Real Estate Hell - I'm in it!

I'm going to tell you a story that you simply won't believe, but it is true.

I am in Real Estate Hell, and it's no fun, let me tell you. I don't know the rules and regulations about falling into the pit. I don't know what 'sin' I committed, or wasn't forgiven for - I don't even understand why this is happening to me, but it is.

March 2003 - I got kicked out a house I was going to buy because I decided to take Faith into my house and keep her. The owner decided he didn't want dogs in his house. I reminded him I was buying it. He reminded me I was lease/purchasing it, and until it was purchased he didn't want dogs in his house. I was forced to move. But he gave me a week. There's no way I was going to stop loving Faith (and besides, we had Matrix - something he wasn't aware of.) just because he's an ass.

It just so happened that my ex had to move out of the house we bought when we were married. Great! I moved into it, he moved out, and all was well. Until the morning the sheriff came and informed me that my ex had listed the house in a bankruptcy, and it was being sold in 72 hours. What a nice man....not talking about the sheriff. The father of my girls - he could have at least mentioned this fact before we moved in. We went to an apartment and immediately looked for a house to move into.

March 2005. I found a great little house - the owners were willing to do an early tenancy for me and the kids, and the dogs! We waited for closing, but it never happened. 1 month, 2 months, 3 months....you don't pay rent while you're waiting to close under these circumstances, so I called to find out what was going on. The house had been sold! BUT NOT TO ME! I was again forced by the sheriff to leave, but this time I had a bit of a standing in court. The good judge gave me 10 days to find a place. Oh, how sweet of her! Why was it allowed to be sold after I bought it? Simple answer, the person I bought it from DID NOT OWN IT!

June 2005. I moved to a condo in a little village of condos - each as cute as the other, very small yards, but with great amenities. Leasing to purchase again as the owner wanted a 20% downpayment to sell for the right price. I had to save. Within 90 days she and her husband had broken up, and guess what was being sold out from under ME in order to fulfill THEIR divorce settlement! MY HOUSE. I had no standing whatsoever, and the judge forced me out in 48 hours this time. WOW...you'd think I'd learn. But without 20% down you really don't have much of a chance in Oklahoma at getting a mortgage.

September 2005. My parents had a place on their farm that we could live in, but it's literally 26 miles from town. We did this, and we saved, and we worked, and we tried hard to make the 20% for the next place. It finally happened. June 2006 I put $21,000 down on a little 2 bedroom, 2 bathroom, 2 car garage condo in a perfect little neighborhood in a perfect little city called Edmond. I lived there under another lease/purchase because the mortgage companies didn't like the fact that I was not returning to work at the same school I had been teaching for and since teachers are NEVER guaranteed a position in Oklahoma, they chose NOT to give me the loan. The landlord needed to sell, and he had used MY money to put down on HIS new place.

I paid my rent to the man, but he paid his new rent with it. Seriously. He paid HIS rent with it, and there you go. I was asked by the mortgage company to leave in late Ocotober 2006. AGAIN...48 hours to leave. The tenant/landlord act is a joke in this county. Immediately we set out looking for a place to get. There was no way of purchasing because I lost my money, and NO, I can't get it back. I've tried, it's not happening. The man has nothing to tax, nothing to retrieve, nothing I can put a lien on. Such is life sometimes and you really just have to suck it up.....and cry your eyes out, but nevertheless -

OK, so I have been leasing this house, a great 3 bedroom, 2 bath, 2 car garage house in the same perfect city, and it has everything we need and want. We want to buy it...but wait...we can't. (Do you get the idea that something like a big, fat, ugly, black, cloud is hanging over my head? It's not...I just have to figure out what the hell is going on with me and Oklahoma! It may be time to leave.) We can't buy this place for the same reason we couldn't buy the last one. No permanent position - being an author is NOT good enough for anyone in the mortgage business. It doesn't matter what you earn, if you don't have 20% down, forget it. (and I don't have 20% to put down)

So, after the book advance that was expected in March didn't arrive in March, and it didn't arrive in April, and it looks like the middle of May before it may actually get here - the landlord has decided to kick us out. No excuses he says, no whining, no argument, no begging please, that only makes him feel like we're desparate and he thinks less of us. He said so...damn. So, I'm out on my keister again - this time in a much more sinister way than before, because this time it is my fault....at least I have that to comfort me.

