh fruit at all and will never even consider eating a prune, date, or fig.  They'll eat a Fig Newton cookie! They'll even talk about how healthy it is because it's made of figs. They forget about the sugar, the processing, and yeah, the cookie part. They eat two of them and think they've mastered the corner on healthy snacking. I smile.  I tend to smile because it feels so much better now that I've stopped banging my head against the walls trying to get my friends to understand that what goes in must come out and if it doesn't come out the way it should, you really maybe might kinda wanna start thinking about not eating it! PUT THE PROCESSED FOOD DOWN!  A good rule of thumb really is if it comes in a box in the frozen section of the store, it's not good for you. 

A good detox is good for the body of course, and it is good for the mind as well. There is truth to the fact that our psyche is attached to our bodies and when we feel stopped up inside it's no surprise that we aren't thinking happy thoughts, doing happy things, or making happy choices. Most of the time you see and hear depressed people say they eat more than they should when they feel down and out - - it's time for Ben and Jerry's or it's another afternoon with their "therapist" who just happened to be a big bag of Oreos and a bunch of Diet Coke. For some reason people still feel that drinking diet colas with snacks will somehow even the score - - it does not folks. It makes it so much worse. Try prunes instead - - you get sad, pop a prune. You get pissed off? Find a fig! You can't see straight from the stress of the world, your spouse, your kids, your job, EVERYTHING seems to be crashing all around you? That's when you hit the closet and pray, but when you get out of it, you pick up a pear, an apple, something with fiber, and you get that poop right out of you. No drugs needed...just fresh, vibrant, living fruit, and maybe another 30 ounces of water, because you have to be honest with yourself, you probably didn't drink enough clear water today did you? (C'mon, you know you didn't) 

Well, that's my rant today - - more fiber! More fiber equals more poop. More poop equals more smiles and more smiles equal one happy person.  If you multiply that happy person by a few thousand you have a happy community. If you multiply it by a few hundred thousand, you have a happy city.  Try multiplying that by millions - - billions!  We can do this. We have enough fruit out there. We have enough water too, but do we have enough toilet paper? That's the real question. That's an entirely different blog! 

Because 'Merica!

 MY GOODNESS, I wish I had taken his picture!  Laura and I were walking into Winco, the grocery store about a mile or so from our place.  We typically shop there because they have an amazing bulk section where I can literally get whey protein by the pound and not have to pay exorbitant prices for it at the health food stores or even Walmart. I think it's 100% the same recipe sans sugar, and it's one-fourth the cost! I'm not lying, but whey protein powder is NOT what this blog is about; not by a long shot. 

Laura and I walked into the store and just as we approached the door we both (almost without thinking about it) reached into our purses to pull out those stupid masks that don't work, and no one believes could possibly really save a single life, but there are those who are still a bit sheepy and a bit nervous about stepping up and thinking for themselves; we'll leave it at that. I don't need to get all political on you. As we were about to put our masks on our faces  - there he was in all of his wonderful, big, bearded, beautiful, brutish self.  If he had been wearing a kilt, he would have been sent by God directly to me, I know this, but no, he was wearing his Wranglers, and on the right hip of those denim gloves, he wore a leather holster with a loaded .357 (pearl-handled in fact).  He was glorious! Thank you, Mr. Patriot. 

Mr. Patriot was about 6'2" tall, weighing in at somewhere between 215 and 230 pounds. He had a clean-cut but his face was majestically hairy - - we're talking several inches of free-flowing beardedness - - I gave this man a head nod and said "Thank you" out loud in front of God and everyone. I pointed at his gun when I said it. I asked him if the truck outside with all the American flags flying all around it was his truck. He stated it was not, but that he had seen it, and wanted to know where he could pick up a three-pronged flag holder for his truck's bumper! I thought maybe BassPro would have it, but I'm sure he can order it. I don't have a truck - - but the free-flowing American flags draping and cascading are fabulous representations of how my heart felt when I watched the man walk into Winco without his mask.  THANK YOU AGAIN, Mr. Patriot. It gave me the courage I needed to put my mask back into my purse, and of course, Laura followed suit.  

