When it rains - There's a TORNADO!

I don't think I have ever - I mean ever - been in such a situation. I won't say it's a mess, I won't say it's a tragedy, it's a strange, and unfortunate situation. About 2 months ago my dog Faith was lost on an American Airlines flight. We were suppose to BOTH end up in Orlando, Florida but that didn't happen. I remember the day specifically because Homeland Security issued an ORANGE alert in the nation's airports, and all things non-human were to be stored under the cabin in cargo - OOPS. That was the first mistake. Faith was shipped somewhere - probably Chicago, but I went to Orlando.

Because of the mistake, American wanted to make it up to us. They issued a statement of apology to me of course, provided a voucher for free flight, allowed us to sit in First Class on our return trip, hosted us at the Admiral's Club for over 24 hours I think when the weather didn't allow us to return home - and then they decided to make a mandate that we always fly First Class - sounds great doesn't it? NOT. When they forced us to fly First Class we (Faith and I) lost several military gigs as well as other paying gigs due to the fact that the hosts were unable to pay the difference between the Coach fares and the First Class fares - think about it, would YOU or your company prefer Coach or First Class. Hosts have budgets to work with.

So, having lost over $8000 in would-be pay, and NOW my book deal, my precious-I-was-totally-counting-on-you book deal falling through (Thanks to a particular agent who will go unnamed) I have found myself unable to even pay my rent and bills - NO, I'm serious. Our savings have been rocked, we had family issues to deal with between January and March as well as taxes from last year to pay - we're being kicked out of our house this week. So, when it rains - sometimes it can cause a tornado.

Here's the really cool part - I'm OK.

I decided to let it go, let God have the reins and just do what I do best, and that's to work at the problem rather than cry over it again, or to get myself all worked up. No good ever comes from beating yourself up -whether it's your fault or not. I have to let it go. I can't control it, I can't really fix it alone, I can't make it better without help. I just have to see what happens to us - but I know that WITH A LITTLE FAITH (title of my book, great plug huh?) I'll be able to say that all will be well. It has to be, there are no options. I can't believe that it won't be OK...it must be fixed, therefore, I will wait for God to show me what to do. If He lets me, I'll be a part of the solution, I probably need to be.

I went to Brevard and Seminole Counties in Florida this week to give two keynote speeches for lawmakers, victims advocates, peacekeepers, and the wonder families and victims of violent crime. The topic of my speeches was accepting the situation, empowering yourself through others, and being available for others when you have the ability to do so. I got the idea from my dog Faith. She accepted her situation immediately, she didn't deny she was a dog in trouble. She needed help and when it came time to ask for it, she used her eyes - she couldn't speak. When we helped her, we helped ourselves. Now, we're reaching out, and we're hoping to both receive love and give it. We need prayer, and we need work.

If you have a need for a public speaker, a Ph.D. in Administration, perhaps an administrator in your office, corporation or just someone to train your employees - call me. I am absolutely available. I would prefer full time and permanent work, and believe it or not, we're not as expensive as you may be thinking. My agent is Mike Maguire, and he is handling any and all calls. His number is: 571-215-1147 You can also e-mail me at: faith@faiththedog.net.

Wow, it just feels GREAT beyond my expectations even, to know that people love God, they love my dog, they love helping - and the fact that I can reach out makes me that much more motivated to help when it's my turn to do so again. Let it rain - I know the Rainmaker!

Yankee Candles Should Hire Me!

There I was, minding my own business, (which is what I do) and my candle burned out on me. OUT-GONE, no more! The problem is that it wasn't to the point that is was suppose to stop. I tried lighting it, and lighting it, but it didn't take. There was something around the wick....some sort of a boot, sock, something protecting the wick - and by protection I mean the boot thing didn't want fire around the wick any longer!

I took the initative to use the Yankee Candle website www.yankeecandle.com, just incase you were having doubts about what that site might actually be. I wrote to customer service to ask questions, more or less to explain my concern for future purchases, but the answers I received wasn't really as helpful as I had hoped. Yankee Candle kept asking me to return the candles for a full refund or exchange!

