'Hush, little baby, don't say a word, Papa's gonna buy you...' The minefield that is the 'perfect' gift and why the person getting it will never forgive you.

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant.

Author's program note. Over the course of your life, you'll give a cart load of gifts. Gifts for people getting engaged, gifts for getting married, even gifts for getting divorced. There are gifts for going away and gifts for coming back. There are gifts for job promotion and gifts upon retirement. There are gifts for Christmas... and gifts for birthdays.... gifts for lovers... and, of course, the gifts you give yourself for coping with the utterly thankless responsibility of ensuring that this mountain of gifts arrives on time and always with the thoughtful consideration expected, required... and no doubt given!

Yikes!

Just reading this (very) partial list of gift giving occasions and events makes me fatigued and anxious. So many to give to... so little time... and as for the bucks required... Daunting! Exhausting! Downright intimidating! It seems like an awful lot of work for the fleeting "pleasure" of seeing the recipient's beady eyes bore into your hapless offering, the entire future of your relationship hinging on what you're giving and the terrible scrutiny it's certain to receive by not only the closely inspecting and ultra finicky recipient... but also by every single person who will receive (whether they like it or not) the recipient's staggeringly detailed report (in triplicate) on every aspect of what you gave.

It's enough to drive a body to drink. I wonder whether there's anything left in that bottle of cheap schnapps Uncle Ernie palmed off on me last Christmas.

Basta!

Well, I want you to know that I'm not going to take it anymore. I mean, I've been bled enough, raked over the coals enough, embarrassed enough, chagrined, attacked, insulted, berated, demeaned, degraded, excoriated and humiliated enough by the whole stinking business which you and I both know is a conspiracy cooked up by a posse of shameless, rapacious robbers, like the owners of catalogs selling overpriced and completely useless bibelots along with licensed marauders who sell wilted flowers and low grade chocolates with high fallutin names sporting princely prices.

Everyone knows these criminals are mostly aging gay men, precious hair strands (fewer by the minute) arrayed in flagrant pompadour, wearing too much bling and an ocean of cheap scent with names like "Passionate Embrace" and "Te quiero", not merely perfume but an eternal wish.

They have to sell tons of this egregious bric-a-brac to get the bucks required to give endless presents to their much younger boyfriends who demand gifts, then turn up their perfect aquiline noses at what they get, while demanding still more. Oh, my, what a muddle!

That's why I am setting up something you and I both need. I call it Gift Givers Anonymous, and it's a place we can hie to whenever a gift is given or received and we need to sound off. The first meeting is hereby called to order. Since I invented this baby, I get to go first.

Agenda for gift sound-off by the founder.

1) Lavish gifts given by me to people who failed to appreciate them sufficiently, if they were even appreciated at all.

2) Paltry gifts given to me by cheap-skates who lavished neither care nor concern nor any consideration at all on what they gave me.

Dear friend, now that you have the agenda, let's get down to the essential business of blaming others and praising each and every generous gesture, no matter how small, we have ever made. This will take some substantial time because generosity and munificence are my middle names; not to mention that the milk of human kindness runs thick and malted in my veins.

The Music. I have chosen as the music to accompany this long-overdue article a song we have all heard from our earliest days when dandled on parental lap. It is called "Hush, Little Baby". You'll find it in any search engine many different versions of this song -- whose lyricist and composer have been lost; (no doubt due to someone whose gifts were not in the fields of efficiency and management.)

Everyone and his brother has changed the lyrics. Still I found a very peppy version I quite like, by my near neighbor in Cambridge, Yo Yo Ma cleverly partnered with Bobby McFerrin, a man whose incandescent smile, far beyond mere happiness, suggests receiving a great big present, like having Ma play for him for free. Anyway, go listen to it now and sing along with the lyrics about a luckless man who kept buying things for his spoiled rug rat, things that kept breaking, cracking, ripping, fading, irritating, disappointing.

"Hush, little baby, don't say a word/ Papa's gonna buy you a mockingbird/ And if that mockingbird won't sing/ Papa's gonna buy you a diamond ring/ And if that diamond ring turns brass/ Papa's gonna buy you a looking glass."

