You (Poem)

  

You 

 

How can I sleep when 

Fairies are dancing  

When the keys of your piano float 

 into the sky? 

 

How will I dream when  

Your touch lingers in my soul 

Your fingers tickle my very breath 

Each stroke new 

 

Where will my slumber take me 

“Dancing on the Light?”  

“I’m Missing You Now” 

 

Touch is deeper than your kiss 

Air becomes my song 

Music, coursing through my veins  

I want you. 

 

Slowly drifting, slink into one 

Our  bodies feeling every note 

No words,  soft saxophones cry 

We are one 

 

Jude Stringfellow 

July 5, 2021

Photo Credit: Art to Canvas

Fly That Flag!

 I live in America. I live in the South. The South has a reputation that proceeds it most of the time, and the people of the South are both proud of that reputation and every connotation that goes along with being called a "Southerner".  Now, to be fair, Oklahoma is the furthest Northern Southern state, yes, and we hang a bit to the west as well, but we are no doubt, 100%, and in-it-for-the-long-haul type of Southerners who will stand up with you to the end or put you to the ground flat. We're loyal to the bone and then some. Most of us are born and bred Sooners, but there are a few Pokes out there; not gonna lie about it, Oklahoma State has a fan or two.  If you're born in Oklahoma you are not born a boy or a girl, that just really doesn't matter much to any of us really; what matters is your choice of colleges. Are you a Sooner or are you a Cowboy? There are probably 200 colleges in the area, but only two matter, and you will be branded at birth.

    As Southern Americans, we are proud to hoist our fantabulous Old Glory (flag) whenever and wherever we get the opportunity. There are homeowner associations that have tried to thwart that practice, but here in Oklahoma, we tend to run those folks straight out of town and put them into the capable hands of the next Okie on their way out of our fine and fair state. We will fly our flag. Not only will we fly our flag, but we will also fly big, fat, gloriously oversized flags just because they are big, fat, gloriously oversized, and because they are the American flags we are so proud of. We love our country. We love our people. We love our flag. We love our God. If you come around to this part of the nation you'll find a few blue voters, yes, that's true, and you can tell who they are simply because they don't actually own an American flag. Truth in that statement. The folks who got up and voted for the other side are very very few and far between here in the Sooner State, but they do exist and they tend to fly other flags but not Old Glory. She's an inconvenience to them; not to me. 

    In my hood, in my little complex where I have lived over 5 separate times in my life, and I tell people I've lived here more than 150 years; we fly the American flag every day of the week. There are times we will fly three or four flags out on our balconies or on our doors and in our windows. Flag Day, Fourth of July (I'd say Trump's birthday, but that is Flag Day) and we tend to just pick a day we like and fly a few flags just to be sure the world understands that to encroach on this particular house may mean that you'll find Bibles, you'll find guns, you'll find friends, and you'll find endless support if what you're willing to die for is the same things we are willing to lay our lives on the line for; friends and family are part of that, but so is our American way of life, our freedoms, our personal choice in religion, our walk with our God, and the safety of our people.

    My hood is made up of mostly elderly people now. When I first moved here they were in their middle ages and they were lively, hosting BBQs and complex parties because to hold a block party would exclude some of the folks. We hold entire housing parties when we party. We had a pool and we had several grills, but those days have hit the sand and are waiting perhaps for the next generation to come along and restore them to their glory days. Today most of my people talk about their own glory days, their military service, their police service, (they've mostly all retired years ago from both) and they talk about their great-grandkids, their grands, the way life has changed, and what means the most to them. Every conversation about precious memories always includes our American dream, our American way of living, our American freedoms, and what being an American means to them; to us.

