Jude Stringfellow's Blog, page 99

I Need a Man (from Time to Time)

 This morning was definitely one of those times when I literally broke down and cried out verbally "I need a man right now!"   I will admit, this doesn't happen very often, and when it does you have to understand it's because I've tried everything I could do alone and by myself before resigning to the fact that there are just some things I cannot do correctly by myself. Tensions were mounting under the pressure of it all, emotions were just about to get raw, and I have to tell you, I was sweating with anticipation of what would happen if I couldn't get the damn thing open! I literally stood there in my kitchen holding the canister from the food processer in my hand with it's gray spinning top thing, or maybe it's the bottom, I don't know which it would be since you put it on the top of the canister after you put the food in it, but you turn the thing upside down to place it in the machine itself.  Whatever it is, whichever way would work best, on top or on bottom, I can do both, but what I can't do, and couldn't do by myself was to open the damn thing! It was stuck. 

    Inside the canister was my entire breakfast. It's way past 11 a.m. at this point, an entire hour or so more than I usually wait to eat. I had been fasting like I do, from 6:00 p.m. last evening, so here it is going on over 17 and a half hours since I've eaten and I'm not able to get the canister open to pour out my breakfast! Just saying the words "pour out my breakfast" feels a little anti-climatic doesn't it?  Earlier when I had opened the fridge to see what wonderful and tantalizing foods I could make for myself I realized almost immediately that yesterday, not today, was a cheat day. I had cheated and cheated well. I had gone to Chick-Fil-A and eaten not only their fried breaded chicken sandwich on two pieces of toasted bread (let me say that word again....bread....ahhhh, br-ea-dddd) I had also eaten their wafflely cute potato fry things that don't even require ketchup because they're so adorable; I will be 100% honest, because I try to be 100% honest, I even had sweet honey mustard sauce on my sandwich, and you know it had more than 100 calories in and by itself - - I CHEATED big time. Today would have to be a day of control. Well, control went right out the window when the food processer decided to lock up on me and cause me to fret - - did you hear me? I fretted! I'm not supposed to do that. I am fret-less, ask anyone.

    What do you do when you can't get a jar open and you just have to have, must have, whatever is inside the jar? Well, if you're like me you freak out for a few minutes, cussing at the air, daring any dog to walk into the kitchen to see what the fuss is about; you make really unnecessary and aggravating grunt noises while you apply even more non-flexible and immoveable pressure to the top of the bottom thing and you push, pull, threaten, use a knife to try and pry it off, and you resort to running water over it after beating it against the cabinet a few times. NONE OF THOSE THINGS WORKED.  It was time to admit it, it was time to lay down and just roll over, and say the words "I need a man right now!"  So you know, I'm not anti-man, I really love them actually, I could stare at them all day. I could watch them, I could study them, I could even entertain touching one, but then I'd start giggling and lose full control of myself, and if you know me, you know that control is the one thing I think I have. 

    I live in an apartment complex that I have lived at for more than a 150 years. I have been a resident of this particular complex at least 5 times in my life, and if I think about it I think it's 6 times. I don't know if I can count one of them or not since it was only for a few months. Can you count that? I keep coming back to the complex because it's centrally located, the crazy people who live here are my crazy people, they know me, and they won't think I'm absolutely bonkers if I knock on any of their doors and thrust my food processor canister that is stuck to the machine part that spins it - - right into their face. The problem is that I've lived here at least 150 years and most of the neighbors were here before I arrived. Most of the men here couldn't open a frozen pickle jar with a rubber hand thingy - - so I had to pick my brain for a second.  I needed maintenance. 

    Here, at the complex, though he's also been here 150 years or more, is a man named Miguel who to this day, and I've known him this long, I don't know his last name. I swear it, it's true. I don't know Miguel's last name. I've seen him age, get fat, get thin, raise kids, and change trucks 11 times, but I don't know this man's last name. He is Miguel, and to the kids he's Uncle Miguel, because he's seen me raise my kids too - - I decided that Miguel was the man I needed! I went on the hunt! Luckily for me, Miguel is a creature of habit, and since it was just about his lunch time, he was in the office with the lights turned out, the door locked, and his back turned to the door so he could pretend not to hear you if you peeked through the window and knocked on the door.  Oh, but I've been here a minute, I know people who know people!  There is an apartment that has a back door that actually opens into the office space, and though the tenant is asked not to actually use that door - - they do! Ha!  Success!

    Faced with the words "Miguel, I need a man" the poor soul had no other alternative than to bust a gut laughing, spit out the bit of sandwich he was hoping to swallow, and retort rather rudely and bluntly, "Yes, yes, you do! I've said that for a long time!"  I love Miguel. Have I mentioned that I LOVE Miguel? He's just a nice guy - - I thrust the canister at Miguel.  He took it.  Looking at me with loving and sweet kindness in his deep salty brown eyes he said to me, "Jude, I'm going to take my time with you OK? I want this to be memorable."  I smiled that smile you smile when you don't really want to smile but you're about to lose it and cause snot to come out your nose, so you bite your bottom lip, and just sort of smile - - somewhere in the back of my throat I managed to respond "Thank you, I appreciate that, Miguel. I really do."  After a few elongated seconds of false bravado and he-man muscling, the canister was opened and I was released from the chains of entanglement that held me captive to needing a brutish man to save me.  I was free to drink my breakfast!

    It's times like these, and yes, they are rare, that I have to sit back inside the closet where I pray and remind myself that God never intended for a man to be alone so He made a woman.  Women can be alone and we are often alone in fact. We can go years and years without the need for a close and intimate relationship - but you know there are times we need jars opened, things retrieved from the roofs, and yes, we need someone to tell us we're not always supposed to be in control of everything.  God knew what He was doing when He made the man. They really are useful at times, and I do want one again someday - - but I can think of a few more things I could use him for other than opening jars and setting my food processor free; and when I think about it I allow myself to giggle. 

Photo: Old Fashioned Families 

Moles be Gone!