The girls will live with their aunt. I got her in the divorce. She's MY sister now! Hahahaha....and I'll live with my crazy friend Andrea who, like me, is a teacher - but she's employed. She's a children's book author too, and it will give us an opportunity to work on her books and getting her published...but still....can I catch a break please? Maybe I need to leave the state, maybe I need to work on the great escape now rather than waiting for Caity to turn 17. Chicago seems expensive yes, but (and I say this nearly 10 times a day ) WHEN THE MONEY COMES IN...I'll be able to afford it.

I want to buy something people! I want to settle down! Whats happening to me is the weirdiest, strangest, oddest, most unusual chain of events...but it is happening, and no matter who you tell, they look at you like you're nuts. OK-I'll accept that, but it's still very much happening! Can someone please stop the world - I'd like to get off and rest a little while before coming home. (HOME? What's that?)

Call me Bessie

Wallis Warfield Spencer Simpson Windsor! Wow, what a name.

Bessie, as she was called by her close friends and relatives died 21 years ago this week. She was best known for being one half of the "Love Affair of the Century". That would be the 20th Century, and the other half would be David Windsor, AKA King Edward VIII of England. You remember, he gave up his throne to his brother George, and when George passed away, the monarchy fell to Elizabeth II. (So, again, an American has a great deal to do with British politics. Had it not been for the fact that Wallis was married, divorced (2 times) and yes, worst of all, an American - Edward would have remained King.)

Call me Bessie now. I'll tell you why. Wallis, Bessie, it turns out was born into a rather poor family, perhaps middle class, perhaps average at best. She married averagely, she lived averagely, but there was JUST something about Bessie that kept her out of the box completely. She couldn't be tamed I suppose. She just wouldn't settle for anything less than what she believed she was meant for - which was greatness. She knew she had it in her, she recognized it early on in her life, but her caste status in a small town in Pennsylvania, later Maryland, just kept her down, kept her in "her place" as other said, and it took every ounce of energy from her sheer will to pull herself up to make something of a name for herself.

I'm not saying I'm wanting to date a king. I don't think there's one out there worth crossing the pond for. I just know that for years, well - most of my life, I've been held back as Bessie was held back because of my position in life, my class, my caste, my breeding - if you will. Great parents, don't get me wrong, but sometimes I think the Rockefellers or the Astors are missing a kid - if you know what I mean. I just KNOW there is more out there, more than what I've been able to obtain strictly by name. It takes fight, guts, pull, clout, work, and most of all - connections.

When she was dating the king, and I suppose other lords or men of nobility in England, Wallis was penniless in America. She borrowed clothes to wear to balls and she didn't have enough money for fare, often walking to an acceptable location where she could be picked up without her suitor knowing she was living on the lower side of the city. I can relate to this - wait - I am living this now! People associate fame with fortune. My dog is famous, therefore, they assume, we must be rich. The polar opposite is true - in reality. (and it sucks by the way)

What is great is that in Wallis, and in strong-willed, pig-headed, bull-skulled women just like her I have found a common bond. I am simply unable to stop pressing my dreams and desires to fruition. They have to come true because like a Marine on a mission, I will not stop. I will not quit. I will not be distracted - my mission comes with a little baggage; my children. If I fail at life, I drag them with me. My only option is to work, to fight, to dig deeper, to find a way to make it - and I will make it. That has never been in question...but you know what, it wouldn't be so bad if someone wanted to help a bit. No, I won't marry you. That's not helping - but it won't be the end of the world for someone who can give us a break to do it.

The great news is - I'm not alone. I take Christ with me everywhere I go. His grace reminds me that everything is possible, and nothing is impossible - so call me what you want, but I will answer the phone if you have a little work for us! You may be the spark that sets the fire!

12 Years and Healing - Lest We Forget

The "MURRAH?"

We didn't call it that.

If you lived in Oklahoma City you called the building on 5th and Hudson the Federal Building. Some may have called it the Social Security building, but it turns out to have actually had a name - The Alfred B. Murrah Building. When the media moguls asked me about the Murrah Building a day or so after the bombing I remember asking Tom Brokaw if there had been a second bombing of another building. (Shows you that I wasn't really watching much of the news that day after the first few hours.)