    Most of us are of European descent. Most of us know who and where our people come from, and we both honor and respect our ancestors; but we will never trade our American citizenry for another.  I am about to move to Scotland on a permanent basis, but I will never stop being an American. I can't and won't call myself a Scottish citizen, by DNA I'm probably less than 13% Scottish now that the gene pool has been filled so many times over the past 360 years since my almost full Scottish ancestors came to what was known as the New World in 1660.  William, James, Robert, Richard, and Reuben Stringfellow boarded the ships with their entire families and started what is now my life. I am grateful for the history, I appreciate the genealogy and study that went into finding out who my father's people are and were - - and then there's mom; damn Brit! LOL

    My poor mom.  Not only is she 90+% English, but she was also (sadly) born in Texas! What shame! How do I explain that to my soul? Oh well, Dad thought she was a cutie, and they made a very happy and wonderful life for themselves and for us kids as well. We'll just have to forgive the woman, she didn't pick her ancestors well - - maybe next time.  God bless America! God bless the World. God bless each and every last one of us who call upon His wonderful name and who truly believe He is returning soon to save us from what we have done to this planet and to our magnificent country; long may my flag wave in honor of what we were and what we are in my heart.

Photo credit: Jude Stringfellow

It's Official. I Suck at Jumping Rope.

 Apparently, and I mean this with every cell in my body because now every cell in my body feels my ultimate failure; I suck at jumping rope. I am the 3rd worst person in the world at it. I can't claim to be the absolute worst, as I am positive there must (must) be someone who is even less apt at this than myself. If I am correct, I hope this person steps up to announce themselves, because at this moment I am feeling rather alone in my non-conquest.  There are no worries that I will give up jumping rope, no, that will not happen. I will master this skill and I will become one of the world's almost-ok jump ropers; it will happen.

    Jumping rope, so you know, burns more than 200 calories in just 10 minutes. This is the 2nd reason I decided to take it up as a hobby, the first reason is that it's cheap, fun, and I can do it anywhere. I think that may qualify as being three separate reasons, but I use them as one combined reason because the fact that you burn more than 200 calories in just 10 minutes is really hard to beat for a number one reason. You have to admit that.  Anything that can burn more than 200 calories in just 10 minutes is worth doing for 20 minutes if you can - - damn the torpedoes, this is getting done.

    I went all out for this because that's what you do. You go all out so that you can't back out. If you go all out you say to yourself, "Hey, you went all out, you spent money, you put the time in, you're doing this" whereas if you just pick up a $2.00 piece of plastic and jump over it a few times you have the option of throwing it away or using it somehow in your next murder novel. Plastic is cheap and you can dispose of it rather easily if it's thin enough.  For instance, you can brick up a wall and stretch the murder weapon along with the bricks and bury it; be sure and clean all DNA off of it of course.  I'M KIDDING - C'mon, I'm an author, I do that. I kill people. 

    If you go all out you buy the best (or nearly the best) rope, a leather rope with wooden handles. They have handles now that count the rotations but let's be honest, I don't need that at this point. I am still working on the hopping over the rope part without tripping and falling on my face - - again.  I may need to do this in front of a mattress or padded floor.  If you go all out you buy ankle wraps, wrist wraps, good barefoot type shoes, and at least a high impact bra if not two; unless you're a man, and then maybe one will suffice. I need two. I suck at being small-chested as well.

    Jumping rope is an art as well as a sport folks. If you're about to run a marathon you practice for months before you actually do it, and that's the same thing with a jump rope. My son (of course) laughed at me and told me to "Suck it up, buttercup, this is just round one", because he has a few tricks up his sleeve and he's not even wearing a shirt! He's over there jumping, skipping, hopping, moving his feet one at a time all the while rolling and tossing the rope both under his feet and he's even crossing the rope before he does that! What kind of maniac did I raise? I swear I never saw this boy (when he was a boy) jumping rope before - - the girls and I did, but we're girls and we do that. He was always into anything that he could hit, knock over, roll over, throw, or punch. When did he learn to jump rope? (Oh, so yeah, he tells me that as a private in the U.S. Army it's required to learn jump roping for coordination and dexterity. Who knew? Must be one of those secrets the Armed Forces keeps from us civies.)