 I know I talk about Austin Powers a few times in my blogs, bringing him up or some scene from one of the movies, this is one of those times. You see the title "Moles be Gone" and you instantly know where I'm going with this! I went to the dermatologist about six months ago with the most embarrassing of conditions, one which I would not in a million years show photos of - - one reason is because I never took a photo of it, and another reason is its location! (Location! Location! Location!) However, in this case, my case, it was not a mole that was so embarrassing, but a weird, ugly, humungous, fleshy, disgusting, and otherwise not-so-attractive skin tag that grew from nothing into what looked like a bowling ball suspended from my inner thigh - - too much? 

    OK, it was NOT a pretty thing to behold and I could not find a single freaking doctor willing to take care of it during the COVID days. NO ONE was doing what they called "elective" procedures, but I obviously saw it as a monstrosity that needed to be removed for my mental health and well being, as well as my physical health. I will be honest, it never actually stopped me from doing what was necessary to make the days and nights pass, but it was there - teasing me, haunting, and nagging at me - - reminding me that I have zero control over my own body.  Well, I found her! I found the one woman who was willing to help me - - and the event, the actual event, took less than 10 minutes and cost me so much less than expected, and I mean soooo much less.  I could not believe it. 

    Dr. Elizabeth Prater has given me permission to sing her praises, to dance all around her office, (with my mask secured) and to thank her publicly and privately for not only ridding me of the unsightly and terribly upsetting unwelcomed guest, who I really should have named, we were too intimate not be on first name bases.  Dr. Prater allowed me to set the appointment and on the same visit, without even charging me an office visit (no, I can't guarantee that she could or would do the same for you) took the best care of me and she took my skin tag using a little soldering iron thing, she would laugh at me for not knowing the actual name of the tool; and she burned it away!  Then she sent it off to be biopsied, as I am told you have to do that. It was benign, just as she thought it would be. Let me tell you, she was fast, quick-witted, funny, adorable, and just really patient-friendly, not to mention precise, delicate, and professional. 

    Now that I've taken so long to talk about the skin tag maybe I should get on with the subject of this blog! I'm like that, you'll just have to forgive me, it is, after all, my blog.  I was so so so very pleased with Dr. Prater's work that when it came time to do more beautifying I decided to go back to her. I called, set the appointment, went into the office a couple days later, and had more than 30 tiny itty bitty teeny weenie moles removed from my chest using the latest in cryogenic methods. While in the office, in my little backward facing gown so my boobies could be more accessible - - (oh yeah, I forgot to mention, when I get skin tags, moles and otherwise unsightly things, they are in places where there is no sight going on. My chest was invaded by the mole master after having kids - don't ask me how that happened, but before kids there were no moles there, after kids I had something like 30+ little brown moley-moles just decide to show up and stick around. Since they weren't bothering me and I wasn't sharing my anatomy with anyone, it didn't matter, but lately they've been an eye sore since I've lost weight and can see them now...before now they could hide behind the massive orbs hanging around my chest.) I asked Dr. Prater to look at a couple of moles both under my arm and on my face.

    Dr. Prater was so kind to do so without me having to set a second appointment, and she used the little soldering iron thing on the face moles; freezing the one under my arm, which to be honest with you, had been sliced off more than 10 times in the past while I was shaving - - too much? Sorry.  She mentioned that I may actually miss seeing that one since it was obviously an older and more established mole-friend. I didn't name it either. I should. I know, I really should, but I didn't. Be gone! The nurses, both Kesa and Denise also need to have their praises sung too -- Kesa, with her dad-jokes, bright smiling face, and her penchant for cleaning up the areas needed.  Denise with her precision pin-point needle skills that can pierce you clean through to the next world, but she doesn't even hear or listen to you if you say bad words to her during the process - - she just tells you how OK you're going to be, and it's almost over - - always almost over. By the time she says it's almost over, it really is almost over. I'm not going to lie, it hurts like hell to be numbed to have a procedure but we all know that beauty is pain, right? Yeah, I mean, YEAH...love these girls!

    After the moles were taken off my face (one in the crease of my nose, the other on the side, by my right ear) I was literally amazed that the area healed within 24 hours! I can see a little scab forming and I have to say the moles on my chest are all but disappearing -- going going going -- soon to be gone. There are a few that will need to be re-zapped, but for the most part they are literally dissolving! I thought they would fall off, and that makes no sense whatsoever from a medical point of view, but I'm so not medical. I thought I was going to be apologizing to the world for dropping biological materials left and right. I thought maybe I should self quarantine again, and maybe wear two sports bras to catch the moles as they fell off my body! Nope, they just slowly disappear, I don't think they'll leave little freckles where they were, but that's what it looks like right now. I think they're actually going to go away and never ever be seen again - - which reminds me of another Sci-Fi flick I saw and can't get out of my head now. 

    ANYWAY - - there you go, if you have beautifying to do, moles to remove, skin to be treated, even if you wanted to try out Botox, just mosey on down to Dr. Elizabeth Prater's Healthy Skin Dermatology of Oklahoma, located at 13933 Technology Dr suite b, Oklahoma City, OK 73134

Hours: Open ⋅ Closes 4PMPhone: (405) 673-4980  Say hi to Kesa and/or Denise for me!!!Tell the good doctor where you heard about her, and you just never know what she can do for you. Just be sure and do the little dance of joy with your mask in place. They prefer that!
THANK YOU DR. PRATER!!  Isn't she just wonderful?  Photo credit: Dr. Prater

Casting My Nets to the Right

 Hello, and welcome to this particular blog. I've just come from the closet in my bedroom where I have a really cute painted wooden chair that has a fat little cushy cushion on it; it's where I pray.  I often ask God to help me, be with me, show me the way, and to be sure and remind me over and over again when I'm about to make a really stupid mistake so I don't actually make it. The closet has been a source of love, life, energy, and prayer for many years. This particular closet only for about 6 years, but since I can remember, certainly since I was around the age of 10, I've been praying inside my closet because the Gospel of Matthew pointed out that we really should do that.  You can find the specific verse, verse 6, in Chapter 6 of that book. It reads in the King James like this:   "But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret; and thy Father which seeth in secret shall reward thee openly."    So yeah, I'm a closet Christian for sure.