To the media, to the police who were doing their initial investigations, and to the people who kept pampering me for days and days, I was considered a survivor of the then worst terrorist act on American soil. The Oklahoma City Bombing - but I didn't feel like, and I never call myself a survivor. I wasn't IN the building. I was going to the building at the time of its explosion. Yes, I felt it of course, and I was thrown to the ground. My elbows bled from where I struck the ground, but I didn't see a thing. I couldn't see much - black smoke billowed forward from the building - I was walking north, the back of the building was nearly perfectly intact. Besides, I thought a gas main had exploded under my feet on Robinson and thought another would occur any second as the ground continued to rumble uncomfortably. I ran.

I remember running east a block to Broadway and then south to the Myriad Convention Center (Cox Communication Convention Center now) and I remember finding my dad's truck. I remember starting the truck and the strange and unusual music coming from the speakers. I couldn't turn it down - I couldn't turn it off. It wasn't the radio. There was no radio in the truck - it was the music of multiple (hundreds) 0f sirens blowing all around the city, all around the convention center, all around downtown - and the music got louder and stronger - I drove away.

I had two interviews that day at the same hotel, the Medallion, I don't remember exactly which position was at what hour, but I had a 10:00 a.m and a 3:00 p.m. appointment for an office manager position and an account executive position. I remember thinking I needed to call someone and tell them I wouldn't be coming in. Almost by remote control, my dad's truck headed 27 miles north, northeast to where he kept it in a little garage outside his house - walking into the house I think the television was already on. He kept it on to ward off strangers who may come into the country and want to knock on his door. If he wasn't home it would appear that he was - he and mom were both out that day.

I saw images on the television of a building, but it didn't feel right. I didn't recognize it, and again I thought the downtown area of my city was being taken by an ambush by century-old pipes, fire, and spewing gas - I smelt the natural gas, I saw the black curtain of smoke blowing slowly slowly upward, it had to be a main. The tickler on the television read "Oklahoma City, Oklahoma - unknown bomber, hundreds die in the tragic terrorist attack." Terrorist? Someone used that word in the same sentence with Oklahoma City? There must be a mistake.

Twelve years have passed, some very good, some very bad. All of them have been marked as the first terrorist act on American soil, and until 9/11 it was called the worst. I wish it still were - I truly wish it still were. In Oklahoma, we have a saying "Lest We Forget". A memorial was built, of course, 168 copper, glass, and marble benches represent the dead while a side of the building remains in close proximity to where the Social Security office stood on the northeast side of the building when it stood. There is a wall with the names of hundreds of people who were in the building, around the vicinity, who were affected by the blast - I declined to have my name added to it. Not only because I was literally going to the Social Security Office to have my name legally changed on my S.S. card, (maiden name restored after there was a miscommunication with the court. I never gave up Stringfellow) but also because I never considered my plight as dire as those in or nearer the building. I was just a regular citizen that day - may be closer than most, but certainly not to be remembered as a true survivor.

If it were up to me - we would etch our names into the sky and the dirt surrounding the grounds - to be remembered silently as a united Oklahoma - it would take every one of us to change ourselves for the future to be a future. If it were up to me - the benches would be trees - living and standing in complete defiance to the men who carried out this horrific act. I'm not saying that it would be a better memorial - no way - but it would say we are still living. We are still strong, perhaps more so. There's something else we did that day, that week, that month, and that year or lifetime that followed - We created and we set in stone a coined phrase to be used after 9/11: The Oklahoma Standard.

What it means to live the Oklahoma Standard is to give more, be stronger, stay focused, help more, heal when you can, and not to hurt just to hurt - don't let someone take from you - give it to him/her. Give it, and never expect it back - do more...and just be there when you're needed to be. If nothing else - listen better, longer, harder - and pray for the best to happen. The Oklahoma Standard is NOT easy - it is NOT something to be taken lightly, and often times I find myself literally putting my hand over my mouth before I spew like the main on Robinson Street - noxious venom which can't be returned. Lest We Forget - we're still healing too. But we're not alone, and neither are you.