    I was given the order by my personal trainer/son to hop in place for 30 seconds and only lift my feet about two inches off the ground. I am to keep my face forward, my core tight, my wrists out and my elbows into my body. I'm to nod if I need to but not look down. I do that for 30 seconds, rest 30, jump 30, rest 30, and do this 15 times. This is my morning and evening routine until I can add the rope. HE TOOK MY NEW ROPE FROM ME!  He said I'm going to end up hurting myself and he needs me to make waffles in the morning.  Fine! I know when I'm loved.

    After I get the hopping down I'll add the rope and see if I can do it correctly.  I still jump two hops for one swing and I can't do that. I'm not supposed to do it, but I do it. I guess old habits are hard to break and I must have learned that as a kid. Once I get the regular jumping down I can do it for 30, then off 30, then on 30 and when I can do it well enough I can jump 30 and be off 10 seconds. This is the routine for beginners and I am most certainly a beginner - - GREEN as green gets, I make emerald look pale. I am flat out no good at this - - yet. I will get better. I don't have an option. If there's anyone who can make me stand up and face my demons it is me. I may not be the best roper, but I am a commander! Get 'er done!

Photo Credit: Someone in Basic Training - - I have no idea, but this is about the time he learned to jump rope covertly and without my permission. 

    

    

Hoping for Roping (Hop, Hop)

 If you have been following me for any time whatsoever this past year (11 months actually), you'll know that I've been losing weight, trying to do just about anything to get the body to conform to what my mind thinks it should look like. Believe me, my body and my mind have two really different opinions, and they can often resemble a presidential debate in terms of arguing with each other, making fun of their opponent, and just being both obstinate as well as really rude to each other. I'm not even allowed to stop the bickering really, I just throw in a new suggestion or two and make things as calm and easy as they can possibly be for myself as a whole. I'm not necessarily winning the battle, but I have a firm grip on it and I'm too damn stubborn to let my body have much more than a resistance to what my mind wants. It's how I survive.

    I've been working on this body thing for about a year, just under, and I've seen stellar results really, but not as stellar as I want to see. I started out at a whopping (and I'm shaking my head now) 216 pounds; which I think I weighed less than that with all of my pregnancies. I am today around 170 pounds, which isn't where I want to be, but when you look at me you don't see the "apple" belly on two sticks anymore. That's a plus, right? I mean, I weigh more because I have so much more muscle mass, but the scale is still not my friend. I have to remind myself over and over that, I went from a size 18 to a now size 12, which for most women would be enough, but not me. I'm not stopping until my toned svelte butt is inside a pair of zipped-up size 8 jeans without them being the stretchy kind. Nope, I want a real size 8 body, not a spandex-assisted body. It will happen. It may take another 6 months, but it will happen. I'm just mean enough to force mind over matter - literally. 

    What am I doing to make this happen? OK, great question. I'm doing EVERYTHING - - so let me explain. I wake up after sleeping over 10 hours. That's something that most people don't have the luxury of and I absolutely thank God for that one blessing alone. It truly has been an amazing feat to be able to work my work schedule around my sleep schedule, and not the other way around.  I typically hit the sack around 11 and get up sometime after 9:00 a.m.  Sleep is vital for health.  Next, I don't eat from about 6:00 p.m. to about 10:00 a.m, but when I do I have lower carbs during the day, eating most of my carbs at 10:00 a.m. to get the day started with a boost of good energy. I'm drinking WAY over 100 ounces of water (with lemon or lime) every day, and yes, I have coffee and tea during the day as well, but that water (100+) is over and above the tea and coffee.

    I have three or four small meals a day, all with protein, vegetables, fruit, nuts, cheese, and/or good foodstuff. I even post my foods, for the most part, to let people know and see that I'm still focused. There are "cheat" days to mix up the intake of carbs to keep my metabolism confused, it's called carb cycling, and I do that about once a week or twice every 10 days or so. It's been working out for me too. I take supplements and vitamins, I take probiotics, but the one group of supplements I take every day no matter what are my poopy pills; psyllium husk, cascara, milk thistle, and slippery elm. I have the best poos on the planet and I have them every single day. It's wonderful, I feel great, but I wish I could just poop out the last 30 pounds and be done. That would make me really super happy, not gonna lie to you.