To be honest the candle (actually there were 2) were almost gone, so I didn't feel as if a full refund or exchange was fair, I was really just wanting to talk with them about why they would choose to protect their wicks more than 1/2 an inch from the bottom if the warning label instructed me to only burn to that point? Just a question...just a simple, no hassle question -- but nothing ever really works out to be as simple as you think. Yankee Candle's customer service was insistant...they wanted to replace the entire lot! They were FORCING me to take the candles to the nearest location and get NEW candles - I argued of course, as this seemed out of context, completely unprofessional and out of the realm of what business-as-usual has been in the past.

Yankee Candle's Quail Spring Mall's store was the nearly location to my home in Edmond, Oklahoma so I took my nearly burned to the end candles to show the good ladies that work in the store what I was talking about - I argued again when they insisted that I exchange my candles for new replacements - I felt like an idiot returning 95% burned candles for 100% newly unburned, unmolested candles - and get this....MISTY told me I could pick any scent I wanted. I didn't have to take home the Lavender Sage Swirl scent again. I could have ....anything! Brenda wasn't much help either - she smiled the whole time, said really nice things to me, she was helping YANKEE CANDLE's clean, unspoiled, and seemingly perfectly genuine reputation...she stood there nodding, smiling, and being all pretty! Misty even wrapped my new scented candles and put them in a new bag!

No, Yankee Candles is losing too much money! They simply have to hire me. I could do some really good recovery for them. When a customer called or came in to exchange a candle I could refuse them access - I could ask if they enjoyed the time they had with the candle, I could ask them if they felt that bringing me an old, dirty, ugly, worn out candle in exchange for a new, preciously perfect one was fair - or if it was even conceivable that a person of integrity could assume such a position in life that they would ever expect a bonafide giant corporation to bow to their every whim or need...just because a customer isn't satisfied, is that any reason to give them what they want? Yankee Candles thinks so!

Fine! Fine! You go right ahead with your smiling, your helping, your in-your-face customer service come-again type of attitude girls...see if I come back! (Actually...I probably will, I felt rather important.) Thanks.

Embrace Your Tomboy!

I am SO NOT a Victoria's Secret Model.

To be perfectly honest with everyone reading my blogs - I am a Tomboy. I looked it up to be sure, because as years go by the meanings of certain words take on new life, and I didn't want to mislead anyone. I threw the picture of Scout up on the blog (To Kill a Mockingbird) for two reasons. The first is: She's the epitome of what a Tomboy is, and second: I'm a professor of English, and the book is awesome!

Tomboys don't necessarily look bad in Victoria Secret nightwear, don't get me wrong - but we don't wiggle and shimmy quite as smoothly perhaps when we do. We're more apt to pounce, and maybe go looking for the good stuff - you may find yourself in a bit of a wrestling match that you thought for sure you had the upper hand in, but now you're not so confident about it - and it really doesn't matter anyway! Tomboys are the girls that find frogs, snakes, rocks, and cars attractive - maybe even want to sleep outside with you, or take the last piece of pizza when you were going for it. It's for sure THIS Tomboy will be wearing a red and white jersey and jeans on game day and screaming louder than you are at the TV set - and cussing out anyone daring to put a play over on the Sooners!

What may or may not be immediately understood about Tomboys is that we're not all mean, hard-nosed girl-haters. We don't always have only boys as friends - and we don't always fix engines; though some of us do. I can handle a VW fixer-up, but leave the rest to my brothers Mike. (I have 2) I'm the type of Tomboy that loves to shop, but I might buy more masculine colored comforters, Levi's over 575 jeans, and I'll for sure get a sandlewood or sage scented candle over something fruity or floral - on the same hand...I'll buy sandlewood or cinnamon oils to bathe in, because it attracts men rather than women. (Ohhh, a little pheromone secret.)

Tomboys have the best of both worlds if you ask me - we can play with the boys, and we can PLAY with the boys - we can watch any and all sports, we can bet, gamble, beat you at chess and not blink - we can eat faster, wear less makeup, take much shorter time getting ready, and when we are ready there's just something natural about us - I like it. Saves me from having to buy that Vera Wang and have it special ordered so that no one else is wearing it. Because I don't care - if we were all wearing the same exact dress I'd still be ME.