We were not alone.  As we walked throughout the store many other people saw us, gave us the nod, turned to their friends, partners, children, whomever they were with, and they began demasking! It only took ONE good Patriot to stand up. I'm rather ashamed that it wasn't me, to begin with, but I was in compliant mode I guess; not anymore.  I'm fed up with the masks, I'm done with being bullied. I have asthma. I'm not even supposed to be hassled if I don't wear a face mask, but hassled I am. I have been told I can't shop at Winco, Target, Kohl's, Best Buy, and other stores if I am not wearing my stupid mask. Funny how the Tractor Supplies, feed stores, tack stores, and car dealerships don't make you wear one.  There's someone at Best Buy's door to turn you away.  I realize the poor souls are just doing their job, but the bosses and owners need to realize we, the customers, keep the doors open!

Bless the big man's heart! He walked slowly, even methodically through Winco with his head up straight and tall. His tight tight veteran's t-shirt proudly proclaiming his patriotism, and the fact that he had given several years of his life defending his and my right to shop, eat, drive, dine, work, and interact with others freely and without fear of the government overstepping onto our Constitutional rights.  Not one manager, not one employee, not one customer said a word to any of us about our choice to be maskless - - thank you, again. I have to say thank you because it's the way things should be. If someone feels the need to wear their own mask, so be it, but it's like trying to tell me I have to pray to someone other than God, it's just not going to happen; if I had things my way everyone would pray to Jehovah YHWH; no one else. 

THANK YOU, to every single person, American or not, who is willing to stand up for themselves and make the statement that they are going to live without fear. We didn't shut the world down for the flu, we didn't shut it down for diabetes.  We didn't shut it down for any good reason whatsoever; and we were bullied into going against what we knew intellectually was false - - no more.  Don't Tread on ME!

Gosh Darn, I LOVE my Bankers.

 Last month my banker called me to say she saw some suspicious activity on my account. It's not as if she was going over my account personally; no, I am sure they have an A.I. out there routinely servicing their clients' account searching for purchases that just don't seem like they "belong" to the patron; and that's exactly what it was. Some banks send you an email, some may simply note the account, keep an eye out and let you know only if it becomes a habit or pattern, but not my bank. Nope.  My gal was calling me and saying in her sweet Southern accent, "Hey Jude, I think I see something on your account that doesn't make a lick of sense. Did you download anything from the UK recently?" The truth is that I had actually done that, but right behind the CD I had downloaded came two and maybe even three attempts to withdraw another amount, this time for services to an anti-virus protector but my banker was saying that it appeared that the two transactions were linked. (Turns out she was mistaken, but it did appear that way since the UK download was in fact from Scotland, and the anti-virus purchase was from England) 

To be honest, the entire event was both upsetting and confusing as I knew the singer/artist whose CD I had just downloaded; knew him by reputation, and felt 100% certain that he would never have anything to do with the fraudulent acts that may or may not have been attached to his PayPal account as it was being evaluated by my bank's investigators.  I let the man know immediately, and yeah, it was a bit embarrassing and maybe I could have been more subtle about it; looking back, I may have escalated his fears to a degree, but better safe than sorry.  My bank immediately notified INTERPOL and they also gave my money back to me, changed the card I have with them and contacted PayPal to let them know their A.I. would place PayPal on a 180-day fraud alert to let them know they've got my back! I was happy. It's not every day every bank is so thorough and/or thoughtful.

I've always had a good rapport with my bankers! In Indianapolis I could be seen standing at the counter inside the Kroger store, where my bank was located, just talking and chatting it up with one of the 6 bankers that worked the small station.  We ate out together, shopped together, brought small acceptable gifts to each other at birthdays, anniversaries. I even found a job for the wife of one of my bankers, and to my knowledge, after so many years, she's still working for the school district.  Sometimes it's not what you know, but who you know, and my bankers have always been supportive of my volunteer work, my rescues, you name it, if they could get involved and help the community in one way or the other, they did. I've never banked at larger banks either; that's the difference. I would rather work with smaller groups of people who are people-oriented and want to be the change! It always helps to know your banker's birthday and kid's names when you come up short on a payment to something too; they can spot you a quick loan for a day! Whew! That's happened more than once.