    Let's talk exercise.  I live across from the YMCA so I go there three times a week and work every limb and then my gut. I do machines for 20 minutes and I go home. I walk 5,000 - 8,000 steps a day in the evening, and I punch my Wave Master 10-12 minutes every other day. I do Doga, which is a lot like yoga only with dogs in my face. I don't have an option it's Doga every time. I do that every other day too. I stretch, I ride my bike, I ride horses, though not as often these days. I also lift a 10 or a 15-pound weighted bar and do squats while standing on a vibration plate every other day for 15 minutes. I get my cardio in - - and yet, the body has refused to agree with my mind as to what it should be fitting in or looking like - - I am still standing of course, but I'm not happy yet. 

    This week I decided two things; change up the hormones and get back to basics. By basics, I mean jump roping. When little girls do it they make it look so easy! They can make this feat seem as if they were meant to leap into the air without fuss; they are 40-50 pounds and have the spring-in-their-step syndrome, while the rest of us (me) have to really work at lifting the mass from the ground into the air even if just a couple of inches from terra firma. The experts say two inches is the preferred height. God bless the experts. I don't think three or four inches would be a reality at this point. (someday) This coming from the same person who could once stand straight, jump, tuck her knees to her chest and do a backflip without flinching!

    Let's talk about clothes and gear. Believe me when I say this type of exercise calls for high-impact bras and the type of minimalist shoes you may wear in the water. You don't need to be wearing big, fat, honking shoes when you jump, and you certainly want your boobies to understand they have to stay in place no matter what. I will say that I'm getting better at holding those particular muscles in place, however. Viva la workout!

    Jumping rope is not for idiots friends, you should know this. One does not simply pick up a random strip of cotton or leather and begin slinging it over one's head and under one's lifted feet. No, one does not do that. One watches more experts on YouTube to be sure one doesn't trip and fall causing one to be incapacitated and/or dead. Jumping rope is for the brave.  I have learned that this seemingly simple and overtly covert method of exercising has been modified since the days of my youth. There are rules it seems to the proper length of the rope, and that makes so much more sense to me as an adult. 

    Failure will absolutely be your guide on this one. You do have to pay attention to those in the know with picking and choosing equipment.  Google it, you'll be surprised how the whole industry has changed. They have cotton, nylon, leather, chain ropes, they have weighted ropes, cheap and expensive ropes. They have really cool handles now that count your jumps - - I'm going for the old-school leather rope with basic average handles. I don't want my neighbors thinking I think I'm so much better than they are. LOL...that's a community gag. You'd have to be one of us to know what I'm talking about. We one-up each other whenever we get the chance. 

    I am 5'7" tall, my rope should be 8.5" not 9 feet long. I think I may have an 8-foot rope at this point, but if it doesn't work I'll buy another one. I know the 9-foot rope is just too long to make the correct sized loop or circle to jump over, and holding your elbows inward is the proper way, so you can't fudge and stick your elbows out to shorten the length of the rope - - nope, you just have to buckle down and get the right-sized rope in the first place. It would appear that in this case, size really does matter. Do the right thing - - don't overcompensate.  Elbows in, wrists out, and by all means yes, wear guards on both your wrists and both of your ankles. These joints will take the brunt of the force in this routine. The wrists are the movers, turning, twisting, over and over again, and your ankles will feel the impact with every leap - - do not overdo it, do not force them to be stressed. Little bunny hops is what you are aiming for - - tiny little hop, hop, hops...not actual leaps. I should say hops....hops.