    Today's prayer was all about the success and roll out of my new book "Jude's Almost Daily Blog", but of course, as always, when I go into the closet, I don't just pray for one thing. I end up talking and spending more time with God, asking Him what He wants rather than what I want. It's funny, I go into the closet with an agenda and come out with a plan; His plan. Such a deal! He's the best negotiator out there. You come into the meeting with your fists tight and full of panic, and He's just there to help you relax, understand the meaning for the meeting in the first place, and you wind up thinking you really should have remembered this from the last few thousands meetings you've had with God; He really does know what He's doing. 

    The Word I received from God today was about casting my nets to the right and drawing or bringing in the blessing He has prepared for me. The reference is a fishing reference, the "boys" or disciples of Christ were mostly men of blue collar fishing work; and they worked. They literally went out on their ships and boats to pull in a catch to sell to the people so they could afford to eat and sustain their own lives. When they found that they weren't quite making it and couldn't really figure out why, they mentioned it to Jesus. They asked for His help, and He simply told them where to throw their nets.  Now, keep in mind, these guys had already done exactly what Christ had told them to do, but it had been a minute, and both Jesus and the fish knew that it wasn't time for the boys to find the fish until they had asked for the help they needed. The fish, may or may not have been so willing to volunteer for this assignment, but that goes to show you again, that Jesus really is in control of everything.

    Today I have asked Jesus for His help in the distribution, sales, marketing, and presentation of my book "Jude's Almost Daily Blog". I feel that it can be a changing and challenging book for millions, and I want God's help to make that reality my reality as well as the reality for those people who I want to encounter.  I've asked Him to show me where to cast my nets, and I've asked Him to prepare the many people who will be "caught" but not trapped - - I hope they'll be forever blessed.  I want them to be forever blessed. I want to be able to say and willing to say that it was all because of the Grace and gift of Jesus that I am able to reach as many people as I have - - because it will be by the Grace and a gift from Him to do so.

    Prayers have been placed. I am now waiting for the assignment, the orders and the instructions. I fully believe in working with Faith and working with Grace in order to bring about results that will glorify God and prove that He is in fact in control of whatever we need and whatever we want.  I cling to, claim, and quote Psalms 37:4 often, and this is just another time to do that. "Delight yourself in God, and HE will give you the desires of your heart".  It is so true - - this is a desire. This is a want. This is a need. This is a hope.  Here I go! CASTING my nets - - throwing them as far as the internet will take them - - in His name. Grateful. 

Thank you. I appreciate any and all help possible.  My book can be found at Amazon, and by going to this site to find it. I am selling a few thousand from my own stockpile too, at a slightly reduced price, and the book I am selling comes from the publisher, not the distributor, so it has a better paper quality as well.  I can sign it if you want, but it's OK if you don't want me to. I am not offended by that request.  Let me know if I can serve you. I look forward to it.

My site: www.judestringfellow.com 

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Judes-Almost-D...

WWW = World Wide Web

 TRUE...it is so very very true, that the WWW at the beginning of all of those websites, actually stands for "World-Wide Web".  Most kids today don't fully get the concept of that, and it could be because they aren't seeing the forest for the proverbial trees. They play on the web all day, work on it, work out on it, game, stream, learn, and talk on it, but they don't fully grasp that literally ANY ONE and EVERYONE who knows a thing of two about investigating will in fact, be able to find out more than you probably wanted them or anyone else to find out about you - - oh, but it's OK, we all have the same problem! You can find out all you may want to explore about me, just like I'm able to dig in as deeply as I want to in order to find out about you! No secrets, right? Not anymore. There hasn't been real privacy since the turn of the 21st Century. You knew that, but whether or not you were willing to admit it to yourself is another thing!

    Used to be that  "WWW" stood for the Wicked Witch of the West! I know a thing or two about her as well. I played her, took on her role for more than a decade back in the 80s and 90s as I dressed up as the vocalized villain and swept my evil ways into the Oklahoma City Zoological Park ("The Zoo") in order to help the kiddos on their journey of Haunting the Zoo! It was more than fun, let me tell you, and before the security detail got involved, we costumed artists and entertainers were free to roam the entire zoo, chasing kids, scaring parents, making pretty much a scene anywhere and everywhere we could - - patrons weren't supposed to go past the ropes, but when they did you know I volunteered to wrangle a few. It didn't take long to do it; not with my wickedly spell-binding cackle, and the pointing of my broom!  Can you hear me? "I'll get you my pretty, and your little dog, too...."  as laughter and blood curling screams were sent out into the moist dark October skies! "Get back! Get back behind those ropes dear, or I'll....."

    Not today!  Not in 2021.  WWW (which actually is rarely ever used anymore) unleashes any and all dire, dull, dear, or drab information that may be sent out over the airwaves - - frequencies are a beautiful thing. I can be in my office at home, minding your business instead of minding my own. I can decide, if I choose, to go to a site that may or may not have your arrest records (mine as well) and it may or may not tell me if your parents have been arrested, if they are on the boards of any questionable foundations, if you've ever had surgery and for what. If I want to, I can look up your name, birthdate, place of birth, and maybe one other form of identifying tidbit; say maybe what you do for a living now or what company you once worked for, and I can find out if you were fired, terminated, quit, still work there, if you ever wrote a presentation, perhaps it will let me know where you lived at the time. 

    Keep in mind that skip-tracing, investigating people for the sake of locating them so one can collect a debt, has been a practice in America since the early 1900s; it's not a new thing, but the methods have become so very convenient.  When I first began scoping out information about people (I worked for an investigation service while I was a paralegal, and then after I left the law firm I worked extensively for the private eye as an internal investigator) for insurance fraud purposes, I was able to use what we called a Cross Book. It was a book that was literally published by someone, but it had names, addresses, phone numbers, places of employment, whether or not the person used public utilities, had cable or telephone services, and this was how we cross referenced names, birthdates, etc in order to find the right John Smith in order to contact him to ask him for payment. It was and is perfectly legal, but I did draw the line at speaking to a kid or family member and pretending to be a friend or acquaintance of said John Smith. I refused to compromise my ethics for a paycheck then, and I hold to that mantra today as well.