Urgent personal note: I trust the lyricist who chronicled all these problems contacted the Better Business Bureau and Chamber of Commerce about them. Such a string of bad luck is more than coincidental. Take my word on that. See for yourself...

Great gifts, surprising consequences.

Ok, it's time to dig into my immense, colossal, huge, astonishing array of stories about how I have given much and more often than not been "rewarded" by the back of the receiver's hand. I am chagrined to expose these tawdry events, but the truth demands it. Besides, I have carried this burden alone long enough. Just the thought of sharing it amongst all of you makes me positively giddy.

Here is a tale I could never tell (no matter how liberating) but for the fact our organization is pledged to a secrecy so impenetrable that even master spy Edward J. Snowden could not breach it. Alors...

Each year at Christmas I lavished presents on my dear mama, including the annual seasonal commemorations and heirlooms produced by America's greatest silver smiths and crystal producers, Lennox, Towle, Gorham, et al. I was a prodigious purchaser of these stylish items, ranging in price from $40 to $150. I bought lavishly and gave lavishly, earnestly believing that they were received with all appropriate gestures, touching words, and loving regard. Over the course of many years, these valuable gifts became a trove, if not a king's ransom, then surely a baron's.

Then one day, close to the holiday, the phone rang. Mother. And I sat up ready for the expected gratitude to be rained upon me -- not. "I got two more of those blanketty blank bells today. I've been meaning to tell you... I HATE THESE THINGS! Stop sending them!!!"

This was bad. But worse followed. At Christmas.... The most unforgiving gift season of every year.

One year, feeling exceptionally flush with cash, I ventured into F.A.O. Schwarz, a place of magic where the deepest of pockets is required. Anyway, this year I had those packed pockets and so ventured forth with confidence and elan. I was going to buy my beloved niece Chelsea and nephew Kyle something Over The Top, something grand, opulent, in-your-face, in short the very things one finds in wanton abundance at this entrancing place. And so, faster than you can say American Express, I selected and had shipped presents designed to awe. Alas, they did their job too well.

Fast forward a few days. Phone call. Sister, mother of above-mentioned enfants terrible. I was ready for gratitude, for praise, for rose petals and cotton candy. Instead I received a good and thorough lecture, exceedingly long and detailed, about the impertinence of giving magnificently when the merely adequate would do.

In plain English, this meant that while my whopping presents (a bear bigger than he was; a stunning miniature silver tea service for her) were favored by the kiddos, hers would be sneered at and disdained. And That Would Never Do. Thus, the radiant kindness and most considerate of gestures was dismissed as a clever ploy for estranging stingy parents from impressionable children preferring their suave and subtle uncle, an unscrupulous man of shrewd calculations, unequaled manipulations, and malignant stratagems; a man who has gotten his own back, recovering his wounded self-esteem, thanks to the empathetic and supportive membership at Gift Givers Anonymous.

Thanks and a superb gift-giving idea.

As the exuberant applause began to wane, my sentiments as rendered above having brought near chaos celebrating our collective freedom from the double thrall of gifts inadequately acknowledged and inadequate gifts given, I capped my timely presentation with one last idea, that each member (and members only, please) draw up a list of approved items desired, in this way to ensure that only the right gifts be given, not gifts we had been forced to say we liked, but which we most decidedly did not. Prospective brides have been doing this for decades, which in no way detracts from my unique emendation and improvement.

Please, then, note what I most humbly request: a pizza cutter, shower soap dish, one aluminum cullender, one pair wooden salad  tongs, six wooden hangers and three violet or lavender sachets for eradicating persistent moth infestation. Then the meeting was adjourned, members handed my list as they left, revivified, refreshed in spirit.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered all my lists in the trash, the last one defaced with this sentiment partly obscured by a huge red X. "Give you gifts? I'll be d--ned if I do. I resign!"

Was it something I said?

About the Author

Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is the author of over a dozen print books, several ebooks and over one thousand fiction and non-fiction articles on a variety of topics.   Republished with author's permission by Ruthsella Corasol http://WorkingAtHome101.com

Conduct unbecoming. General Jeffrey Sinclair, 'Poppa Panda Sexy Pants', learns the hard way that an officer is not a toy. Oh, my!