Boomer Sooner!

Riding the White Horse Again!

When I dream I do so vividly - sometimes to the point that I wake up at the foot of the bed, twisted up in sheets, or in today's case - pulling at the pillow case as if it were a mane.

Dreaming of white horses, pale horses can be very tricky indeed. You have to determine the nature of the ride, the reason, the situation, the circumstance behind the ride. You have to make a decision also about the horse, his or her sex, behavior, drive, cooperation, where you find the horse in the first place, and of course - your standing with it.

Horses can mean something as simple as you playfully horsing around in a dream, and they can mean more complex things such as financial success, spiritual awakening, a commanding position which will or won't be wrestled with, or made easier by the fact that you are indeed on top of the situation rather than being dragged under foot. WHY was I dreaming of a horse, why wasn't it white? What was the significance of the pale color, and the big, dark eyes, with the flowing mane? It was fully saddled, even had a pad and blanket - the reins were decorated, it was clearly not a great threat to me, as it (very very large and stately) bowed to its knee so that I could mount and ride. I never did see if it was a mare or a stallion, perhaps even a gelding - that would have been interesting to know.

The fact that my book deal is just right around the corner, and that it is expected to be a large settlement may have some bearing. It will be also be noted that while riding the horse on my own estate, I passed several other horses, unbridled, ungirthed, and untamed. There were dark and white horses at pasture, there was even a few colts skipping and tripping around the fields - but I rode along the fencelines, across the entire terrain at will - and I was holding onto the mane of the beast rather than the reins. I wasn't YET in control...but comfortable, safe, and ON TOP, so that has to count for something. I like it on top - when I ride - when I'm ....oh stop it people, it's a horse and I was on top of it like you're suppose to be! At least I wasn't backward, upsidedown, or falling off!

So, I dreamed of the freedom that may come soon from my first BIG book deal - good news. I did see a large pool, more of a reflective pool, not really a swimming pool - it was more for show. Pools of water represent reflection, cleansing, starting over - starting something new - OK then....can't wait. Let the wind sweep me away into dreamworld tonight, and let the horse be waiting...hooves beating, mane flowing - I may even take the reins. If it lets me. ( I love my dreams. )

Do You KNOW Your Army?

Meet Private Reuben Andrew Stringfellow, U.S. Army - born March 22, 1986, Oklahoma City, Oklahoma. In high school Reuben played football (Defensive and Offensive Line) four years on a 6A team that never failed to meet the highest standards, making their way to the quarter, semi, and final playoffs every year. Reuben excelled in History as well as Athletics, eventually graduating in 2005.

Upon graduation Stringfellow enrolled in Oklahoma City Community College to begin a path toward a Bachelors degree in Education. It was (and is) Reuben's dream to become a High School football coach at a 6A school in the state of Oklahoma after he has completed his duty with the Army. Reuben's hobbies include playing NCAA and Madden Football on Playstation 2, where he has developed and designed strategies which have allowed him 38 winning seasons as Head Coach. He develops and designs plays both for PS2 and for real life application. At 6'2", nearly 200 pounds, this solider is a certified Stryker driver in YOUR U.S. Army. Upon completion of his 3 1/2 years with the Army Stringfellow intends on enlisting in the National Guard.

Why am I telling you this? Because on September 21, 2006, when I stood with my son while he swore in, signed his contract and promised me and YOU that he would defend us - there was only one other set of parents in the room. 17 men and 2 women signed that session. We saw 2 other sessions before and 1 other session of enlistees following Reuben's signing and swearing-in. It was the same. There were NO parents to speak of, maybe one or two. There were no families, there were no loved ones, there was no one to send these men and women off. They went alone for the most part.

Upon graduation on January 26, 2007, at Ft. Knox, KY - there were over 400 men (only men) graduating, and only 50-60 of them had family members come to see them walk the stage - or in Reuben's case, march the stage! He was brilliant! He was beautiful - but so were all the others...and hardly 1/8 of the boys were able to show off for someone they love. THIS is YOUR Army. The men and the women who put their lives at stake for you, the men and the women who promise to protect you, the men and the women who volunteer to go to dangerous locations, do dangerous missions, and some of which NEVER return - don't have people to cheer them. They don't have people to write them, they don't have people to even thank them - and they do it over and over and over and over again....every minute, every day, every week, every month, every year - and we rarely lift a finger to appreciate them.

