EVERY Door. EVERY time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you, Jesus. 

Photo credit: Unknown

Someone Has to Die.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What Would You Do?

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

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

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

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

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

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

What would you do?

Jeannie and Lily

My Diatribe

 Oh yeah, it's true, Ima gonna bomblast anyone who tries to take a single word, poem, blog, book, or creative idea that I came up with and then try to either say it is their work or that it's good, but could be better if we just...you know, changed it.  No.  You do you.  I'll do me.  I just today, minutes ago, received an email from a literary agent in New York asking me to allow her to use my image, my work(s), and my influence to get her a better position within her publishing house. She was literally trying to stroke my ego saying that by dropping my name, saying she's my agent, she could boost herself inside the house she is already a part of - - lies.  It's so openly and blatantly false, I wondered if she really thought that little of me, to think I wouldn't see through her deception, or if just wasn't all that good at hiding it.  Either way, the answer is no. I'm good.  

            Her approach was interesting, and I'll even give her a bit of credit for using my skills and talents as a way to find a special soft spot in my heart, but baby, this ain't my first rodeo, and I've been kicked a few times by the one horse I trusted; you aren't going to get into my business by telling me how pretty I am, how good I write, how talented I seem to be, and how my influence in the world of words can be a benefit for more than just myself. No, you can go out there in the big bad open market and find yourself another skinny fish, one who hasn't been used to scavenging for food, one who hasn't been tricked by stink bait, and maybe one who would follow your lure just because it's pretty and flashy. This catfish has been feeding off the mud long enough to know what dirt looks like -- I'm good. I'll let God send me food. His promises don't come dangling on an invisible line with a reel at the end. (and remember, catfish have teeth)

            My daughter Laura felt the crash and the crush of the media lures years back when she was singing both on the side and professionally.  She was approached a number of times by those agents, producers, publishers, people who wanted her sooooo badly, you know the type. Somehow, because of how they work, and who they know, they end up backstage after a show, and ask you to give them a call - - promising the world, saying it will be the best decision you ever made. Tell that to Taylor, Rhianna, Billie, and Katy -- maybe they should have stuck their foot out and stepped as hard on those types of would-be predators as my Laura - - BAM!

         She turned down the very producers who ended up fronting and pushing a world known artist just weeks later; funny how the songs they gave Laura to practice ended up with this new woman, and she claims to have written them. That was one of their assurances; you can say you wrote this or that song when in reality, they don't let you write a word of any of the songs you sing - - they allow you to think you write with their people, but they change your words, often at the last minutes saying it just wasn't feeling right. They nod and ask you if you understand? You understand, right?  Of course you do, you may understand too well, but realize a day late that you're signed on and you won't be swimming in the pond freely for a minute.

        My diatribe to the music industry, and I suppose now the writing industry is this: NO. You can't take our work and claim it is yours. You can't say we are represented by you unless of course we are represented by you. Now, if you want to write a blog about me, about us, about Laura, about anyone really, and you want to say the truth, tell people your opinion, you can do that. You can praise, you can criticize, you can trash me, I don't care - - it won't change my style, my thoughts, my writing, my mind, or anything else - - but hey, here's a thought; tell the truth. Don't go after someone who is needing money, needing to be saved, needing to be helped along, and make them a half-baked offer that barely gets them back on track, keeps them afloat just enough so they'll bend over backwards to do your bidding, and then you try and ask them to thank you massively online and when being recorded. Stroke. Stroke. Be honest.  What in the world is wrong with that? Oh, well, I just said it - - the world. 

        Laura still sings every single day. She's not recording at this point, but she's not wearing some ridiculous costume, being flown around the world, fed drugs and lured into dens of filth just to be a product for a named label either - - nope, she's playing games with friends, eating what she wants, sleeping where she wants, dancing, writing - - more writing than she to actually. She's not rich, but she's happy - how do we gauge success anyway? No one is asking her to cover up  her imperfections, or asking her (telling her) she'll be CGI'd to make her appear more commercially acceptable - - she's a catfish like her momma; happy being free and avoiding shiny objects.  A bit for the wiser, that one.