Yesterday I got another call from my banker -- this time it seems that someone I paid through PayPal again, was unable to get the money I sent because of the fraud alert. You guessed it, she lived in the UK, and had never used PayPal before, so my bank's A.I. picked up on the less than standard behavior of the transaction and put a hold on the amount I paid out to the artist for her newly released CD. She thought it was her fault and was greatly embarrassed having to contact me to ask for payment before sending the CD. I don't blame her! You don't give out your life's work on a promise - - no, she was 100% correct, but then again, so was my bank!  I guess we just live in troubled times where anyone and everyone is trying to one-up or outdo the system some way or another. Well, it all got straightened out and even though it took me driving 7 miles to sign a waiver, it was worth it to know I'm not only protected, but I'm loved as well.  My gal Linda offered me a sweet sugary cinnamon bun for my trouble. There's a bakery next door to the bank, and yes, for my trouble of having to drive up to the bank in person, she went next door and bought me this big, fat, juicy, sticky, oh-so-wonderful pastry!! Goodness, I love my bankers!

I could go on and on about them, and maybe I'll stop by and take a photo of them to print in my book if they're allowed to be photographed and mentioned by name. You have to go through Legal and be sure you're not out of compliance you know -- but let me tell you, no A.I. is as warm and fuzzy as any one of my sweet bankers - - and that goes for any one of them I've ever been associated with. You just can't beat real people with real faces, real hearts, real commitment, and true friendliness - - No, you just can't. Even during the pandemic, when we had to use the drive-through we were cracking jokes, giving air-fist-bumps through the windows, and holding up cards and notes to each other saying "LOVE YOU" or "CAN'T WAIT TO SEE YOU IN PERSON INSIDE!"  It was just awful not being able to stand around and chat for 20 or 30 minutes at a time, have a cup of coffee and just go over the accounts and catch up on our lives!  We survived.  They were troopers!  Thank you, Bankers. THANK YOU.

Inkened

 I don't always hang out with Satanists, in fact, I rarely do, but when I do it's just one and she's my tattoo artist. I won't give her name because she hasn't given me permission to do so; besides that, I am currently praying for her salvation, so I don't want to either embarrass her or cause someone to interfere with that work that is in progress.  I believe a good witness is an important thing when you've entered into a place absolutely known for housing evil spirits, demons, and the like. Being a Christian, it's not a sin to get a tattoo, not by any stretch of the imagination, but there are not a lot of parlors out there that give both inkened memories on your bicep and a devotional service for your soul -- just sayin'.

First, let me tell you that the first time I met my tattoo artist she was at the store and she had just finished inking a man's calf with the words "JESUS SAVES", she mentioned it in passing, and I asked her if it was difficult or hard on her to do it since she was working quite literally under a five-foot by five-foot blanket type banner in her room that had the image of the goat-man Devil himself with the words "THE DEVIL" printed under the statue.  She stated that it wasn't difficult to do professionally, but she knows when the two-spirit worlds collide in her room and her "space" because she said they seem to tear at each other pretty badly and she can feel the pull. 

She then turned to me and asked me if it was going to be OK being in that room while she worked on my tattoo, and I laughed. I told her yes, because as a Christian, I'm protected and it's not me that has to move at the name of Lucifer, but in fact the demons (and Lucifer) must flee at the name of Jesus. I was good -- and it put her at ease to know I wasn't going to lecture her about her choices. Why lecture when I can pray? I told her I'd pray for her, and she even thanked me. I thought about giving her my address so she could go feed my dogs and cats after the rapture, but I didn't want to totally offend her and end up with "666" on my arm.  Besides, I do want her to change her mind and heart and join me in that event!

I went into the store today to have her do my new tattoo, which is a Celtic Cross with a sort of loopy design to it, and there is a purple-headed thistle running through the cross, sort of sticking out to the side.  She didn't listen to me when she was designing it, and had to redo the design; which ended up taking too long, and I had to reschedule, but now she'll have the cross in her room (in a file) for a few days and maybe that'll help her understand that even the image of the cross can play a role in her (hopeful) surrender to Jesus. I hope she will accept Him, and I hope she'll remain where she is because she's incredibly talented, but yeah she can replace the wall hanging - - maybe something a bit less demonic! I'm not saying she has to put up a poster of the Resurrection or anything, but more and more Christians are going into these places to be inked up - - why not cater to your clientele? 