There are so many ways you can find out about a soldier and begin a real relationship with one. Just one. You don't have to write to 20 like I do, I got suckered in easily - I'm a marshmellow. I have 17 new sons and 2 new daughters - all wearing the same pajamas! I have beautiful children. Some of which I don't know their middle names! But I love them all. Please - get to know a soldier.

www.goarmy.com

Hell's Kitchen Please! Thank you.

You're in NYC, everyone talks about the Waldorf, the Empire State Building, they talk about Ground Zero, Times Square and Central Park - I won't knock any of it - I love NYC...but give me Hell's Kitchen any time.

You're walking your dog in Times Square, forget about it - no grass. You have to find Madison or Central Park to relieve the poor pooch - Hell's Kitchen, you have green stuff sometimes, you have parks for dogs, you have people walking dogs everywhere, answering your questions about where you can find a little patch. But it's not just that - the people are real there. Take Fat Sal's Pizza - TO DIE FOR, and it's quite possible you could if you say the wrong thing to the wrong guy at the wrong time - mind your business! I like the area for another reason, the Skyline Hotel. Without question it's one of the best kept secrets of the city. You're not going to find the best of the best in accomidations, you're not going to find massage therapy, yoga, aromatic hallways or expensive valet - but you will get Norman as your concierege! He's adorable, smart, and quite capable of getting you tickets most of the time to any of the latest plays and/or performances around town. (He'll even get you a cab! For a smile.)

Hell's Kitchen has it all - construction, peddlers, buses and sirens, kids walking the streets on their way to school, girls screaming at each other for blocks on end about whose boy is better than whose other boy! Come on, they did call it Hell's Kitchen - it has flavor! It has spice! It has real people with real lives, and real really good restaurants, wine shops, oh, and a great Indian Deli that has a real Western Union right inside of it so you can send your Uncle Joe that money you promised him you would last week but forgot!

You can walk to Times Square from any street in HK, it's only 4 avenues away from 10th...9th, 8th, Broadway - wow, only 3. There's a lot of new construction going on, old churches to contrast, and oh, get this....bodagas everywhere..everywhere....but you have to go to each one to get the real feel because every single person inside every single store has a new and exciting story about why they live where they live, why they do what they do - you have to ask. You're in the hood! Smile, be polite, and buy something sweet - but don't forget to tip, it's still the City!

I'd take a cab to Central Park, maybe hike to the upper west for a great steak, but when it comes to lodging, living, loving, laughing, and actually SEEING New York City - stay in the kitchen, but beware of the stove.

Pauline's Bait & Tackle - OH MY GOD, the memories

The photo couldn't possibly do the bait shop justice. This photo from Dan Mitchell is far too attractive to be Pauline's, but it was the best I could find to somewhat show you - somewhat tempt you - to enter into my long, my gosh, a long lost memory that was sparked yesterday. If I graduated in 1979 - it was 1978, because I was a sophomore. (I was never a junior, I skipped a year).

1978 - 16 years old, looking like a skinny gymnast because - THAT is what I was. Toothpicks have more curves than I had in 1978. Feathered hair, rolled up jeans (501) and maybe Chucks, but we didn't call them Chucks. We weren't cool like that. We called them tennis shoes - and not one of us played tennis - and you wouldn't wear these shoes anyway if you did play the game. 1978 - Carol: OH, Carol! She was my really good friend, but not my best friend, that position belonged to Jeanie and still does. Carol, however, (and Jeanie agrees) was the MOST beautiful girl in the city. She was taller than we were, curved, busting out busty, hips and legs to die for - blonde, naturally blonde, and get this, she had perfect teeth without having braces. God only makes a few like this ever. Carol Moore was one of them.

Carol and I were very immature - I can't explain that any more than to tell you what we used to do at Pauline's. First, I have to tell you about Pauline's so you understand that it's not just a little shack in the woods, because it was BY NO MEANS in the woods. It was a little shack out in the open in an area literally between two municipalities and neither of them had jurisdiction over the wanton, explicit, underage rampage that was forever taking place at Pauline's. Pauline didn't care if you were twelve. Did you have .50 for a shot? Did you have .50 for a 1/2 glass of beer? She was at least smart enough to fill the other 1/2 with water. No wonder we thought Bud tasted better in college! IT DID TASTE.