        This world has enough liars without becoming a part of their schemes. No thank you, I'll take the lumps, and even the hardships over pretty dressings and easy money; I get to keep me in the process. That's a bit more rewarding -- you understand, right? Of course you do. Maybe all too well.

Photo: Outdoor News 

Picky Picky People.

 You know there's that joke about how was the Grand Canyon formed? If you haven't heard it, the answer is that a Scotsman dropped a penny down a hole.  I bet an Englishman started that rumor! I mean, I guess that could happen, but I don't know why he would have continued his pursuit, say maybe after the first 3 miles; it makes no sense whatsoever! I guess there's just a wee truth to the fact that Scottish people tend to be a bit frugal. I'm American born, and of Scottish/English heritage, you'll never hear someone, a Scotsman, say a lie about...well, yeah, you will, never mind.  I do it too, not gonna lie, I make fun of the stiff collared British friends I have. Prim and proper most of them; I prefer Simon Parkes to any of them really. WHAT is the FREAKING point I'm trying to make? No worries, I'll get there, it's just me, I can't say hello in the first few paragraphs, it takes me a minute.

        My family, and mostly because of me I suppose, has always been a bit frugal as well. We're not as cheap or chintzy as some, no, we're not going to cut the corners and lose quality, but we will try to find a way to make things that are just as glorious at one price find it's way to being just as wonderful without the bite of paying full price; that's all I'm saying, so when it came to dental hygiene I decided to wing it and buy my own set of stainless steel (real live) dental picks and scrapers - - it even has a handy dandy mirror on a stick - - but I typically use my 10x handheld round mirror to see those really hard to reach places. No, I'm actually serious, I scrape my own teeth and I do it a lot more than every six months, thank you. I have good strong healthy teeth now. It wasn't always that way, but it is now!  This isn't even the point of my blog - - only partly, to show you the backstory as to why it is that Laura decided to borrow my dental tools to see if she could be brave enough (like her lioness mother) to dig in a little deeper, and chip away at the nasty ugly plaque that has been building up since she missed her last six month appointment. It's rather like losing weight before you go to the gym - - anyone else do that?

        So Laura Cakes (her nickname since birth) stops me as I'm about to pay a bill online and asks where my dental tools are - - and can she borrow them?  I mean sure, but yeah, you may want to (I don't know) clean them really well before you stick them into your mouth - - her thoughts and mine were close enough, she was already standing there with 70% Isopropyl Alcohol and swabs in hand. She was ready to do this! I took the tools out from where I keep them, and handed her the little black case they come in. I did not buy the cheap stuff, no, I went all out friend. These are the same ones used by my own personal dentist who assured me that I would be just fine if I watched a YouTube video, but he was not going to let me tell anyone he said that, so just ignore what I just said if you know who my dentist is, OK?

        Laura took the tools, washed them two or three times, dosed them in alcohol, and for good measure, soaked the tips in distilled water before beginning her first attempt at self cleaning  - preservation at it's best, folks. This is the beginning of growing old; when you realize you don't want to spend $30 at the dentist office for the co-pay because you missed your appointment and you have to reschedule for six months out or pay the skip-fee; she is such a Stringfellow, that one. Viva la Laura! Give it up for the one true Scot in my family besides myself - - Caity is so English, and Reuben is a hopeless Irishman at heart; nothing I can do to stop it, it is what it is. Thank you Jesus for my daughters. Thank you.

        I wanted to video the event. She almost closed the bathroom door to shut me out, but I begged and started dancing and stomping around, throwing a major tissy so she let me watch.  No phones, but she let me watch.  I of course, gave her instructions even after she watched the YouTube videos, moms do that, we know so much more about our own daughter's lower teeth structure and all the gick and ick that concretes itself around each little tiny sweet baby toofy that we mommies made! Those are our wee baby's teefies and I wanted to watch! I also wasn't sure if she would realize just how sharp these professional grade instruments are, and I didn't want her poking out her eye while she's digging -- the tools are dual headed with different types of curves and spikes on their tips.  She was a natural tooth scraper, let me tell you - - pull, push, pluck, poke and dig, she managed to pop so much of that crud off within minutes, and she only screamed twice when she saw the blood pouring out of her gums; EVEN THOUGH both the YouTube and her mother told her it would happen. It happens. There will be blood.