Anyway, I may or may not end up with the cross being on my forearm as I had first imagined it; she insisted that putting it where I wanted it made the cross appear to be upside-down, while I was saying I could lift up my arm to show it to anyone - - she would know more about upside-down crosses than I would so I decided to think about it a few more days and let the thing sit in her room for a minute to do God's work.  Maybe this weekend I'll swing by and have it put on my upper arm so that there's no argument about the orientation of the cross -- I don't want anyone seeing my tat and thinking I'm a Satanist too! Nope, that's not going to work for me.  I can wait, and make a decision. I may end up not getting it, and just leaving it in her room! Ha! Take that demon blanket thing! In your face!

I Can Make That Without Lookin'

 When you're a cook you cook, and when you're a mom you mom, so there I am most of the evenings every week, just being a mom and cooking. Laura is so sweet, she's not only my daughter, she's my roommate; so she has to eat what I cook when I cook it, and she's not allowed to complain about it. It wouldn't do her any good to complain because I don't listen to anyone if they get it in their heads to cut down my abilities to mix up something tasty in the kitchen. I don't have to brag, bragging is for amateurs, No, what I do is tell the truth, then I pull out things from the fridge and the cabinets, whip something up from the scratch ingredients (always without measuring because it pisses my friend off when I do that) and I just shove the food under the noses of anyone who hasn't ordered from a take out menu. Sometimes I'm cooking for one, sometimes I'm cooking for two or three, but I usually end up making enough for five or six just in case. You always want to be prepared for the extra kid walking through the door if one or the other of them texted their sibling to say "Mom's cooking tonight".

I mean sure, I can do something easy like pasta and meat sauce, that's one of those things you do in your sleep, but I prefer to find a good recipe online and just wing it to see what happens. You never know. I don't have an Instapot yet; thinking about buying one, but I'm not sure I want to form that habit. I rather enjoy chopping, simmering, saute', boiling, broiling, grilling, etc. I like the time it takes to be in the kitchen fussing over what I'm presenting to those that I love; call me old-fashioned, but yeah, there's a bit of truth to the fact that a mom likes to be needed and where else can she feel more needed than in the kitchen at supper time? 

I decided to look up a curry recipe online and found one that was detailed enough to try and make sense of it. The only problem is, I'm the only one in my household at the moment that will eat curry. If I want to share it I have to call Caity and Brandola over, schedule it, wait for the day to arrive and hope they don't change their minds about driving 110 miles to my house to try my new curry recipe. They kept their word and I was able to spin up a big mess of Charlie Bigham's Chicken Curry with rice and a side salad, that happened to look a great deal like a typical garden salad with spinach since I wasn't successful at finding a few of the needed ingredients to be incredibly cool.  I had to settle for damn cool, which is almost as good - - Charlie Bigham's Chicken Curry recipe is found at https://www.bighams.com/products/prod...  Now, to be honest with you, it's supposed to be served with coconut rice, but my family, being Southern as the day is long, and a bit too chicken themselves to try too many good things; did not deign to allow me to really impress them. I have to live with this. 

Suffice it to say we had a great meal that could have been even better, and it will be better when I live by myself and don't feel that I have to cater to these inexperienced palates that refuse to expand their horizons - - they can't blame me; I did all I could to stir up a stir fry, mix up a mixed bag, toss up a tossed salad with various varieties of otherworldly entrancing and appetizingly pleasant foodery. They have only themselves to blame - - or in Brandon's case, he can blame others, but not me. He cannot blame me. I love Brandon. He never turns down anything I decide to make even if it sounds like something he would see in a Sci-Fi flick -- he just always nods, smiles, and agrees. I love Brandon.

Laura? Well, that's another story. She's a Taurus.  If she hasn't eaten it at least 50 times she refuses to try it, and if she hasn't seen it, smelt it, been around it, heard about it, read about it, or thought about it, she won't think of attempting it. She's the one at the other end of the table watching her sister and brother in law poke and fork up chunks of red curry and peas, waiting for one or the other of them to die before she decides to add my red curry chicken to her list of things she may try when she's older; much older. She has to let it stew a minute first - - and by a minute I mean a year or two. Laura will however clean up the rice and salad; those are safe. Sometimes I think I'll just give her away but I'm too afraid I'll miss her little redhead; and I give in, allowing her to talk me into making pasta and meat sauce -- AGAIN.