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant.

 Author's program note. In 1961 "How To Succeed In Business Without  Really  Trying" hit Broadway. Composed by Frank Loesser, it was clever, sophisticated,  sardonic, sarcastic, a tale of shrewd moves and derring-do, back stabbing,  plausible lies and downright devilry presided over by sweet, conniving J. Pierrepont  ('Ponty') Finch, the role that made Robert Morse and his astonishing grin, rich with  impertinence and opportunities, a legend.

 The scene I've got in mind now features the arrival of Miss Hedy LaRue. She's  come to claim the secretarial position the big boss has promised, though she  has no credentials but her va-va-va-voom package ("39-22-38"), artfully displayed  for maximum effect in sky high heels, skin-tight dress leaving absolutely nothing to  the imagination, and a mincing walk that gives her plenty of time to strut her  oh-so-eye-catching stuff. Of course everything in the office stops for her unforgettable  entrance forcing personnel manager Mr. Bratt to admonish all by singing:

 "A secretary is not a toy/No, my boy, not a toy./So do not go jumping for joy,  boy/  A secretary is not.../A secretary is not.../ A secretary is not a  toy.."     Just one itsy-bitsy change in these lyrics makes this the perfect tune for this  article. Simply change "secretary" to "officer", and you have just the right lyrics.  Now go to any search engine and sing out

 "An officer is not a toy/No, my boy, not a toy/  To fondle and dandle and playfully handle/  In search of some puerile joy/No, an officer is not/Definitely not a toy."

 Apparently U.S. Army Brigadier General Jeffrey Sinclair, now known worldwide  as "Poppa Panda Sexy Pants", forgot this tune and its sensible advice... and  now he's paying the price, not least in the wanton and bounteous ridicule he  has engendered for himself, his service, his appalled colleagues, and the  Great Republic itself which is today drooping in disbelief and dismay (whilst  being unable to suppress one belly laugh after another.)

 The (alleged) (and utterly riveting) facts.

 Date line Fort Bragg, North Carolina. At this very moment a military courthouse  here is packed daily with discriminating and fastidious listeners who all made  the right decision: that the story being spun here is worth all the daytime soaps  put together... with the added benefit that what is being presented is absolutely  true, so help me God.

 Picture the scene. For only the third time in half a century, one of the elect,  a bona fide Army general arrayed in the latest macho chic, capped by fetching  raspberry Ranger beret that Prince liked so much, stands accused of... and here  the list is long, abashing, fascinating, appalling, galling, disgraceful, humorous,  scatological, vulgar, unexpected, scandalous, disgusting, every word awaited,  delicious, every ear cocked so not even a single syllable, much less vital word,  is missed.

 The charges.

 Long and malodorous, the charges boiled down to these essentials: forcible sodomy,  adultery, abusing his command authority by sleeping with a subordinate officer.  The army disapproves of such intimacy as inimical to the proper hierarchy required.  It is, after all, difficult to command someone of lower rank who may (and just minutes  before) been giving orders to you. This isn't all...

 It is further claimed, in the resonant sonority which marks these matters as urgent,  pressing, of the highest import, that General Sinclair had "inappropriate"  communications with... count 'em... three other female officers. Since these  canaries have begun to sing, we understand what they did and where they did  it... but I disagree with prosecutors who allege inappropriate behavior; I say  rank hath its privileges... though perhaps that cuddly charmer, General Poppa  Panda, overdid it a tad. Judge for yourself...

 Consider the matter of where General Sinclair and his lucky subordinate, a female  captain 17years his junior, had sex. Every active participant knows that variety is  the spice of life. The general and his moll didn't just know it; they lived it.

 During a pretrial hearing the woman testified to a staggering array of locations  which ensured their love was a many splendored thing... of an encounter in the  general's quarters in Iraq; in a car in a German parking lot (rather uncomfortable  but perhaps hotter for that); in plain sight on a hotel balcony in Arizona (probably  by now included in their holiday brochures by the quick witted members of the  Chamber of Commerce); even in her cramped office in Afghanistan. I rather get  the picture they determined their next rendezvous by throwing darts at a map.  Kinky but enthralling.