    As a professor, and certainly when I taught at the secondary level, I would always remind my darling students that WWW did in fact stand for World Wide Web, and I could use it at any time I wanted to in order to copy and paste their essays into a Google search to find out whether or not they plagiarized their work.  Today, there are apps that specifically tattle on would be cheaters, and the investigative nature of my searching has been replaced with just a few clicks of a mouse. Where's the fun in that? No glory, no sport whatsoever. I've taken to using these apps and almost allowing them to fully grade the essays because I don't want any good or bad bias to play a role in my subjective grading of a paper. Let the machine be the bad guy. WHY am I telling you all this?

    Seems a good friend, we'll call him friend, he's more of a guy I follow and admire online, has a problem with people knowing much about him. He's out there, he's producing music, he's publicly asking for support and yet wonders how it is that we (the fan base) may know something about him when he didn't post it - - your son posted it. Your cousin posted it. Your mother posted it. Your aunt on your mother's side who is related to you cousin's ex-girlfriend posted it. You don't fully yet understand the words WORLD WIDE WEB. You are not the only person posting about you; you are not the only person related to you who is posting things that relate to you. You are not the only person who is related to someone who doesn't understand that WWW is in fact both interesting and permanent. Your life, at least your life since around 1997, has been recorded, categorized, systematically and/or at times randomly chosen to be memorialized by at least one or two someones who feel the need to post something that may or may not be in your best interest.  Fighting it is futile, the best thing to do is to get in front of it, and stop defending it. Just know it's there and it won't go away any time soon. 

    It may be really really harsh to be brought out into this particular light, and Plato may have been onto something when he brought it up in the first place (You can Google that too). It is never easy to realize that you are not alone and it is never easy to realize that you are absolutely alone. It is never easy to find out that someone knows this or that, and you have no control over what they may do with that information. Just let it go - - let your yes be yes, let your no be no, give all your worries to God and move forward -- the past is the past is the past and if someone uses it to hurt you, shame on you for not being strong enough to first admit the folly, and then being stronger still by saying "Yeah, that was me, I did that, I'm an idiot, but I learned from the experience."  We don't have time left on this Earth to sit around moaning and complaining about what so and so posted or read recently that had been posted. Glory to God, already! Move forward. 

    It's all good.  I can see where it would be shocking and it would be upsetting, but I learned a long time ago to just say yes, that happened, or no, that didn't happen. I can tell you, a quick search of my name will show you both my bankruptcies my evictions, my divorce, the five-year court battle over my ex abusing my children, custody, lack of child support -- did I mention evictions? I was evicted at least four times I think. Yeah, I had a  hard time of it raising kids without support - - damn near killed me, but the thing is, there is another way to look at all this increasing knowledge and seemingly endless swirling of data drowning all of us - - the Bible told us it would happen -- and happen at the END.  We are getting closer and closer and closer to seeing Jesus face to face  -  and let me tell you something, you can Google all day long and not find something more permanent and more glorious than that.

Happy trails - - just be careful out there now that you're an adult. 

I Should Weigh Negative 10 by Now.

 So, it's been what, 9 months since I started the diet? This is May 25, and I started it on or around the 3rd of August, that's nearly 10 months really; wow, time flies at times, and it creeps along ever so slowly at other times.  I was absolutely sure that by this time I would have met my goal weight and would be on the wild road to maintaining my new glorious self, but that is so not the case. I mean, here's the thing, I am just about as human as the ncxt guy; or girl. I eat, sleep, drink, exercise, cheat, fall off track, climb back into the seat of that train, motivate myself to start over, and do everything and anything possible to make the scales sing the song I'm picking to listen to. The only problem is my body is just not cooperating, and really not one of my molecules will tell me why -- they are either too busy arguing with one another, or they've just plain stopped communicating. Something is not right. I am still not there.

        I will say this, I will have to raise my hands and give praise, because today my daughter was bragging about wearing a pair of capri pants that she had stashed in her closet for a good minute. I think she wore them maybe a few years ago, but either because she couldn't find them readily, or she had gained a bit of weight, she hadn't worn them. She put them on today and was dancing around happy and all giddy saying how she couldn't believe she was even fitting in them. I looked at the pants and thought maybe they'd actually fit me.  "Take them off", I said to her bluntly. I wasn't even nice about it. "Take them off, I want to see if the fit me."  She did laugh a little, but agreed to humor me.  Slowly she removed her pants, only slightly giggling when she handed them to me, but she wasn't laughing when I pulled them up and zipped them, now was she? She was staring at me! That's exactly what she was doing, she was staring straight at me, and then more laughter broke from her face, but it was a good kind of laughing - - which caused me to spit out a few chuckles myself. Her pants fit me! This hasn't happened since - - well, no, this has actually never happened before. Nope, not once. It felt so very very good! 

        Still, I think it's fair to say that I have a few more pounds to lose, and there really isn't a reason for it not happening, not when I'm getting over 10 hours of sleep every day, I'm drinking more than 100 ounces of water every day, I absolutely watch my carb count, my calorie count, my fiber and my protein count. I'm exercising daily by walking, riding, dancing, riding the bike, going to the gym, and using my vibration plate with weights. (Obviously, I'm not doing all of those things on the same day, but I do work out and/or exercise at least 30-45 minutes solid every day) there is just no good reason for me to be over my goal weight - - and I do want there to be a complain registered wherever and to whomever it is one complains to when things like this happen!  

        Because I believe in the power of prayer,  I do make it a daily thing to go into my closet and ask Jesus for His help and I mean it, I'm not just out there begging and pleading, I'm doing my part. I am working at it, not expecting miracles but looking forward to the needed answers to my prayers. It's just that it's taking forever  - at this rate the rapture will come and there I'll be claiming I could have been perfect if I didn't have to go to Heaven and be ... you know, perfect!  Tell you what, I'll trade this old hat body for the new one any day and every way. Maranatha!!  I can't wait. Still, while on this Earth, and having to deal with the ever to present reality of being 20-25 pounds from my goal weight, I want results!!