        After she poked and pulled a bit, it was hilarious to watch her grab the mouthwash bottle without the cap, and just swig the blue mix into her mouth like a boss!  Get it! Get it Laura, you rinse that nasty ugly bleeding mouth of yours and spit!  You spit right into that open drain girl! You've got this!! I felt so proud - - I wanted to call her brother up right then and there and say, "See, you don't have to worry about Laura when I move to Scotland, she's a trooper, she's all about self preservation and conservation, if you only knew!"  He'd be so proud too, but I didn't want him thinking he could come over and borrow my tools -- Nope, I'll no doubt order another set and leave this one with the kid when I move. She'll need them and I don't need her nasty blood soaked tips in my mouth anyway -- is that mean of me? Nah, it's not. I'm normal. That's normal, right? 

    

Neurotic Much?

 Yeah, OK, every one of us has a bit of a neuro issue and we can't lie and say it isn't true. I'll start, and you can write to let me know what your particular phobia(s) may be. I don't like short doors, they scare me. You know what I'm talking about, you go into a house and all the doors are normal, basic and average in size and height, and for no damn good reason whatsoever, the builder adds a little tiny door in the hallway or under the stairs, and it just creeps me out for some reason. I start thinking of all the things that could possibly live in that space just behind the door - - monsters aren't even sure what to do with it; they avoid them too! I think of the Borrowers maybe, I don't know. I'm not even afraid of Hobbits. I like Hobbits. I just don't like seeing a creepy little short door in an otherwise perfectly good house.

       I've already told you about the tiny door thing, but I haven't told you about my experience with glass elevators. Most of us have the same thoughts and feelings about glass elevators so it makes you wonder about the real freaks who decided that even though more than 87.8% of the people in the world get anxious and nervous inside of these fragile glassy sharp potentially impaling contraptions, they made them and then fancy schmancy hotels buy into them as if they're a form of entertainment. "Let's see how many of our paying guests freak out before reaching their floor!" If it were up to me, and it never is, we'd all take the stairs. Cables break and buildings should be shorter; there, that's my rant for the day. 

        Another thing that really trips my trigger when it comes to freaking out for no good reason whatsoever, would be watching surgeries being performed on medical shows like New Amsterdam, Chicago Med, or something similar. I could take M*A*S*H, it wasn't that bad but these newer more realistic shows are far too detailed and accurate to be anything shy of cringe-worthy. I watch half of the show behind my hands peering every now and then; or even when the firefighters of Chicago Fire are about to pull an impaled guy off of a fence post - - NOPE, can't do it. I can write about it, I can get in there and describe the gritty gnarly details using every adjective I can imagine and look up in the Thesaurus, but I can't watch it. I can't see it, I can't view it.

     Imagination is an entirely different thing! It's sort of like when I'm actually in the room with a naked man, but I start to giggle almost immediately because I just really think that God may have made one silly tiny (OK, two, they come in pairs) error when designing men, I don't know, but I do laugh - - almost every time I'm with one (a naked man). It could be the reason I'm divorced; if you think about it, but it could be a contributory factor.  Naked Bearded Man has never been offended with my giggles; he understands me - - he even put a bow on them once to make me feel better. (I still laughed but so did he and I got over it.) With NBM I don't really focus on THAT part of him anyway; I'm always too busy trying to figure out what he's saying. He only speaks Scots Gaelic, so the issue doesn't come up as often - - so to speak. Believe me when I say I'm so out of touch on that one; wait, did I just say that? Yeah, I did.