 Bumpy ride.

 Sadly all was not well in the land of concupiscence and amorous agility.  For one thing the couple fought frequently... epic battles in the eternal war  between the sexes. Needless to say, subordinates began to whisper the  increasingly strident and sordid details to each other; each new installment  followed eagerly and by ever growing numbers of service personnel.

 Of course everyone and his brother remained scrupulously silent to authority  figures. This was rather difficult because both the general and his captain  seem to have made little if any effort to keep their torrid relations private.  People knew. People talked. People then waited breathlessly wondering  "what next?".

 What Next? Well, prosecutors charge that on at least two occasions, their  mobile international relationship turned violent and he allegedly forced her  to perform oral sex. Oh, and threatened to kill her if she ever told his long-  suffering wife about the affair. Life with General Sinclair was never dull, though  he clearly didn't believe in Ann Lander's advice, to be off with the old love,  before one begins with the new. No, this was not Sinclair's way. His view  was more like the sultans of old, who had a harem to supply every need.

 Thus, the dexterous Sinclair juggled his wife, his captain, and another one,  two or even three additional playmates, all at a time when our wars in Iraq  and Afghanistan needed (so one may surmise) his expertise. He proved  again the validity of the old adage, if you want something done, give it to  the busiest person you know.

 But the very desirability and brute charisma of the man ensured problems that  defied facile solutions. His captain, the one who bestowed on the general  the cute name that will accompany him forever -- "Poppa Panda Sexy Pants" --  was of a jealous disposition. She e-mailed another of his loves this pointed  message, "I hope you don't think you're the only girl he's been sleeping with."  My wonder is that General Sinclair got any sleep at all; his services so often  required by so many....

 As was all proven by the smoking gun in this case, the gun with the unequalled  ability to bring down not merely M. le general Sinclair, but anyone else who  has written an indiscrete e-mail, which is probably every single person on Earth.

 Sinclair, his captain, and his many other loves would in the pre-e-mail days  now gone forever have cavorted, fornicated and fought with virtual impunity,  thus getting away with outraging common sense and military law. Evidence  would have been hard to find, might be attributable to gossip and hear-say  and thus inadmissible and so the serious matter minimized and swept under  the rug, saving general, service, mistresses, family et al, a scandal aborted.    Those days, however, are gone forever.... although virtually all e-mail users don't  act like it. Instead, minute by instant communication minute, they  commit their  most private thoughts, desires, wishes, and fantasies to it... thereby ensuring one  embarrassing, abashing, titillating, and open-and-shut case after another. And  of course we, the people, just cannot get enough of this carrion, filthy, disgusting,  degrading, demeaning, a measure of how far we have fallen, how far we must  go in our eternal struggle to achieve perfection.

 E-mail by revealing the principals in the case at their most candid, unguarded  and self revealing ensured their own demise, for you see e-mail is eternal. The  minute the writer hits the send key, every single hasty word, every single  thoughtless sentence, and every single smutty paragraph belongs to the world.  Thus is one titan after another hoist on their own petard as their most private  thoughts, including the dirtiest of laundry, is aired... as it is now most assuredly  being aired in this sordid business, so odoriferous and affronting and, thanks to  e-mail, proven.      Under these circumstances, with so much irrefutable evidence so instantly  and abundantly at hand, the prosecutors case was relatively easy to make.  It relies on the tearful two-hour confession the captain made in the office of  Major General James Huggins, then the commander of the 82d Airborne  Division and leader of all US forces in southern Afghanistan. Whilst General  Sinclair was otherwise engaged, she (name not yet announced) rifled through  his e-mails, thereby providing a complete picture of his sexual triumphs  and myriad infidelities. Since even hell knows no fury like a woman scorned,  the outcome (sustained, remember, by copious, flagrant e-mails) was never  in doubt.