So, April 1978 - Carol decides to Marilyn Monroe it and wear a full length white rabbit coat over a little black dress that could have been an Ann Taylor or a Gucci, because NOT ONLY was Carol gorgeous, she was damn rich too. She drove a 350 SL - 16 and she has an SL. hahaha Jeanie and I walked where we wanted to go. Carol calls me: Jude, let's go blind. Let's do it at Pauline's. I haven't been there in like a year - come on!

You can't tell Carol no.

Going blind - that was me. I was the best mimmick of the condition. I could stare (and still can) for several minutes without blinking and I can haze over and keep my focus between your eyes so that I'm not actually making contact with you. I would have conversations, full 10-12 minute conversations with drunks who (because it was dark, I was with Carol, and they wanted to be) believed me. I had a problem you see. I was lost and my sister was either inside or outside, but I couldn't tell. I could get men to leave the baitshop/bar and help me find my sister. The way I described her she was certainly a prize to be found. After a minute or two I was on the arm of a man who most certainly needed assistance, and we were outside looking, rummaging around - blind leading the drunk, looking for Carol.

After not being able to find her, we would retreat back into the bar where I would ask the man to teach me to dance. We'd be dancing, me stepping all over his feet, and of course, the obligatory bumping into walls, doors, people - to keep him believing my plight. Suddenly, the doors would open and in the room you could hear the collective gasp of several beer-stained mouths dropping to the ground - Carol! "Judy! Judy! Oh my gosh, there you are honey. I've been looking for you? Do you know where you are? Oh, Daddy will be so upset with me. I told you to stay in the car! I'm sorry - oh honey, I'm so sorry - I'll take you home." I would always refuse.

What happened next was Carol pretending to be stupid - men would beg her to stay, she'd claim she lost $50 in a poker game, she would say she had a "filled house" but the guy told her he had something better and took her money. "Full House" the drunk listening would tell her. "Oh, but my Daddy will be so mad at me. I was suppose to buy Judy a birthday present and I lost it. I wanted to make more so I could get her something really special, she's going to be 18." Without ONE SINGLE exception, that woman would come out of that bar with $200+ (of course, I saw nothing!)

I think about it - I do. I was wrong!! Very very wrong! But we did laugh. If there was ever a layman's Oscar to be given - Carol Moore, ladies and gentlemen receives the Oscar for her role as the dim-witted blonde, the ditzy sister. Me, I think she gave me a cut sometimes, but money to Carol was something to give away to churches and to people who really needed it. I think she looked at our game as a way for her to meet every charity's need - The Jesus House was the most common recipient - and she loved confession! That girl LOVED confession. Being Baptist made it that much more fun for her - think about it. We'd drive downtown, give the money away - and then hit up a 24/7 Catholic chapel and she would confess!

What do you want to bet - when the Rapture comes, Carol will run up to me and say "OH MY GOD, we made it!" Then we'll roll over and laugh!

Before Heidi Fleiss

Before the well known, documented resident of Grayhall - I lived in the mansion. Funny, no one seems to want to know something good about the place.

Grayhall, located at 1100 Carolyn Way, Beverly Hills was the place I called my retreat off and on for 3 years. I will say that while I lived there the owner, Bernie Cornfeld, did NOT live there. I was hired spontaneously, sporatically, and literally on an hour's notice at times - to babysit the mansion, to babysit the hangers on, some 6-15 people at a time who refused to leave unless forced by threat, and I was given the GREAT and most privleged opportunity to babysit Bernie's little daughter - one beautiful Jessica. In 1983 she was 8. I don't believe I met her before that year, but I had been living there (placement on demand) for more than two years.