        I've looked it up, and hitting plateaus such as mine, is a very normal thing. I know. I've read all there is to read about it. I'm a member of a few online support groups too, and we talk about it, and we do things like carb cycling, loading, fasting, and daily tracking of all that goes into my mouth - - been there done that, still doing it  - come on already!! I want to be the New Jude now, it's my turn. It will happen...no worries. I just thought I'd moan a bit. I'm over it, I'll get back to surfing the Right Move app for a new house to live in once I get to Scotland. I can't decide if I want to be closer to Edinburgh, over the Firth of Forth in the Fife (love saying that) or in between Edinburgh and Glasgow so I can shop back and forth, see the various universities, be a rail-queen and travel over and over...I don't know. I like saying I live in the kingdom, so the Fife will likely win out in the end. Either way, any way, it will be wonderful and I should be at least closer to my ideal self by October...I better be! 

Laura with Luna

That's When You KNOW You Suck!

 I couldn't get to the tobacco exchange fast enough yesterday! I was really excited that the new cigar store was in our area, not a far drive, and small enough to be intimate, but large enough to have a good selection. I couldn't have been happier with the two guys running the shop; both had experience in their products, both were helpful, both were professional, and even made suggestions when I told them I was needing a good fat older style cigar for researching the main character (Nick Posh) for my new murder thriller. Oh, the men wanted to hear all about it, and they were searching in their store room for the best sample of what would be smoked (albeit probably a special occasion) by a former Chicago detective in the 1930's; one with an axe to grind. 

    The boys came up with a Dominican Republic cigar, a Maduro make by Le Galera. It's hand rolled, fat, dark, long enough to be impressive, but not too long, and it was tastefully expensive, but not out of reach for the paygrade of my detective.  I think I paid $8.00 for it, so it would have been about fifty cents back in the day. Not bad. Lady Liberty would have been walking across the coin carrying an armful of flowers, a majestic bald eagle spread across the reverse side of the coin. Today, a mint condition coin of that sort would bring in over $25,000.00 to the right holder. Funny how that works.  I bought the cigar with a big smile on my face, and looked forward to the moonrise so I could begin my research project. I was hoping my son could join me, but he was otherwise busy; nevertheless, I ended up buying him a nice 4-pack of cigars from various locations around the Caribbean. He'll like that.

    About 9:30 p.m. or so I decided it was dark enough and late enough to imbibe on the festive adventure of doing my stogie sucking research for the new book. Having smoked many a machine made cigar in the past, and maybe one or two hand rolled club cigars, I felt I was pretty cool for deciding to up my game for the sake of research. I knew full well that I wasn't going to make a habit out of buying expensive cigars; I only smoke one or two a year for Pyrate Nite usually, and most of the time, well, yeah, every time I can remember, it's been a cheap thin grape flavored trick from 7-11; if I had to be honest about it. This was the first "real" cigar I'd smoked in more than 35 years -- before I had kids, I can say that. I don't remember smoking anything worth anything after I gave birth. I was too strapped for cash most of the time.

    Because I'm ME and that way, I misplaced my matches, and had to use a fire-clicker thingy-ma-bob that you use to start fireplaces with, and you know that didn't fare well outside in the Oklahoma wind. I held the cigar clenched in my teeth and used both hands to light and guard the flame. I was there on the balcony of my apartment sucking and sucking trying to get the damn stogie to light. It wasn't easy, and it wasn't fast. The really expensive cigars are fatter, denser, and take a bit longer to light apparently. I really had sore cheeks after finally achieving my goal - - but damn it, I got the thing lit! There I was actually smoking a real cigar and having imaginative thoughts of being a 1930s style former detective on the balcony of a theatre in Chicago overlooking the city just wondering where the bad guy could be hiding. I had followed him this far. I could have made a misstep, but I felt as if he was close enough to bite.  That's when the cigar went out on me! WHAT? How did that happen?

    Back to the kitchen to try something new. I took the clicker thing and lit a candle, took the candle outside with me and lit my cigar again  - much better; more success, I learned something.  Oh wait, I also learned that I smoke with my left hand. I guess I knew that, but I wasn't paying attention to it, but it's true. I also hold my phone to my left ear, and that started my thinking gears up again; I was born left handed.  Nick Posh may be left handed. I think he should be. It makes more sense to me now, and it explains why the guy he killed with one blow - - oh, I can't tell you that, nevermind. Read the book!

    So, I'm on the balcony, cigar in hand, candle blown out by the wind, dog not happy with the smells and seeing her person pacing and pretending. Dogs don't pretend well, I also learned that.  About six to eight minutes into my second round of lighting and puffing I began feeling sick to my stomach really, and then my head decided it needed to fall off my shoulders and over the balcony. I think I had the wherewithal to stub the cigar on a brick and make it into the house without too much trouble, but my daughter had to let the dog in from outside, I hadn't kept the door open for her. Laura saw me make a bee-line for my bed and couldn't figure it out - - she wasn't alone, I couldn't figure it out either, but the bed just seemed like the more logical place to go.

    SWEAT!!! Oh my goodness, I began sweating. I couldn't open my eyes for fear of falling off the balcony (and I was laying prone on the bed at the time) and I couldn't breathe well either. I'm not sure if I was having a hard time breathing or if my heart had decided to shake up the situation and give me another reason to speak to Jesus. Jesus and I talk all the time, but this was one of those really fast and furious favor asking times; He gets me. I was all over my bed, spread out in four directions for optimal cooling, begging Laura to turn on my fan, turn out the light, and find me a wet washcloth - - now would be great! She was not only dutiful of course, but she was chiding and scolding at the same time; did I raise her correctly, or what? I think she said all the things I would have said to her if the roles were reversed; she'll be fine without me. I know this.  Me? I wasn't fine with me at that point. Nope.

    Throughout the night and into the dawn I knew I was going to have to crawl my way to the bathroom at some point. I just wondered if my head would come with me or if I needed to leave it in the bed where it was. I opted for taking it with me, but it and I argued the entire 16 feet to the bathroom - - and the entire 16 feet back to the bed. My head won the argument; just incase you were wondering. I spent the next 11 hours crashed and wracked up in my sweat-soaked sheets trying to make heads or tails out of why it was that I thought I was OK smoking an intense cigar in the first place.  This morning was spent doing more research, but not necessarily for the novel, though I may have to write the information I found in another blog as a public service announcement.  Apparently, (and everyone knew this but me) you can't smoke a fat new hand-rolled expensive dense cigar quickly. You're not supposed to inhale of course, and you're not supposed to hold the smoke in too long -- trifecta! I suck. I did all three and I ended up up-ended. So you know.