 The prosecutors, anxious to pin the tail on the donkey, gave her immunity,  the better to bolster their case against him. He'll be convicted, with at least  some time in the brig inevitable. His attorneys, realizing the weakness of  their rebuttal, have already conceded that Poppa Panda did have an affair  with his accuser but denied everything else. It's not good enough to save  his much admired skin but it will have to do. Court-martial is inevitable...  as anyone familiar with "How To Succeed in Business..." could have told  him.

 "It happened to Charlie McCoy, boy/ They fired him like a shot/  The day the fellow forgot/an officer is not a toy."


About the Author Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is the author of several print books, ebooks and over one thousand fiction and non-fiction articles. Republished with author's permission by Ruthsella Corasol http://WorkingAtHome101.com.

The 7 numbers that ensure business sales, profits, and wealth. I'll tell youthe secret... but I bet you won't use it! Yet you SAY you want to make money. Pshaw!

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant.
 Author's program note. It's far too early in the morning for me to be up and  at 'em like I am. But I'm on a rescue mission, yeah, a real Florence Nightingale.  I'm about nothing less than saving your bacon by sharing -- and in every particular -- one absolutely crucial piece of advice; advice that spells the difference between  just getting by in your business, profits scarce and spotty and making M-O-N-E-Y!

 Let me ask you a question, and ask it in all seriousness. Do you REALLY want  a business that makes you money EVERY SINGLE DAY? I know you. At this point  in the drama, you're going to tell me -- because you might actually believe -- that  you are doing every single thing  you can do to get people to call you. And because  you believe this and actually believe that you are already doing it, that you don't  need to do another thing.

 I'm here to tell you different, and the extent to which you "get" what I'm revealing  here is the extent to which you make money.

 Let's start by looking at the marketing documents you've got now for therein lies  the problem... AND the solution.

 You want customers... but you aren't doing everything on Earth to get them to  call you... amazing!

 It's time to take a good close look at the marketing documents you are using  right now.

 Unless you have good counter tops with plenty of clear space at the ready, it's time  to put the ol' kitchen table to work  -- again; the venerated place from which you may  have launched the business you planned to be a glory to the world, an ever growing  financial cornucopia for your old age. Just sitting at this table again, the dreams of  Auld Lang Syne rising ineluctably to the surface, may be a jolt, especially if the big  dreams of yesterday have generated nothing more than the puny results of today.  Let's take a look...

 It's time to drag out every single marketing document you're using, developing, or  planning to use. It's time you put each one under a microscope and take a real good  look-see at precisely what marketing you're doing... not merely what you think you're  doing. Be prepared for the shock of your life. Get a good strong chair and the smelling  salts you're sure to need... and maybe a friend or two or three with palmetto fans and  balm for your ego, about to be severely bruised. Ready? Then let's get going on  your hunting and gathering expedition.

 List every single form of marketing you are currently using offline... and on; that is  brochures, Yellow Pages ads, anything you mail, package stuffers, match book covers,  media releases, catalogs, articles and books, messages on envelopes... get the  picture? This phase of Operation Profit is going to take a while because you have  never, ever done this;  thereby depriving you of seeing -- in one place -- every single  thing you are using and PAYING FOR to generate more business and generate it NOW.

 Look closely, breathe deeply.

 The first thing to consider after you've artfully arranged every single marketing document  you're using in front of you is this sobering thought: you have spent a ton of money on  this stuff. But is it working; is it, that is, making you money? At this crucial moment in  your affaires, you cannot afford to THINK. Instead, you must KNOW. You must be  stern, unyielding, absolutely 100% focused on what you're spending... and what you're  getting; an accounting which will very likely make you most glum and chagrined indeed.  That's a shame... but you cannot advance without this critical analysis. You cannot  afford to be a sissy now, and that's a fact.

 The close scrutiny that can  pay off big time IF you learn from it and make all the  necessary changes -- FAST!

 First, does every single marketing communication include your name, address,  email address, URL, AND phone number? Remember this: your marketing  communications are only as good, as useful, and as remunerative as they should  be IF and ONLY IF they contain COMPLETE follow-up details. If they don't, then  you won't get the #1 thing you want: BUSINESS.