        OK your turn. Think of something really not all that bad that you just can't find settling. You get the shivers when it happens; maybe you see it and just walk the other way.  I don't have a clue one as to why we have phobias about something when others find it perfectly normal and acceptable, but we do. It's just our make up, maybe it's environmental, maybe it stems from a negative experience we had, whatever it is, tell me in the comments what you find creepy - - I need a better word, I'm going to the Thesaurus right now.  OK, what do you find to be ghoulish, eerie, direful, edgy, gruesome or baneful? Oh my, baneful. I like that...that's not creepy at all -- that's really nice.  Baneful. I can write an entire book around that word; it could involve murder, mayhem, and even marshmallows. Baneful. Yes. Good choice.

J.Kepper

Figs are Like Big Fat Raisins.

 I'm like the biggest fig fan that I know, and that's really tantamount to saying I'm also the biggest black licorice fan that I know, because there just aren't many of us out there. I'll even throw in beets while I'm at it.  Yeah, I said it, I went there, I'm a beet-eating, black-licorice-loving, fig-freak! I am. I could sit at my computer desk most of the day guzzling lemon water and snacking on figs but we both know where that would land me, right?  I think I may need to add a bit of cheddar in that mix to keep the playing field level. (Geez, what our bodies go through on a daily basis, just trying to figure out how to waste what all we put into it!) 

        I'm over at the Winco grocery store, in their big, beautiful, bountiful, bulk section, minding my own business; because that's what I do, when I noticed a bin (vat really) full of the most glorious blackened shriveled up pruney looking giant raisins! At first, I let my mind wander a bit, thinking "MY GOD, those were some huge grapes!", but then I realized I was looking at real live, honest-to-goodness, figs, and they were right there in front of me, in Oklahoma, just waiting to be bought and devoured. I could almost (not quite, but almost) guarantee that no one besides myself was actually going to be buying up a big fat bag of these babies - - but there are people from the Middle East in Oklahoma, so maybe one of them, (God bless you whoever you are) asked if Winco could start carrying real figs. REAL FIGS, people, really, real, and so fat, so gloriously thick and dense - - if I were laying down on my back, on a blanket, in the sun, in the Lowlands of Scotland with a kilted man, I could be a bit happier, but that's the only way it could happen. 

        Figs! People who know me know that for many years I carried Fig Newtons with me every chance I had, and that means every day of my elementary, secondary, and college years. Every day I had those little cookies in a baggie, and no, I did not share them. I wasn't impressed when they came out with other flavors either, you don't add raspberry to figs...you crush up raspberries if you want raspberry cookies. You leave the figs alone, thank you very much. Now, that being said, there is a brand of breakfast bars that does make a fairly decent fruit bar using other fruits and figs, but give me figs, give me 100% real, and hard to find figs, sans the cookies, I don't need the cookie when I have the fruit. I can just chomp on a few of them and smile throughout the day - - until it's time to eat more a little later on in the day. 

        I don't know why or when I became such a fan of the fig, but it's a thang now. I won't go to Winco without picking up a bag and I won't go out to play, ride, walk, drive, or hang out with friends for more than an hour or so without the little baggie too, but no one ever asks to share now! No one. Not one time has anyone ever said to me, "Hey Jude, is that a fig? Can I have one?"  Nope, it's like what I said about black licorice and beets; no one asks to share your booty. You are the only one who imbibes when you choose to eat foods that no one else would really be interested in  -  Oh, like PARSNIPS! Best kept secret out there! (Figs aren't a secret, everyone knows about them, but no one cares. I care)

        Well, that's it folks, not much to see here, just a girl and her fig. Have a great one! I hope your "go" is as good as mine, and you have the best belly possible - - no dang wonder I smile all the time. I've got this! Thank you, God. You knew....you knew.

Positively Positive!

 Most of the time you can see me smiling, walking briskly to or from some place I needed to be. You can find me laughing, waving at someone I either know, or maybe I don't know, but hey, I'm from the South, and we do that. We wave. We wave a lot actually, and sometimes we use our whole hand to gesture our grateful greeting, and other times we resort to just using one finger - - also in a very prominent manner; positively making sure the other person sees it anyway.  We rarely shy away or hold back our emotions here in the South.  Being positively positive is just a way of life for so many of us; we do it without even realizing we're doing it. We show up in the North (and often times in Europe) and the people there know instantaneously that we're just not from around those parts. 