    If you (like I did) go online and see the before and after photos of the jumpers with their 60, 90, 100-day challenge videos, you'll be amazed. If they are telling the truth, and all they did was jump rope, eat correctly, get sleep, and take their supplements, you are in for a real eye-opening awareness of what this one exercise can do for you. I'm really hoping it will be the key to unlock this pseudo plateau that comes and goes. I've been hanging at the same weight for over 2 months, just barely getting out of it and it's not letting up the way I wanted it to. I wanted to be 160 by now, and then 150 by end of summer. My goal weight, for my height, and for my muscle mass is probably 150, but I'm going to see if I can get it lower and keep the muscles. I'll trade the boobs for good thighs if God will let me. I'm not really into the whole C-D cup thing - - I'm OK looking like a 12-year-old boy without a shirt; too much information? Sorry, it's just that they seem to always be in the way.

    That's if for today - - I'm waiting on UPS, Fed Ex, Walmart, and even the postman to deliver packages for me today. I've ordered the ankle wraps, DHEA supplements (hormone thing), and another high-impact bra as well as cool aqua shoes. I wanted the red and black, but they only had the blue in my size - - First World issues. I'll survive.  Two bras are better than one with jumping rope ladies, it's a real thing - - you don't want pain in the breasts and you don't want to stop your routine to worry about them. In time cardio wins out, this is another thing the experts say. I sure hope they know what they're doing and talking bout because this body needs to pay a lot more attention to the experts since it's not paying that good of attention to me!  

Photo credit: Best Buy

The Little Boy and the Rainbow

 I've kept this particular story a bit private only because it is so very close and personal to my soul. It is one of those stories you tell at a party maybe, no one really believes you, so you have the freedom to tell the full truth, or at least what you perceive as being the truth. You can tell every detail and get the thing off of your mind and chest so that it's no longer haunting you, but you don't have to worry about it being taken as non-fiction.  You have the laughter, your friends saying "That's a good one", and you (I) have the peace of knowing that what really happened -- really happened. 

    I sense that the truth lies somewhere beyond that which I can express.  I feel that the truth is there but I can't actually reach it, I can't grasp it fully.  I know the sensation of the core of the story feels real. I know the perception of it in my mind feels genuine; I just can't find a date or time that it could have been taking place because it took place just before time, space, and accountability began for me. It took place before I was born; somewhere in Heaven. If I could pinpoint the time I could pinpoint the jubilation in my spirit when I think about it (and I do think about it). I could finally nail down once and for all, the event(s) that keep my heart pumping and skipping when I think I've seen the boy again - - he's no longer a boy.

    We were ageless but by Earthly standards, I suppose someone would say I was around 6 and he was around 4. I know I was slightly bigger than he was, but we didn't know a thing about birthdays, age, or anything like that. We did know that we had the sunshine to keep us company, and we played literally all day as there was no night. Sometimes the Sun or the light, it wasn't a Sun, would dim and we could have a bit of evening to walk the paths that weren't quite cut into the ground, but more or less a guideline of trees and flowers; flowers that would grow over our heads as we passed them, and they would blow us kisses too.  We held hands, we ran, we jumped, we climbed rocks, and swam in crystal pools of water that never got us wet.  The fish played a form of "patty-cake" with us, and there were animals I haven't seen here on Earth; just watching us. Just watching the boy and me.

    He was blond, maybe dirty blond. He was rounder than I was, as I was basically a stick with flailing arms and legs that seemed to move in all four directions at once.  He was stubbier and more balanced but I was the one that liked to dance. He was serious-minded, more likely to question something while I was the "let's go over there and see what happens" type.  He would always go with me, never fighting me, but he would question everything that could possibly happen before we got there, nothing was ever harmful and we didn't think about that, just questions about it. The answers only came when we arrived, but by the time we did he wasn't asking, he was playing and he was too happy to wonder (never really worried, just wondered).