Yes, embrace your inner Tomboy - a word that's been around since the 16th Century describing girls whose gender roles have been transformed to include the behaviors generally accepted in society of their male counterparts, however, maintaining their feminine distinction. That's me...(she smiles her pyrate smile, and keeps the slimey turtle she just caught hidden behind her torn out jeans, all the while accepting your invitation to accompany you to the Governor's Ball tomorrow night.) SMILE.

Wile E. Coyote Goes Army!

This will make my son laugh.

When I was growing up I had all the same problems as Wile E. Coyote. I had goals within my site, I went all out for them - BAM! I got blown up nearly every single time. Something (usually lack of money) got in the way of my well laid out plan. (Of Mice and Men) You'd think that after 45 years of fighting myself, the world, and the unknown I would have lost some of my edge - but something just keeps me sharpened. I keep trying to get there, to do it... to succeed. I'm going to get that BIRD.

My son is in the Army you know, he'll understand the point of this very cute cartoon from Mark Parisi - the new defense uniforms for the men and women in Iraq could very well benefit from the ultimate in survival gear - you may get a head ache, a black eye, you may spin around on your heels awhile, and see tweety-birds circling your head - but believe me, you take a massive explosion and a 400 ft drop in a one of these babies and you'll be glad you were wearing it!

Reuben called me last night again, 2:12 a.m., about the average for him - he says it'll be closer to 5:05 a.m. when he's in Iraq - but nevertheless, he called me to tell me that YES, he was dead last in the navigation practices, and NO he didn't get to play any reindeer games because of it - HOWEVER, due to his 8 speeding tickets just prior to swearing in, and the way he out runs his opponents on the simulators and again in person on the new muddy gridiron he personally created there in Fairbanks, AK - he's been chosen to drive the CO in the Stryker that God created him to drive. Who needs to navigate when the CO is giving the orders? All he has to do is say "Yes Col. and No Col." at the appropriate times.

I'm still going to ask that baby boy look a little - WILE E. when he jumps into the tank - actually a Stryker isn't even a tank - technically my son is 4" too tall to drive it, but the Army took care of that too. He's only 5'11" on paper - the first time his height was listed on paper he was 21" long. The bird is in his sites - with a little ACME planning, perhaps we can see the light at the end of this tunnel we call war....but remember, there's always another cartoon just around the corner! (BEEP BEEP)

Get 'em boy! Hooah!

It's a Bug's Life!

(These cars were never my cars)

This is the most beautiful car I've ever seen! (1968 VW White Bug) You have to understand my connection to the V.W. Beetle before you'll understand my great love for them, but these guys - 11 of them total, helped me survive my 4 years in Hollywood, California. I lived off the profits I would make when I sold an Oklahoma VW to a California driver. You can still make a (nearly) 500% profit margin off of one. I checked today before I blogged. The same type of 1968 VW Bug in my hometown of Edmond (K&B Auto) will go for about $1800-2250.00 You buy it, you sell in Beverly Hills or even Torrance, and you'll get $12,500 easily - off the street selling! CASH!

I did this exchange 11 times, 10 of which were Beetles, one was a 1968 Karmann Ghia semi-automatic - ever heard of that? The stick is there in the console, but you don't have a foot clutch - very, very off the wall odd, but real, and I took in 600% for it. You simply have to love American Capitalism, and you have to have a great VW connection like I did in the 80's with Kenny from Bug Heaven, or as it was called in the day. I'd get a car, have Kenny fix it up, drive it from OKC to the Ocean, and before I could make it to the hills most of the time, I had the car sold. I remember walking to the bus station a couple of miles once because I sold the car a bit too far from where I wanted to catch a ride to the mansion I was watching - imagine that for a second...just think about what goes throught he head of a 17-18 year old wheeler-dealer, living in a mansion - driving Bugs for profit! (I said BUGS, not DRUGS..it was the 80's!)