 But merely including this crucial information isn't enough, not by a long shot. Rather,  you must give your prospects a reason to CALL YOU RIGHT NOW, not a day from  now, not an hour from now but RIGHT THIS MINUTE. And for this to happen, you  must give your prospects a reason to call NOW, immediately, at once, no  excuses  whatsoever, no excuses at all.

 Have you provided this absolutely essential sine qua non of successful business,  or have you rather presumed that your customers would know what to do and do it,  thereby placing the burden for action on the customer, rather than where it must be:  ON YOU!

 Now for the meat and potatoes of what makes you, yes YOU, such a rotten  marketer: You haven't MOTIVATED and ASKED the prospect to call you. You  haven't  given her a reason to call you NOW! Instead you sat back confident, obstinate,  stubborn in your blind smug assurance that THEY should call YOU without a reason,  an offer, even an invitation; celestial know-it-all that you are instead of doing what is  necessary, what is mandatory to get these all-important beings, the fountain of wealth  to call you NOW, this very minute.

 Look at the panoply of marketing communications before you, the communications  on which you're betting the ranch. Does any one, even a single one, open with  an offer, any benefit at all, for picking up the phone AT ONCE so that you can use  your magic to make them better off and make yourself more money? Even a single  one?

 The plain, honest and horrifying truth is that you are sending out thousands, hundreds  of thousand and over your business career, MILLIONS of marketing communications  that aren't delivering the customers you must have to get rich. And it's all your fault...

 No call to action. No benefit to call about. No business. No wonder!

 Here's what you need to do... so that motivated prospects call you... 24/7/365,  a wide world of prospects, clambering for the benefits that you, YOU, can deliver,  you lucky dog.

 Brainstorm motivating language, test, re-write, test again, then dance 'cause. cuz',  you are (finally) doing it right.

 Try this: "FREE consultation ($150 value). Expert shows you how to make money  online.  24/7 NOW! Profit today!"

 Now the acid test. Does even one of your marketing communications open  with an offer like this? No? Not even one? Well, then, what you're saying is  this, "I want your business. I want your money. But I'll do as little as possible  to get it." Wow, what a charmer you are, you are, what a wonderful charmer  you are --  not! Under the circumstances, with you doing so little to get your  prospects to respond, it is hardly surprising that they don't.

 Cut your throat, or cut your losses and PROFIT. Your choice.

 Having read this article, you now have two choices. Continue along the road  you're now on, the road featuring maximum hubris with minimal results. Or  the straight and sure highway to profits, more profits, and predictable wealth.  You'll tell me, of course, you'll take remunerative option 2, but we both know  you, don't we? You'll say you'll do better; you'll actually mean it, for a day or  two. Then back to the same ol' same ol', doing more of what has returned so  little.

 But at least one of you will heed my strict and certain admonitions, and you'll  get rich, really rich. Thus for you I have that indefatigable energy machine, James  Brown and his anthem for people who love money and, with my help, are well  on their way to getting it.... "I Feel Good."

 Find it in any search engine now (recorded 1965) . Play it loud and proud....

 "Whoa-oa-oa. I feel good, I knew that I would, now.  I feel good, I knew that I would, now  So good, so good, I got you."

 And that, cuz', is nothing but the glorious truth. Yeah!

About the Author

Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is the author of over a dozen print books, several ebooks and over one thousand articles on a variety of topics. Republished with author's permission by Ruthsella Corasol http://WorkingAtHome101.com

Interview with George Kosch, co-founder of Worldprofit Inc. on the occasion of the company's 19th Birthday

George Kosch is one of the three co-founders of home business training company Worldprofit Inc., that this month marks it's 19th birthday.

The following in an except from an interview with George Kosch conducted Aug 14th, 2013.

George, I understand that you attended the Royal Military College in Kingston, Ontario and following that you served in the Canadian Armed Forces. Most of that time you were training to become a jet fighter pilot, and once successful, you then went on to teach others to fly jet aircraft. Can you tell us something about how your experiences in the military shaped who you are today and especially helped you build your own company, Worldprofit?