    As it does, things ended for us, there was a "time" limit about to take place, but neither of us knew it was going to happen.  We found a new path a new journey and we took it. I didn't ask what could happen I don't remember if he did, but I do remember the colors. There were so many colors. It was the rainbow; the real rainbow. The one God puts out and when someone on Earth sees it they stop for a minute to look at it, just to look. We stopped too.  We decided to play inside of it, what could happen? We didn't know. The boy, who I don't remember calling by name, called me "Pia".  I don't know why I remember that. My name isn't Pia, but he called me that.  We played for a very long time together in the rainbow and the two things I remember most are that he really enjoyed the broad colors of blue and I really enjoyed the broad spectrum of yellows to gold. He had to be blue! He rode the colors, twisted them in his arms, jumped through them, and more or less swam in them, but mainly the blue.  I would pop up into different shades too, but always seem to return to the golden shades. I had to be gold.

    That's the last I saw my friend - - I just remember his eyes watching me and his smile so sweet as I announced that my hair was gold like his now; I was pretty.  He agreed with me, and then he was gone, or maybe I was gone. I'm not sure. That's the last I saw him in Heaven - - my mind has conjured his would-be adult image so many times. I think I pretend to keep him with me now in the form of who I call "Naked Bearded Man", my pretend "husband" who I resort to claiming when someone I don't want to associate with asks me on a date or if I would like to "get to know each other".  To be honest with you, I really don't want to get to know anyone at this point. I'm done with Earth. Give me Heaven! Give me the peace, give me the paths, give me the kissing flowers and the Rainbow. 

    I may never find the boy again here, but I know I'll find him soon.  We may be older, I don't know how that will work, but he will be my blue again, and I will be his gold. Some things just can't ever truly end.  I have to be honest and say one of the reasons I'm going to move to Scotland is to be closer to this memory. I think Heaven must look a great deal like Scotland, or to be equitable, Scotland may look a lot like the part of Heaven we played in the most. At least that's what I remember. 

Photo credit: Kathy Weaver "End of the Rainbow, Isle of Skye"

I May Actually be a bit Odd, Come to Think of it.

 I bought the t-shirt that reads "I too am strange and unusual", which was a line out of Beetlejuice. Winona Ryder's character Lydia Deetz proclaims this to be true about herself.  I guess in some ways, I just have to relate. I don't have much of an option. I do things from time to time that certainly set me apart from the rest of the crowd.  I'm not embarrassed by the fact that I don't match my socks. That's one way I suppose my friends can describe me to their other friends. I began not matching my socks in the 3rd grade, which was the same year I decided my name was Jude rather than Judy, and I changed it myself on every paper I turned in at school. I actually refused to respond to the name Judy for many years - - It is what it is. Possibly strange, possibly unusual. 

    Today I was sitting in my big chair with my dog as I do in the mornings, and I began wondering what it was that makes me do things that may seem odd or out of whack to others. It's not as if I wake up and decide intentionally to be odd - - I was born dead; maybe that has something to do with it. Maybe I'm really supposed to be from another era, another time, another place, another world - - or it could just be that I get bored more quickly and don't really care if something is out of place. I don't have a single OCD bone in my body; a fact that actually upsets most of my friends. I have things misaligned, laying about out of place, and from time to time, just to really piss my good friends off, I'll move the corner of a framed painting on the wall, set a book really close to the edge of a shelf, or leave the vacuum cleaner plugged in and standing in the middle of the living room to see if anyone will fix it.  I know, I'm really mean, huh?

    Today I realized that I was cooking with a spoon I happened to have dropped on the floor at least twice when I tried to throw it up and spin it around to see if I could catch it. I did catch it a few times, but not every time, and there I was still using it to cook with - - OOPS.  I didn't wash my strawberries before I ate them, and I used a dirty spoon from last night to stir my coffee this morning. I guess all those years of eating mud pies has actually paid off for me. My immune system must be working. I did, oh yeah, I did catch the spoon once with my knees! That was unintentional, but it was impressive and I did laugh right out loud - - good on me! What talent.