            I suppose I've always been a really upbeat and positive person; when you think about it, and I do think about it. I wonder often why others aren't bouncing out of bed the way I do when the alarm sounds off. My own children will hit the snooze button a few times, but not me; why wake up 10 minutes earlier than I need to just to fight the clock? Nope, the alarm sounds and I get to it. Of course, I'm not going to lie, I do have to pet the dog for a good minute or two before rolling completely out of the bed. She insists. I obey. It may be another Southern thang, but we do sleep with our dogs here, and they do rule the bed. I often beg Ginger for the covers but if she's insistent on not sharing, I do have to go to the linen closet to get another comforter; we do not (under any circumstances really) disturb a sleeping dog. We let them lie.

        Being positively positive doesn't take as much effort (in my humble opinion) as it would to be negative. I rather think that if I were to set the two emotions to a metric and then somehow measure and scale the two, I would be proven correct. I think it takes less energy to bounce than it does to lay flat or curled up in the fetal position. I think it takes less outpouring of strength to smile than it does to duck and dodge someone just because you don't like them, or you don't want to see them, communicate with them, be around them, whatever - - if you just smile and wave, you can always pretend you have something to do, and just walk onward! WALK AWAY with a big fat smile plastered right across your pretty face and then for fun you may want to add a little head nod; and a courtesy wave.  Do it, all of your friends who know you and know you can't stand that other person you just waved at will either laugh with you, or at you, it doesn't matter, either way you made your friends laugh. It's a WIN!  When you let your mind wander off into the negative fields you end up with ugly weeds in your brain, not flowers.

        If positive was a drink it could be named Jude. I could bottle it, sell it, get it out there and the world would sing silly songs all day while guzzling down strong coffee and heavy whipping cream - - maybe even a bit of cinnamon, I do like being a bit spicy you know. I tell people, "I'm not a hot mess, I'm a spicy disaster" at times. I make sure I screw up every now and then just so I have something to be humble about; it's really hard to be humble when you're a Sooner fan, and you're just so damn happy all the time - - you have to make at least one good mistake a day so your dog doesn't actually believe you are infallible; dogs are that way, aren't they?  Ginger.  She really had big big paws to fill when George went home to see Jesus  - talk about positive; Ginger makes me look like a slug at times.

        Today I had another opportunity to pour out a little positive on those around me who just insist on being boo-bears all the time. My neighbors (my cranky neighbors who will take their tea on the porch so they can watch me walk the complex) asked me if I had lost another pound yet. Apparently they read my posts on Facebook, who knew? I complain a little when I don't lose weight quite as quickly as I think I should.  I stopped in my tracks when one of the sisters called out to ask me the question - - I could tell she was being sarcastic.  She went on to say, "You should give it up, you're old. You're gonna hurt yourself walking that fast anyway."  I dropped my head to my chest trying not to show her my giggling. but I should have fired back something rude. Instead, I turned to her and said "Alice, God made me the day He made me, and He'll take me back the day He decides to take me back, but until that day I'm going to pretend I'm 17! Why admit otherwise? It doesn't do a body good, it doesn't do a mind any good, and if the geese and the squirrels get a kick out of watching me strut my butt, at least I have that!"  She waved me off with a huff - - and I made the geese smile for the next 30 minutes just to put another kink in Alice's chain - - gotta love it.  Be the positive that others need to be attracted to you - - be their pole.

Can't Even Imagine!

 Someone needs to hear this. I know I harp on this one issue more so than maybe I should, but it just rattles my cage when I see, hear, and know about an artist who has allowed someone to come in (maybe because that artist needed money, maybe because he or she was promised the moon) and they allow a would be producer to literally erase all that they have worked so hard to achieve and call their own.  