Jessica was, and she knows this, the most spoiled rotten child on the face of the Earth at the time. However, she was genuninely curious, evenly tempered most of the time, and if it weren't for her constantly wanting more of everything - I would have wanted to adopt her myself and take her away from the hellish life she had no idea she was living. I can't judge, and I won't pretend to understand the lifestyles of the very rich or the very dominant people who came and left Grayhall. I was present on many occasions when Bernie entertained a man calling himself Ariostole Onasis, but I refused to stay in the house overnight if the elderly playboy was in town. This psuedo Ari, believe it or not, was more openly down to earth than most farmers I have sold insurance to in Oklahoma - quite realistic, always a gentleman. It could not be said for Bernie.

For me, locking the doors at night, opening them in the morning, feeding the wolves - yes, wolves, and the oscelot, as well as making sure little Jessi was bathed, tucked in, read to, and kissed - was a pro bono arrangement. I don't know why I never took a penny from the man, but something about accepting anything from him lessened my mission of seeing to it that his daughter was cared for properly, at least when I was in the house. I remember crying days and nights when I wasn't in California and I wondered about her future, over time I stopped crying, but I never stopped praying. Jessica asked me a question in 1983 - one that would forever change her life, and mine.

There was a party scene going on. We were filming a Raliegh Production soft porn film (1985 release) called "Love Scene", directed by Bud Townsend, starring Tiffany Bolling and Frank Luz - it may have been created for Playboy, I'm not sure. The mansion was the location of the film, as it had been for movies such as A Star is Born (1970's) with Barbara Streisand and Kris Kristofferson, and Love at First Bite with George Hamilton (George lived in Grayhall for a while). I was in the film, partly because it did pay the bills, and partly because the extreme protective side of me refused to let Jessica stay in the house during the filming if I couldn't be there to watch her. I wore a brown skirt and a white blousey blouse, I held a cup of tea-water with plastic ice cubes in one hand and leaned against the side of the wall that was just outside her room. I couldn't believe she exited the room during filming, but there she was - the red light flashing, the shout from the director's assistant to be quiet - and out of the corner of my eye I saw the door open to Jessi's room.

Without making a huge scene I exited the shot and took her by the hand. CUT! Yelled the director..."Damnit, what the hell are you doing?" He screamed at me. "Babysitting" I retorted, and "If you don't remember, I hold the keys to this place, not you! So, shut the F*&K up and go back to making your movie!" I didn't mean for Jessica to hear it, but she did. Her question: Can you say words like that and be a Christian? WOW. Jude had some explaining to do.

I sat Jessica down on her bed and explained that I was human. I did make mistakes, but my mistakes were covered - I'm not suppose to just go off and make them, just because they're forgiven, I explained...but nevertheless Jesus did actually forgive me a long time before I was even born. She wanted to know more. On October 22, 1983 - Jessica Cornfeld, sole daughter of a very (Jewish) powerful fianancier, accepted Jesus as her Savior. Something Bernie never let me forget - I had majorly crossed the line. I can say honestly, I don't regret my decision to help her that night.

So, before Heidi had a chance to ruin what I found to be a most beautiful memory of a most beautiful house - with its secret closet/staircase leading to several extra rooms including my own suite, and the balconies that hid behind trees where you could totally throw things at people and they couldn't see you - with its HUGE pieces of furniture, millions of books, the costumes in Bernies closet, and the periwinkle decorations of Sophies room - - I lived in Grayhall.

I've recently caught up with Jessica. She's in London. She's still absolutely beautiful, but time has healed her of the spoiled brat phase - she is a great woman of philanthophy - giving and giving; she is the same gifted and wonderful child at heart. A much better legacy than Bernie ever deserved. (There I go, I said I wouldn't judge!)

Dance! Dance!

Obviously, this is the goal!

Could they set the bar any higher? Well, the good news is that goal setting is something I've always succeeded in. But this, well, it may have me second guessing my own personal will and strength. Oh, but I will try. I will try.

Can you imagine waking up one day and turning on the television to see yourself on camera, on stage, sitting in front of a studio audience who really isn't interested in a single word coming out of your mouth because they're so memorized by the two-legged dog you have on the program next to you, or rather at your feet. What YOU (or in this case, me) noticed when you saw the specticle on the set was NOT the dog, but the 200 pounds being lugged and dragged around as if it's normal, healthy, or even acceptable - it may be to someone else, but it most certainly was not to me. If I hadn't believed in depression and its effects before, I certainly knew what it could do to me personally - I had video proof!