    I turn books upside down to read them if I think they may be boring because I don't want to not read it just because it may be boring. If I turn it upside down I have to make my mind works a little harder and therefore I tend to remember what it is that I am reading. I do this with study guides mostly, and since I'm learning to speak (actually first to read) Scottish Gaelic, it had to be done. I can now complete my online lessons without too many mistakes, but I can't say the words the way a real live Scottish man or woman would say them. I can't roll my R's and I can't make the cough-hacking sound that I hear so often in both Scottish and also Hebrew.  Sorry folks, this girl is Southern born and Southern bred. I suppose when I do attempt to actually speak Gaelic someday the locals will either get a real kick of it or they'll shake their heads and say something under their breath that I may or may not comprehend.

    My dog thinks I'm weird when I pray because first I go into the closet with my rock in my hand, there's that, but I also make really strange guttural noises to exhale and express any breaths that may not be willing to speak with God. It's a way of cleaning out my spirit and getting myself ready to speak to God; I don't do it all the time, but when I really have something I need to get off my chest and into His heart I make sure there is nothing between us. I seek my soul for every last sin I may have known about and those I don't know about. My dog stares at me, but that's her fault for crawling into the closet with me. She can't stand being outside of it when I'm in it, and it's good for me to have another soul in the closet with me who I know would and will agree with my prayers; God is there when there are two! He never said it had to be another human. My dog is absolutely a follower of Jesus Christ. 

    Being odd has never been an issue for me. I think I thought it was normal that I was the way I am, and if anyone thought otherwise it was them who thought I was odd, not me. If I wasn't accepted by them or by the world at large I never really had a problem with it. That may have been an issue in middle school while growing up because I didn't have to wear the right things, say the right things, be seen with the right people, or do the things others did in order to fit in with the cool kids. I was the one doing gymnastics in the halls and trying to balance on the gutter system without falling off of it. I was the one watching the boys play football in the heat, in the rain, in the snow, in the sleet, in the anything because I liked to watch the boys play football. It didn't matter that no one else was in the stands at practice. I was in the stands and I was watching.  I ate licorice for lunch sometimes. I still do. I make avocado smoothies and mix spinach with pineapple for a great powerful drink. Yeah, I'm not ordinary, I get it, but I'm smiling.

    Being odd today is about the same. I don't do what the world says is the A-list thing to do. When Oprah said she wasn't going to promote my book after her production team had promised me that she would be doing so, I told her I wouldn't be on her show if she couldn't keep her promise. I let my daughters fly to Chicago instead; I keep my word and she should have kept hers. Why should I bend at the knee only to be slapped in the face? Not this girl - - my oddness is my oddness I suppose. I embrace it, and I accept who I am. I know this; I am not afraid to be alone. I like my own company, and if I were a guy I'd marry me. I really would - - I'd find me to be both a perfect friend and partner. I could trust myself. I could have fun with me. I could raise babies and work side by side with me. Come to think of it, I basically did do all those things after I divorced.  I've been pretty loyal to me I suppose.

    I don't really follow protocol either - come to think about it. I go straight to the source, and I ask too many questions. I find that this upsets some, makes some uncomfortable, and yes, it has even alienated a few, but for the most part I found out that the reason others get upset about me doing this is they don't have the kahunas to do it, or they never thought they could. I never thought I couldn't. Therein lies the difference(s) between me and most people. I don't have the fear factor I guess. I ask a question and I expect an answer. If I don't get one, I seek it. I will find my answer. Dogmatic? Pushy? Maybe, or maybe I'm really thorough and want the truth rather than settling for a sugar-coated explanation. I want a resolution not a statement. I want something to be corrected, not covered up or hidden. I won't go along with the agenda - - I prefer ethics. That's it...that's the nut, right there. I prefer the truth. This probably makes me a bit odd because I won't accept a lie.

    Well, whatever it is about me, I am the only me I could ever be. I am the only one made that is me. I am the only one I know who would put up with me, and it's OK, I like me enough to do just that. I am going to be just fine -- and when Jesus comes back and I fly up to Heaven to greet Him I really hope somehow He will bring my rock with me; and my dog. Gotta have my dog. When I get to Heaven, I pray that I have every last dog I ever knew and every last dog I ever saw and wanted to get to know. That would be Heaven for me. 