    When I finally gathered enough strength to crawl-walk to the bathroom again, I sat in the shower for six to eight minutes researching what it feels like to not be able to reach the faucet turning thingies to make your shower a bit more enjoyable. I laid there wondering if I could die of cold water hitting my body and my face. I didn't die. I know now that you won't die from that, but it would be a rather bad way to end such an incredibly interesting life. I managed to dry off, dress, call my other daughter, the smoker, and get laughed at from yet another kid.  I called my son only to see if boys treated their mothers differently, better than girls - - they do.  My son told me in his most military commanding way that drinking water will assure my restoration of health. He told me that if I decided to smoke the rest of the cigar to be sure and take it easy, slow things down, maybe let it burn more than I puff. He also told me that if I begin to feel dizzy, stop immediately, and lay down.  At least I know I was on the right track last night - - I just waited a bit too long, that's all.

    OK, well, that's my cigar smoking, stogie-killing story for you! Hope I've managed to both entertain and explain. I want the world to know that cigars are to be both appreciated and respected....and in some people's cases, like my own, they should be looked at and left right where they are. Not in my hand, not lit, not in my mouth, not puffed. They should be in movies, in books, in fantasies, where they can't do much harm. 

EVERY Door. EVERY time.

 When God decides to do something He does it. He doesn't ask our permission, in fact, we're the blessed ones for being included in His plans; remember that.  He gave us a few clues to figure out what we can do in order to be included in those plans.  We are not alone in our journey to do whatever He deems for us, we are packed up and pushed together with every last person on the Earth who has ever been, who is now, and who will ever be. See, God doesn't just include the few, He has a purpose for every last one of us. We may or may not figure it out; but you can know that you are here for a reason! Maybe it's time to ask yourself and ask God, what it is that you were made for (specifically) and why it is that you just can't seem to make it all happen on your own.  The answer is really simple when you think about it; you really aren't that cool.  Let go. Let God. 

        Psalms 37:4 was written a long long time ago, way before I was born, but it remains the one verse and promise that I cling to every day of my life. Whenever I want anything for myself all I need to do (believe me it took years to figure this one out for myself) is go into the bedroom closet where I pray, let God know what I want (Spoiler: He already knew), and I figure out what I can do for Him so that I'll be delighting myself in God so that He can and will fulfill His end of the deal.  Psalms 37:4 is a promise. It's not just a little sing-songy thing that David put together to thump a harp to, no, it's a bona fide promise from Almighty God.  If I delight myself in God, He (no one else) will give me the desires of my heart. I take that to mean every last desire. I take that to mean every last thing I could ever want. I take that to mean anything and everything that I desire - - and I add the caveat that God would have me ask for things that would also be a blessing and found pleasing to Him. I'm not stupid.

        Let me give you a quick example of what I'm talking about to show you the power of prayer.  I went to the closet maybe a couple of days ago. I told God I was super excited about my book Jude's Almost Daily Blog Book coming out, and I was super excited that I had already started on the 2nd book, a series follow up, Jude's Almost Daily Blog Book, Twice Over.  I explained to God that I have had this murder series on my mind for years and I wanted to get it started. I wasn't sure what it would cost, but thought it would be awesome if the first one could come out around my birthday in November. This is May, so you know, in about 6 months or so.  I told Him I needed help getting the funding, but I promised to be present in my writing, and not to be carried away with the intimate or more erotic details. I think hint and innuendo is so much more sexy anyway - - leaves more to think about. Well, this morning I was walking the dog when the postman told me I had a letter to sign for. OK. 

        The letter was not just any letter - - no, it was a settlement check, and an explanation of what it was leading me to understand that six years ago I had signed a petition asking the state of California to look into the business practices of a certain California based company that did credit restorations. To be honest, I never thought anything really bad about the company, but they did seem to be taking my money and not giving me the best results, so I stopped using them. End of story; so I thought.  Today the story ended with a sweet little settlement check that guess what -- is EXACTLY the same amount of money that I needed to pay for the publishing of the new murder book! I'm not kidding. I think I may have to pay out $49 for registration with the Library of Congress, but hey, I'm OK with that. WOW...this is just amazing. 

        I knew this week would be the week I started the bones of the book, laying it out, and feeling around inside the gutsy areas to flesh out the killer, the would be victims, the actual victims, the hero, the fluff, the noise, all the smells, and of course, I have to add a bearded man with an axe to grind; but am I speaking figuratively or literally about that axe? You'll have to read the book - - the answer is "Yes".  I knew I would be writing the bones, but I had no idea I would be able to pay for it now and just relax and not worry about having to pay for it after I wrote it. I have three solid books I've written in the past that are waiting to be published, but I never really had the money to put it publication before. I may glean from each or some of them for the new book - - I may steal ideas from myself. It could happen. 

        I am just so happy that doors and windows are seemingly flying open right now for me to get my books out there, get them marketed, get them into the reader's hands and get myself over to Scotland, where I intend to be that curmudgeonly old American Ex pat sitting around in a dank coffee house ordering my third cup while watching seagulls wave. It's a plan. You may not like it, but I like my plan! (The only thing I need to do now is figure out who it is I'm going to kill - - just for grins I may send a skeptical guitarist over a semi-steep slope on top of Arthur's Seat in Holy Rood park in Edinburgh -- it may or may not have anything do with the plot. It may just be for the hell of it. He may break his right hand thumbnail.) I can do that. I have a keyboard.

Thank you, Jesus. 

Photo credit: Unknown

Someone Has to Die.