        You may not remember, or even know who I'm talking about when I say the name Avril Lavigne, but she is a Canadian vocal artist who eventually caved to the pressure of commercialism and big bucks when she  recorded her last work, but in the beginning she was raw and gutsy, a bit out there with weird hair and makeup, but it was her weird hair and make up. Her teeth weren't perfect, her nails weren't painted pretty flashy colors, they weren't long and plastic either, and her music was real, it was hers. She owned it. She wrote it. She performed it. She kept it. 

        There was even a reference to another artist, Britney Spears, in one of Lavigne's songs where Lavigne flatly says she's not "A Britney" she won't give in to the long cold fingers of soul-eating producers who come along (claiming) saying they love your style, but the first thing they do after signing you to their iron-clad unilateral contracts (one sided) is to change your style! They make you write songs with their writers, they ask you to sing their songs over your songs and if they do allow you to sing your songs they force you to change the way you did it before -- it just didn't fit in with their program. Does any of this strike a chord?  Would you ever allow it? I hope not.

        Well, shoot me twice please, if I ever write a blog claiming that someone, a producer, publisher, writing stylist, or someone else wanting to manage my work, has come along and changed my style. I'll allow an editor, sure, that's a given, I need an editor. I'm a writer, but I'm by no means perfect at the craft - - no one really writes from the heart without making flub-ups. It just happens. We think, we write, we screw up, we laugh, we move forward. If another person thought for half of a nanosecond that I would allow them to take my words and either rewrite them, ask me to redo them so they sounded more commercial, sounded more pleasing, sounded more robotic, stale, plastic, monotone, unchallenging, unraw (is that a word?) and, oh, I don't know -- BORING - - if I were to entertain allowing someone to come along and do that, please just take me out back and thrash me if I ever allow anyone to tell me to write anything I write any other way than MY WAY. (I won't be able to feel you doing it because I would have been in a coma long before I would allow anyone to change a damn word I write other than to correct a misspelling or punctuation mark.)

        Every last one of us is formed in the great image of our Heavenly Father. It doesn't matter if you don't believe that, it's still true. We humans are crafted in the image of God the Father and God the Son. We are not like the animals, we did not evolve from animals, we were crafted, we were planned, we were formed and magnificently so! There isn't a one of us born who was made by mistake. We may not like our hair, our eyes, our nose, those freckles, our ankles, whatever - - but can you imagine if God had chosen to just randomly put us together in a way that was more user-friendly maybe, or maybe in a way that would somehow be more marketable, pleasing to the eyes, ears and hearts of the majority?  

        Our unique gifts are our unique gifts, not someone else's and not for someone else to come along and own or steal from us - payment may have been given for that compromise, sure, but it is a theft to be sure! It robs you of your soulfulness, your edge, your - - you. You sold yourself and maybe you didn't mean to, but you sold yourself to pay a bill, to say you belong, to be able to prove to someone that you could be a part of something "bigger" or "better".  Is it? You sold yourself; it's not you anymore, you are now THEM, or a part of them. They tell you how to dress, what to say, what to write, what to perform, how to do videos, what to hold so you look just so -- their image of what just so should look like, sound like. “Clean”.  No it’s cardboard.  

        I don't know. Some people would say it's a good thing to sell your work and get paid to do what you do, but I think you keep it. If someone wants to pay you to perform, great, but you should perform the way you perform, jokes and all - - again, with soul, raw, open, honest, not boxed and placid - - putty in their hands; you should be the you that you were before they found you. They should love you for the you that you are, not the you they think you need to be. That's not you; that's just not you. 

        OK, well, that's my soap box and it needed to be said, it needed to be seen, it needed to be pushed - - maybe even poured down your throat because right now you're in a coma and need someone to be there to actually give a damn about what it is that you wanted to do in the first place --  you don't seem to be making a stand at this point; maybe I can. They can't get to me. I can't be bought.  I may not be rich but I've never thought money was the gauge for measuring my success anyway - - I'm sort of weird like that. I gauge my success by the smile on God's face when He sees that I did what He asked me to do. Let me tell you -- it feels really good to be able to fly freely and write what I want, when I want, how I want, and as I want, my pen is a thousand times stronger than their money - - if no one buys it, I'm not compromised. If I had to sell words to make money I'd find another profession, but what I have isn't work - - it's passion. I can't and won't try to imagine what it would be like to sell that. I would rather die.  