Kilty Pleasures.

 NOPE!  NO! NO! NO!  I don't want to see another chisel-faced man without hair on his chest or face, standing in a studio wearing a kilt that you just KNOW he was supplied rather than owning it. He's standing in a pose with a sword, with his bi-ceps all sprayed down with oily water to make him appear as if he's just come from battle and he's all sweaty - - yeah, OK, but if that's the case why are his boots so clean?  Year after year, because I've never made a secret of drooling over men wearing kilts, my friends send me calendars with the obligatory men in kilts; sans the men. I mean, they are male, but they just don't do it for me. I look, sure, I look, I'm not blind, and I'm no prude - - I look, but to be honest if even one of these types walked past me wearing their production wardrobe and carrying one of their steely props, I would bet you $1000 I'd catch a whisp of semi-masculine cologne (semi) rather than the sweet manly musk d'odor that radiates from a real man -- give me the real man every time. 

    I think when I go to Scotland I will take my handy-dandy camera with me and not just my iPhone 12. I'll try to locate a man or two...or twenty, who doesn't mind me taking his picture and using it to make a personalized yearly calendar that I can use over and over again. Who really cares what day it is when you're staring at 12, 15, 48 gorgeously bearded, round, tattooed men with legs the size of tree stumps? Who really asks what month it is when you can tell by the thickness of the sweater the man is wearing or if he's wearing one at all? If he's not wearing a sweater it must be August (tank top in July, maybe a t-shirt in June).  It really wouldn't be too hard to figure out, and if these men were, I don't know, bending over to tie their dirty dusty black boot -- maybe one leg hiked a bit on top of a rock, no one should be interested in the time of day let alone the month or day of the year. Just stare! It's OK...stare. (that's why I said I wanted to find the ones that wouldn't mind me staring and gawking because I have EVERY intention of continuing that behavior once I develop the photos. Photos can last a really really long time you know.

    Because this is the year 2021 and not the year 1221, I shouldn't really expect too many men that I find in Scotland (on any given day) to be walking around the moors in their kilts, but maybe if I'm lucky I can find one or two, and maybe even a few who are yes, walking around, but maybe out of their kilts, too. I mean I can look - I may not touch, but I can giggle and thank God for giving me that particular gene that really likes hairy, sweaty, round, stout, strong men in their family tartan and you know, I've said it a million times, if that man happens to have a guitar strapped to his back while he's climbing over rocks and tree limbs to make it to the top of the hill so he can sing to the wild animals - - he's going to have more than the sheep for company; to be sure. (be still my heart, pace yourself)

    There will be a few. I will find a few. I don't need many of them really, just enough to fill up a good calendar - 12 months is fine, but yeah, I mean, a 365 daily calendar would be even better - - except I am really rather selfish and would like to look at one or two of them a bit more than just once a year - - who am I kidding - - give me ONE really good one and I could stare for the rest of my life!  I've put in my request and God is at this very moment looking for one that fits more than just a kilt.  

    I have a few more preferences and standards he'll need to meet - - I'll leave that to God, He knows more about what I need, but there is that WANT factor - - I want to be smiling and giggling at the end of the day when I pull out that calendar and say my nightly prayers. (Actually, again, Jesus and I talk all the time, I don't even have to close my eyes) Just know that when I get the 2022 calendars this year from my good friends who think they know me - - I will smile and probably donate them to someone who really isn't into manly men, and to those who just want to look at pretty boys - - Nah, not for me. Give me the one with a thicker belly, fuzzy face, missing molars, a mischievous smile, a twinkle in his eye, and maybe an itchy butt from not wearing his knickers under his wool gear - - that's the one I smile for. 

Kilty pleasures indeed - - don't forget the black boots, gotta have the black boots (sporran is optional).

Photo credit: Kilted Coaches