 This is the week friends! This is the week I murder someone with my keyboard. It will happen. I can absolutely guarantee that it won't be pretty, it won't be needed, it won't be necessary (from the point of view of the victim, anyway) but it won't be random. It will be calculated, planned, and executed, but it will not be something that had to happen in order for the bad guy to be caught. Detective Nick Posh was already on the trail of the suspect; whose identity will not be revealed through the blog, but through the book.  I haven't murdered in a while; and I just sort of felt the need to do it.  I have three other books I've written where a murder takes place, but I don't feel like publishing any of them at this time. I may rewrite them and include them in my Nick Posh series.  Oh wow, I just admitted there will be a Nick Posh series! OK, it's out - - can't take it back now.

        As a writer, I am always looking for, and even hoping to find the perfect place to murder someone. But you've heard me say it a dozen times at least, it's not the murder that creates the problems for the suspect; it's the disposal.  Disposing of the body, the entire body, is the real problem because once a person is dead they can't walk themselves to the freezer or the woodchopper. It's a drag at best, and in some cases there will be a makeshift pully system using piano wire and a horse plowing harness  - in come cases. The disposal for the body in this book, as in my mind, and I've let it slip a few times, will be to freeze the body, chop it into a million pieces using a woodchopper (I need to research them to be sure they were even made in the 1930s, if not it'll have to be a mill of some sort). After the chopper comes the farmer's pigs, and whatever is left will be scattered either in a cornfield, or over the lake so the catfish and turtles will do what they do best - - dispose. No one has ever interrogated an Illinois River Cooter to my knowledge.   

        One of the reasons I write my Nick Posh series in this particular genre and/or period is because my son Reuben was in a movie called "The Gray Man" (2007), filmed in 2005 here in our hometown basically. It was about 30 miles away, but he was in the film as part of his graduation agreement with the school he attended.  I was privileged to have been his personal assistant during the filming.  My son had long gorgeous reddish brown locks floating around his shoulders, but for the part he was to play; a 1930's beat cop, he had to not only cut his hair, but shave most of his head. He was excited to save himself the money having to go to the barbers, but mom was a bit sad.  The lady cutting his hair cried a bit, and even kept it as a momento.  She was cute.  The film wasn't all that successful, but it was an amazing experience for all of us. It took me back 25 years to when I worked in Hollywood, and it allowed Reuben the opportunity to show off his good looks as well as his athletic abilities. There's a scene where he hunts down and tackles the murderous villain in a rural setting - - the director had to use a stunt man after the 2nd take. Reuben showed a bit too much enthusiasm apparently.  You know what, I need to go onto IMDB and update the site so Reuben is given credit for being in the film. That's what I need to do. But I digress.

        My lunch is over here getting cold while I reminisce about the gooy eerie details of how so and so is going to die. I'm not even going to tell you who it is that I'm killing off, but I can assure you they needed to be.  When I murder someone in my books or in my mind, they are always someone who pissed me off recently, or maybe in the past. I am a very patient murderess. I have waited years before offing someone who really needed to slip off the edge of a towering brownstone or perhaps found themselves unaware of the cloaked Reaper as he stood silently, breathlessly taking his charge. If I'm simply pissed they simply die, if I'm really upset with the bastard he'll suffer a long and cruel punishment before giving up his last breath to death's cold fingers. That's happened twice.

        This week will be the week I sit down and write the bones of the book - - I've decided to back pedal a bit with Nick, and introduce him again in this book, as if it were the first I have written. It is not  the first, but it will be the first to be published, so he'll need to be introduced and a good open air description will be given. The style of the book will be familiar to some; I write the Nick Posh stories in the traditional sleazy, dim lit, dusty manner in which many older Perry Mason novels were written. I use terms, lingo and language befitting a third generation American Scottish man from the burbs of Chicago; accents may reflect the area, words may reflect the times. Nick is hard. He's been hit and has done the hitting; he hit the hardest. He's a rough and ugly diamond at best, but diamonds cut; never forget that.

        What a week for me! I'm absolutely excited about it, but I do have to literally set my alarm on my phone to remind myself to eat. When I write I don't eat at all unless I'm forced to get off the keyboard. I usually only get off the keyboard to take the dog or myself to pee -- and even then I chinch it. I don't allow a full minute to time me out of my writing streak - - it can be brutal. I love my work.  You may see me guzzling coffee, squeezing my Thesaurus and flipping through hymnals for inspiration. I've often quoted the Bible in these books because Nick, for all his past sins, has actually accepted Christ and it is the one saving grace, literally, his saving grace - - otherwise Nick could be sought by the law himself. Nick and Jesus have an understanding - - the debt was paid at the Cross; no one needs to know every detail here on Earth. He lives with his past; strives for forgiveness.

        OK, gotta get the mind ready - - Ima about to dig both hands in up to my elbows in deceptive behavior that can be measured in keystrokes. I'd say wish me luck, but luck is for the Irish. I'm a Scot (American born) I make things happen - - luck can fail. I don't have that luxury. 

Photo: unknown credit, but David Rudd is the director of Cinematography for the film.

What Would You Do?

 My best friend in the world is Jeannie Clarke, and she won't mind me saying that we've known each other since before mud; I mean, there was dirt before we met, sure, but it hadn't rained yet, and no one was really digging up crud at the bottom of the seas to make pies and facial packs with the stuff. I wanted to claim that we invented mud, but I can't do that with a straight face. We've been walking and talking for way too long together.

      My bestie and I were taking a walk yesterday, here at my complex, because when she comes over of an evening on a Friday night, that's a really cool thing to do. We get in our 8000+ steps and we talk about ugly people; we do that to make fun of ourselves, I don't want you going off thinking that we're mean or anything. We are so not mean. Well, we are, but we're just mean for us, we don't tell the world what we think about a lot of things because we could possibly be banned from most places if anyone really heard how we talk to each other.  Truth be told, we're more immature than mean. 

        So we're walking, and we're talking, and with every other step we take (mind you we're moving at a pretty fast clip) we are trying our best to avoid blue green crusty old and more squirty recent goose poops; it's that time of year. We're over there avoiding, over stepping, and bumping into each other and she asks me, "Hey, I can ask you, I saw this on Facebook and thought there is no way Jude would do that, but I would!"  I asked her, "OK, what is it?"  She went on to say that there was a question sort of quiz thing out on Facebook asking people if they would slap their best friend for $1000 cash.  I told her no. I told her I wouldn't slap her for even much more, even a million dollars. It wouldn't happen. She laughed and told me I better slap the crap out of her for that much money, but it wasn't registering with her what I was saying.