Boring kid.

I Can Twerk, People!

 Woot!  Here I was thinking I was just not that cool because I couldn't twerk, but nope, that is not the case now folks!  I can in fact TWERK, but I will be honest with you, I can only do it if I'm standing on the new LifePro Waver vibration plate that I just purchased. The dang thing weighs 35 pounds, and it was a bear to drag up the stairs when the delivery man brought it to me.  EASY to set up, just plug it in, hook up the jump rope type straps they give you, and turn it on! The power button turns it on, the start button starts the vibration plate moving, and you pick and choose your time and speed.  I am used to moving a bit, so I set it at 10 minutes (recommended time from the chiropractor) and I set the speed at 30.  The LifePro goes up to 99, but hey, I wanted to be sure I didn't rattle my brains out at 30 before moving on to actually rattling my brains out of my head. I may need my brains for, later on, to be honest.

So, there I was, trying not to concentrate on the timer because time slows to a freaking crawl when I'm on the vibration plate.  I do a solid minute and I think I'm done! I glance down between my knees to see the timer and I guess at that point I had to bend a bit to peek past the boobs, and that's when it happened; I TWERKED!  Oh my freakin' gosh, my body twerks!  Well, I didn't care how much time I had left, I was just too happy about my butt moving up and down and side to side at the same time (with or without my assistance) it was real!  I did what everyone would expect me to do; I called for Laura to get out of bed and watch me twerk! Not lying, she refused. I literally had to twerk alone, by myself, except for the fat cat Sammy, he was interested - - more in the fact that I was laughing I think, but he was still within eyeshot, and I asked him his opinion.  He's a cat. He got bored and walked away.

I glanced to the right, over to the dining room table, and I saw another of our three cats, this one Baeleigh. She was sitting, sort of laying, in her little box-bed which sits on the dining room table. We don't actually eat at the dining room table, and the cat needed a place to call her own. It's like a "base" from the other two cats, which are both males.  Bae is the Queen of course, and she is the ruling cat, but the boys don't always remember this. I asked Bae what she thought about my new ability to twerk; she was less impressed than Sammy - - but what can I expect from a Queen? I am now the master of my own destiny when it comes to working the glutes, my friend. I can, and I will be dancing, moving, shaking, riding, cycling, and even standing on the floor squatting with weights, but this butt will be glorious! (You can't see me laughing, I'm laughing, and once again, Sammy has made an appearance. He's such a weirdo.)

LifePro makes a few vibration plates. I first used one years ago at the chiropractor's office, and when I went for a recent adjustment she had one. I asked if there were commercial machines out there that a person could buy for the home that wasn't cheap or would fall apart. She recommended the LifePro and she stated there were several I could choose from regarding size, durability, price, etc.  I went with the Waver, as it fits in my budget and dining room -- remember, we don't eat there. I should call it something else.  Let me see, the cat sleeps there, we store things we're sending off to Caity in the mail, and we let groceries sit there until they can be placed in the appropriate cabinet.  The bike is stored there, as is the step ladder, but now the vibration plate -- the dining room is a catch-all, but that's too generic; it has to be something more captivating.  I'll think of something. The Marvel Room, yeah, that's it. The Marvel Room. I suppose we could call it the "Throne Room" since Bae Bae resides in her box on top of the table - - yes, the Throne Room it is.

Back to me twerking! For years I have embarrassed both myself and my children attempting to do the Miley Cyrus signature move, but it was to no avail. I was worse at twerking than I am at drawing and you have no idea how hideous things can look until you see my rendition of an image; no idea. The word "suck" is just too gentle for my drawing talents, and yet, my butt just simply would not cooperate (and still doesn't if I'm not on the plate at 30 or better.) Today is the day I claim my twerkness! No one other than Laura really gets to see it - - unless Caity comes over, maybe Jeannie, Niki, or Robin, I'll deign to allow them to view my butt antics.  I should video it when I get to my goal weight -- that would be awesome; maybe...but what will the cats think?  It may look strange, me trying to twerk, bend, and hold the phone just right to get the angle - - who cares? It will be glorious!