John Hembree's photo: 

Just Shoot Me!

So yeah, if I ever get to the point that I can't walk my happy ass over to the office next door to deliver a single piece of paper, but instead, I call in the receptionist who is busy mind you, to walk 100 feet to my office and then ask her to take the paper to the guy 10 feet away - - JUST SHOOT ME. Don't even be nice about it; I mean, yeah, aim correctly, but don't be sweet, just put me underground and send me off to Jesus. I do not want to be so freaking arrogant or wrapped up in my own self that I can't take a note that I wrote, over to the guy I wrote it to - - just 10 feet away. SIDE NOTE: I'm not saying if I am unable to do so, I am talking about arrogance.

    That was me yesterday (the receptionist) just smiling, laughing under my breath, and thinking to myself and to God, "THANK YOU for not bringing me into this world with both a silver spoon and a gold key in my mouth!" I, of course, graciously took the paper to the man next door to the boss, and even announced my entrance - - he loved it. He thanked me, and he said to me, "Yeah, Bob can't be bothered sometimes." Wow...no.

    I often take temporary assignments outside the house to make a little money I can squirrel away for whatever it is that I'm saving up to do; this time, it happens to be my move to Scotland. I took a small short term assignment that we all knew would be around two or three days tops; and I guess the "Boss" just thought he could train the new girl in just under that time frame to maintain his level of inept spoiling that either his parents endowed on him, or every other underling he's ever hired. I wanted to laugh in his face and say, "Yeah, no Bob, you need to get up, walk over to Richard's office, hand him the note, and maybe, Oh, I don't know, just ASK HIM if he wants to play golf on Saturday.  Maybe you could have at least added a little box or two to check yes or no!"  I didn't say that, I like being entertained by the very rich. I often think I'll honor them by writing them into my next novel - - as the victim.

    This week I accepted an assignment for a non-profit foundation, and if you know much about non-profits here in the U.S. (Clinton Foundation and the like) you know that most of them have a ton of money! They are absolutely for profit, they are holes to throw money into and lose for others, they are perhaps, in my opinion, the one thing that really should be audited by the IRS and every other agency known to man, but their saving grace there would be that most of the Board members of these foundations work for those agencies and they both turn their heads at misappropriation and at straight up theft or under reporting. Don't shoot me for saying that, it's true, but do shoot me if I ever join one that steals from the very people they claim to help. I have a thing about being honest and ethical, and to date, I have not found a single solitary foundation in the United States that was 100% above board. Many want to be. Many try to be, but somewhere along the line their controllers find ways to skim and/or cut corners and it's just a matter of time before "favors" are exchanged - - and there you go. Corrupted. I think there could be legitimate foundations, I do, I really do believe there could be, but I haven't found one in the United States. I hope I'm proven wrong.

    When the assignment ended today I was just about to walk out the door when the boss calls me on the intercom. Rather than picking it up and answering him I walked to his office to say good bye, and even to thank him for the opportunity to serve, right? Well, he looked at me as I stood in the door of his office holding my purse and little duffle that I carry, and he said, "Oh, it's not lunch time yet, what gives, where are you going?"  I told him that Human Resources had decided they didn't need me to finish the week, and I was going home. He asked me if I could ("Pretty Please") take a file down the hall to Julie so she could have something to work on during the rest of the day.  OK what? Damn, you know I did it. He said "Pretty Please".  I am just too freaking nice. I really am.  I smiled. I took the file, and I laid it on Julie's desk.  She laughed - - she said, "You know, I would have told him to shove it."  I guess that's why he likes me. I just think it - - for now. He's going to end up pushed off the balcony of the 48th floor of a building in downtown Chicago under a different name - - in my book. Sorry Bob, you gotta go!