Kenny is still in business, he and his son and wife run the K&B Auto in Edmond, OK if you're thinking you'd like to hook up with the men and do a little transport business. Just be sure and give me a little credit OK? Thanks - I'm sure Kenny will giggle a little when you first ask. He's been wheeling and dealing a lot longer than I ever have. He's good too!

My favorite bug-for-money story came in the summer of 1983 when my friend Kendra was going to Hollywood to be in the new George Lucas film "Return of the Jedi". Remember it? She stands 4'3" and had a part guaranteed - she was told would be hot, but they were filming in northern California in the redwoods so it may not be as much on the suffering side as she may have imagined. From Oklahoma City to Flagstaff, AZ, she and I broke down at least a dozen times. It was the Ghia we were driving. First went the oil hose in Vega, TX just outside of Amarillo, and if I went into detail about it - you'd swear you were reading the newest horror flick manuscript. I'll leave it at that.

Next the clutch failed in Santa Rosa, the fuel pump died in Gallup, and we had more fun with the steering wheel locking up near Albequerque. It was a mess - we actually ran out of gas two separate times, once when the gauge was working and once when it wasn't. To say we were frustrated doesn't come close. I gave up! I parked the car in a HoBo Jo's off I-40 in Flagstaff and placed the wire to my dad through his employer - Western Union. "Pick me up. Flagstaff HOBO Jo's I-40". He sent my pot-smoking, party-to-the-end brothers Mike. I have a big brother Mike and a younger brother Mike. My younger brother doesn't do that anymore! (OOPS - sorry Uncle Mike, I just outed you!)

I put my friend on a bus - she was pissed. She made it to Hollywood, and yes she was the best damned Ewok on the planet! We watch the movie now just to watch her falling and tripping herself. After all these years, she's still the best. Shouts out to the girl from Blue Harvest!

When I returned with my dad and my mom a few weeks later - Ghia in tow on the back of the truck - my dad was the most amazed man on the earth to find out that wherever we stopped for gas someone wanted to buy the little car. Could have been the for sale sign, sure, but they were just anxious to get a better look at the little thing. Butter Cream yellow and just adorable - was it a real car, some wanted to know. I guess Ghias weren't all that popular in the desert at that time. I held out for the PIER. I knew the Ventura Highway heavy-hitters were the real audience. Dad wasn't all that thrilled about pushing it through to the end. He wanted me to sell it then - maybe 300% profit. Sounded really good to the man. I refused.

Making it to the Pier. Standing outside. I think the record was 16 hours, that was a really long day - but on the day I arrived with the little Ghia - maybe 30 minutes passed before it was gone. Maybe. Cash in hand, 600% - pure profit. In the day, I think it was $6000.00 - today, you'd have to triple it, but remember, the original price in Oklahoma would have only been about $900-1000 in 1983. Today a 1968 semi Ghia would bring in $3000 or more in Oklahoma....in Edmond, anyway.

So, bugs not drugs. There's always a way to turn a dime if you look hard enough. Do this: Go to your paper now, look up VW's for sale, and then go to the classified in L.A. to make the comparison. WOW....I may have to turn Caity onto this - she would LOVE to drive 1500 miles across the impassible desert sand in an air-cooled car without a top - and maybe, just maybe she won't carry a butcher knife for protection....oh, I didn't finish that Vega, Texas story did I? Let's just say I'm not the most conventional driver - we'll leave it at that.

How Did YOU Meet Alex Van Halen?

I can say this: He has one of the best smiles in the world!

I was almost 20, living between Oklahoma City and Hollywood - wasn't everyone? My two very real jobs were that of a geological drafting tech in OKC while working just as able bodied in L.A. as a stand up comedian sometimes and a writer/writers assistant at others. Back and forth! I usually made more money on the coming and going, as I would literally purchase a VW bug (1966-1972) from Kenny at Bug Heaven (Now K&B in Edmond, OK) and I would have the man fix it up. I'd drive the bug across the world to L.A. where I would sell it for a 500% profit, live off the margin, and work very happily for one of the studios driving their cars, vans, trucks, or trailers to get even more extra cash - my methods of finances have changed over the years, but not my tenacity to find work.