Immediately I set out to lessen my weight, and found that diet and typical exercise was NOT, repeat, NOT working. My doctor suggested that I try dancing - belly dancing. (What was he getting at? LOL) So, (and let me say this with the upmost of ignorance) I went to the store to buy a book on the subject. I'm a writer, I'm a reader....books help in these situations. I got a book! After really studying the moves, the angles, the sharp contrast to the life I was living - I decided to buy a CD of erotic, exotic mood tones - something really liquid - Chris Spheeris! Oh, the man is hot! But that's so not the point.

With Chris' help, and the practice of sway, swing, swish, and lowering myself through both hypnotic and often chaotic experiments - I am now NOT, repeat NOT, any good at belly dancing. However, I am nearly 45 pounds lighter, and I have stopped scaring the dogs under the bed. They'll lay on top of it now and actually watch me dance. Success can be measured in so many ways. Dogs and kids. Dogs and kids. They are perhaps the most honest creatures of God's Earth. My dogs, because they're really genteel, kind, loving and very dependent on my graciousness - have said very little about what they think of my moving about - the kids have not been so kind. They don't really depend on me that much anymore - not since they discovered where I hide my credit cards and car keys. At least they laugh when the music is loud enough to cover their amusements.

Dance! Dance! Don't let the slightest of fears stop or distract you. DANCE! If you're like me, and you need a reason to move - motivate yourself with a 30-second staring session into the face and eyes of Chris Spheeris - get a picture!!!! MOVE....maybe someday I'll reach my goal, and maybe someday I'll win the lottery, and maybe someday the crew of Law & Order will want to shoot that scene with Jesse Martin and my dog for ratings! If nothing else - I can dream.

This Dog is a Diva!

I had no idea she could talk in the first place, but it's plain to see now, that when she does actually speak (through bubbles) she speaks in Turkish! This of course, is a jpg from a Stephen Holman photo which was shot exclusively for National Geographics for Kids a couple of years ago. Faith has been showing up over and over again in some of the strangest of places. India, for example, has given me time in 2 separate interviews just this past week - and get this: Faith won't go on camera easily for them! She's such a freakin' diva! She ran away - far away, and hid under the bed. She even made a little squealing sound when I threatened to drag her out.

Well, all was not lost - we used feta cheese! Every dog has her price. The interviews were very successful, the dog was fed - and in lieu of a monetary payment I asked the two interviewers to send a donation in Faith's name to Operation Iraqi Children - I hope they do. We've decided that this year we'll donate more on the human side, rather than the humane society side. Three years running for the pounds across the country is good - let the kids have a shot at it. This year being the year my son hands out crayolas, pencils, paper, and other supplies to the kids himself...it was an easy choice.

So, Faith - with her bigger and better than anyone attitude was also recently signed with an agent who insists that when we travel she be put up in a hotel with no less than a 2-star rating. I would have to agree with this way of thinking, if not only for one thing - they aren't always easy to find in every stop. Holiday Inn and Holiday Express meet this criteria, as do the Clarion and LaQuinta hotel chains - except in Rosemont, IL, just outside Chicago - their Holiday Inn refused entrance for Faith - she was, in their opinion - a dog! OH, no they didn't ! Well, she has celebrity status with or without the Rosemont, and we'll seek a pillow elsewhere if need be.

Faith's other major diva-ness deals with the fallout from being lost in February when American Airlines placed her on the wrong plane. She no longer flies in the cargo - which is a good thing, but she must (must) fly first class now, which means I must, and that could be expensive for the hosts who decide what sort of a budget they have to bring us out. The military can't fly anyone (maybe not even a General) in First Class, so you can see my problem. We do more military shows than anything! This year is suppose to be a big year for visiting veterans hospitals around the country, and we'll have to work out the flight arrangements with the carrier(s) if we're expected to meet their criteria and the criteria of the military. Prayers would help - or actually, if you're someone with a great deal of clout at either American or the Army - that would be nice.

Today is Friday the 13th. For her part, Faith is eating filo dough pastries with feta cheese custard, drinking her water by the gallons and just hanging out under the bed due to the storms. If she had it her way all the time, the world would be a boxspring! (with an occasional hand slipping her something with a little egg or cheese in it.)