        Ethics are so important to me.  To be called a friend, to be trusted, to be loved, to be honored to the point that I am one of very few people you could call upon to do just about anything, would negate any possible chance of me compromising my ethics and love for you; to trade that love, to trade that respect, to trade my personal ethics for money. I don't care how much the dollar amount is, no, the answer is, I'm not willing to compromise myself or my ethics to satisfy some random person's idea of what can be bought. At what point do we say enough is enough, and there are just some things that can't be purchased for sport?  Jeannie was moved by my reasoning, but suggested an alternative; what if, she said, what if she wanted the money for herself and in order to get it I had to slap her.  Well, OK, that's a little different. That puts the onus on her now, and it recreates the entire structure of the question. If that were the case, I would probably help her out, but I would never hurt her. I couldn't do that.

        She stopped walking when she heard my answer.  She thought about all that I had said, and she thanked me for not only being a good friend, but for being one who placed our relationship and years of trusting one another over a would be compromise.  I asked her if she could slap me for the same amount of money, and she said laughed and said she would do it for nothing actually - - what a good buddy! I now know that if I ever need my face slapped I have a good chance of seeing that happen and I won't have to pay for it; can you imagine going through life without a friend like Jeannie? She's the best!  

        We talked a bit more about it, and I explained why I don't ever want to compromise myself; it's more about being an example for my kids and being able to face Jesus in the future; she gets that, but decided that she could also see it as a way to make a little side money and not really have to do much more than ice her cheek for a few minutes.  Well, if she is ever in the situation I'm sure another good friend will come to her rescue - - just not this one.  Don't get me wrong, I'll be right next to Jeannie if and when she's arrested, it would probably be my fault anyway. I just won't slap her for someone else's pleasure.

What would you do?

Jeannie and Lily

Some Things are Better Than Sex

 So true, though I will admit, I may have to admit that I'm a bit out of touch (no pun intended) with the whole sex thing. I mean, I don't let my mind off the hook; it stays as active as ever, but in reality, it's been a minute.  I will say this, there are things that I know of, that are actually better than bad sex, we'll go with that. Not too many things can be as satisfying as ... I need to stop before I go into the full description of what I think would constitute good sex; suffice it to say warm butter and drizzled honey play a part in it. That being surrendered; I will say that my new "Are You Kidding, Coma Inducer" comforter may very well meet the standard of surpassing mediocre sex  - - at least from what I remember; and it's color is frosted chocolate, so there you go. Boom.  I may never leave my bed again.

        To be honest, and I mean this, I won't be bringing any warm butter or honey to my bed any time soon with or without this comforter, but I think the man who even suggested it may end up on the floor in the downstairs closet -- and I don't have a downstairs closet; let that sink in for a minute. No one is going to bring water near my comforter, let alone anything that could stain it or cause one fluffy plump foo-foo fiber to be less foo than it is at this very minute. I can't believe my mind is allowing my hands to be free so I can even type these words - - but I just needed to express my genuine and utter love for my new friend. I hope Naked Bearded Man finds it as rewardingly pleasant as I do; he may not even be necessary at this point. You just don't understand the full capturing power of this comforter; I may not be able to use enough alluring adjectives to be sufficient in my explanation of it. It may be one of those soft as a cloud things that you can't express to anyone who hasn't been inside of a cloud. I may take this comforter to Heaven with me just incase there isn't one up that way. 

        The moment I found the thing I had to have it. Now I'm calling it a thing - - it needs a name, but now I'm thinking I can't call it a he because of Naked Bearded Man, and I won't ever sleep with a woman, so that's not going to work. I suppose I could use a neutral name for it; maybe Quinn.  Quinn it is - - and suddenly I'm thinking of Brian "Q" Quinn, the American comedian "outta" New York City.  He's really funny -- and yes, he fits the TYPE of man that I like, so there you go, the new comforter is going to be named Quinn, and I hope Naked Bearded Man and Quinn don't mind me sharing my time, space, energy, mind, thoughts, dreams, caress, and passion between them. If one or the other of them do -- no, never mind, I'll never give up Quinn! Not going to happen.  Some things are just simply better than, feel better than, look better than, smell better than, move and flow better than other things - - Fact.

        I won't lie and say Quinn was cheap, it wasn't. Nope, but it was one of those things when you see it you say "This is going to happen", something akin to when Fat Bastard shouts out "Get into my belly" in Austin Powers, you just know you have to have it -- it must be, and it will be, and there's nothing going to stop you from making it happen; so it happens. I saw, I shopped, I conquered. That simple. Now, Quinn and I will spend the rest of our lives together in extreme bliss, warmth; a caressing Heavenly existence that can only be understood from underneath it. At least now when I do make it out of the bed, out of the house, and into the hard, harsh, and hostile world, anyone who reads my blogs will understand why I am still smiling through it all; Quinn. How did I not find it years ago? Was it out there and I just didn't know? Could I be so amaurotic? I must be. Thank you Internet. Thank you DuckDuckGo.

        So yeah, there's that, there's me in my fluffy, poofy, tiffany, glamourous, and magnificent Quinn - - together now; not alone, Ginger will be there to make sure I do actually wake up and feed her, take her out, and let her do her thing before we both return to our bed and snuggle bunny up to our new bestie. I've already told Jeannie I have a new best friend. It's just Quinn can do things for me and to me that Jeannie could never be allowed and to be honest, she's a Democrat, it could never really work out even if we were gay - - Quinn is big enough if Jeannie, my three kids, and probably another dog or two wanted to snuggle at the same time, we could all do that - - then all of us would have silly and unimaginablely asinine grins on our faces. There just can't be another more satisfying reason to be this happy - - I mean without warm butter and honey; but that can happen in the future maybe, just not anywhere close to Quinn. I have my boundaries. I know my boundaries. Believe it or not.

Photo: Loon Peak