At Gulf Oil (OKC) I had the opportunity to have all four of my wisdom teeth removed at no cost - insurance! Oh, what a thought - cut out the teeth and never have to worry about it again. What I didn't know at 19, and wish I had - was that I'm allergic to nearly all types of meds that put you under. Valium was the first to kick my butt - and I almost didn't come out of it. The days that followed my operation were indeed a blur if not a blinding mind-altering trip! September 30, 1981 I had my teeth removed. I don't remember October 1 and 2, but Mom tells me I was a rubber elephant in her arms while she tried desparately to clean me and the messes I made throughout the house. It was October 3, 1981 that will forever stick in my head.

It was a Sunday, last day of the State Fair of Oklahoma. Of course I had to go, I had never missed a fair, and besides - my friend Sharon could drive my little bug - she was 15. She had JUST THAT DAY won tickets on the radio to see Van Halen in concert in Norman, a little college town just south of us - hosts of the World Famous OKlahoma University Sooners! (Go Bob) We drove, I drove, she drove, I don't remember - to the Noble Center and we took our seats. WAY UP IN THE FRONT thank you, and I had the stupidiest drug induced grin on my face...I can tell you that.

The vibrations of the music coming from the speakers were working their magic on my mouth, and I found it nearly impossible to stay on the floor so close to the stage - this was during the warmup band - I had to move. Sharon had a friend whose mother had brought her to the show, they were in the upper levels, and that was cool with me, the concert was really for Sharon - I traded the friend, and I sat with her mom, a woman in her mid 30's who I believe still had a thing for young Diamond Dave. I was mesmerized by the drummer - he was hot! Alex. I stared a lot that night at the back of the stage.

At one point in the show, as you may or may not find hard to believe, David Lee forgot the words to "Running With the Devil" and I couldn't take it much longer - laughing, and I mean laughing, the stitches which had been vibrated to death by the speakers earlier - BUSTED. Blood spewed out of my big mouth like a fountain! SQUIRTING everyone in my immediate area - I was higher than ...well, probably higher than Dave.

It was then that a policeman, a very kind, and concerned man, asked me a question that I answered in the affirmative - "Hey, are you on drugs or something?" He asked. I was. I said yes, I'm an honest girl. UP and OUT he pulled me by the arm, he drug my happy butt across several concert patrons, over chairs, through doors, under banners and scaffolding - all the way to the back of the stage, where I guess they take people who either answer in the affirmative, or probably are too passed out to do so. I was being arrested!

Alex came from the stage just at the moment that I was being questioned. I was smiling, I was laughing, I was giggle-happy stupid and he began to smile with me. He got really close and said "You wanna another shirt or something?" My white sweatshirt was covered in splatters of blood. "Hi" I said to the smiling Dutchman! "Hi...yes, I'd love a shirt, you need one too." I mentioned, he wasn't wearing one at the time, and I suppose I was a bit concerned that he might catch a cold - don't know what I was thinking. He waved the police off when I handed him my bottle of Percidan - and he said to the uniformed officer "She's with me". There we went - back to the little room off the side of the stage and yes, Alex and I both put on new t-shirts. He was kind enough to help me with mine.

I remember thinking Sharon would miss me, and I have NO IDEA how she found me, however, that evening we ate with Alex at the hotel in Norman, talked for hours, slept, and got up the next day laughing ourselves silly. He liked my car, I remember that. I told him I would buy him a Lamborgini for his trouble - he smiled that smile. (But he said he would let me.) I then, that very day, went to the store and bought a tiny black Matchbox Lambo and mailed it to the address he gave me - I think he knew I was good for my word.

The concert in Tulsa was just a few days a way - tickets arrived in the mail. I was able to spend several more hours with that beautiful smiling man. I have to tell you, if you get the chance to meet Alex Van Halen - you should. Gentlemen come in many different packages - I don't know if I ever really said thank you to the man. Hey, Alex - thanks!

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. )