"Well, one incredibly valuable thing you learn in the military is discipline. You learn the value of not just hard work, but goal-oriented consistent hard work.  I recall during my basic training that we had to learn how to build and clean our own rifle. I can't remember how many steps were involved exactly but I'm sure it was well over 50 steps involved with this one life-saving task. Our sergeants were tough and had high expectations for all the recruits, at one point I didn't think I was ever going to be able to do this one task, yet alone graduate from basic training. In teaching us what to do they broke the overall goal down into several small but manageable tasks. We had to do each step over and over again until we mastered disassembling our rifle, cleaning it, then reassembling it. It took some of us longer that others but we all had to stick to it and learn - no excuses! Once we had mastered the skill, the final challenge was to do the entire rifle assembly and cleaning from start to finish BLIND-FOLDED within a set time on the stopwatch.  (Part of the grim reality in military training is that the enemy doesn't wait for daylight to allow you to leisurely  prepare your rifle, so survival means being able to do so quickly in pitch blackness.)  My reason for sharing this story with you is this. When we started Worldprofit back in 1994, I was fresh out of the military. The Internet was not what it is today. Much of what we did back then to build an online company meant having to be a pioneer in the industry, there was no manual of how to build an online company.    We had to learn, build and develop our own products, services and customer base.   The discipline I learned in the military gave me a "never give up" attitude about business and kept us strong and focused through good times and tough times.   You see, Worldprofit is a training company that provides website hosting, software, traffic, SEO tools, and specialized software to small and home based business owners.  Everyday was a learning experience. We had to try things, fall on our face, pick ourselves up and figure out what we needed to do to provide unique, in-demand services to our home based customer in an industry that changes daily. It was overwhelming at times.  We  lived through the dot com crashes and saw other companies going down around us. I credit my training in the military for teaching me that any problem can be solved by breaking it down into small parts, then working at it consistently to find a solution or reach a goal.  I've applied that thinking in my personal life to achieve success and also in my business life and the model we use at Worldprofit. I created Worldprofit's Bootcamp years ago for our customers (Members) to break down the tasks they need to know into small achieved tasks to help them build their own online business. I know it is overwhelming when people first decide to start an online business there is so much to learn. We've been there.  Goal setting,  focus,  practice and repetition does not come easy to some and unless their is solid training and  support many will give up before they reach their goal.    What we've done at Worldprofit is break all that learning down into self-paced lesson plans covering topics including search engine optimization, website development, lead tools, traffic strategies, online marketing, blogging, article marketing, social media and more. We teach this in an online self-paced training program, complimented with LIVE interactive training that I do personally each and every week via webcast, along with offering 7 days a week of technical and marketing support for our members."

George as you, and Worldprofit enter your 20th year in business, any thoughts you would like to share on the future for online entrepreneurs?

" I think it is just going to keep getting better and better for anyone who wants to work at home and make income from home.  When we started this company many of the resources we offer now simply weren't possible and weren't even a realistic option for non-techies.  Today our Worldprofit Members can enjoy easy-to-use and understand traffic analysis  tools,  graphic design software, lead tools, e-marketing resources, e-book creation and more.  Setting up a website even 10 years ago was tough without specific training.  Today you can have a website up and running in minutes. Blogging is both profitable and easy to do. Selling online is safe and secure for both sellers and buyers.   People used to look at you funny if you said you were making money online, now it is more common, but still not easy if you don't have access to the support, resources and reputable products and services. That's where we come in. It's our goal at Worldprofit to continue to be the #1 choice for online home business training by providing all the resources and tools in one place.  We know that it's not just about having the tools, though. People need and want help, and mentoring along the way to achieve their goals and know what to do with those tools.  Even with better, easy to use technical products people still need people. I owe my Sergeant in basic training  a big THANK YOU. He taught me a lot more than how to assemble and clean my rifle. He taught me the importance  of self discipline, practice, focus and goal setting; skills applicable to LIFE. Thanks Searg!"


About Worldprofit. Worldprofit provides unique services for people who want to learn how to earn at home. Resources include web-based training, websites, blogging, article marketing, lead generation, online marketing, webcasting, SEO, ebook creation, affiliate marketing, reseller opportunities and more. Get a free Worldprofit Associate membership and join over one million members around the world benefiting from this unique, comprehensive training. Republished with author's permission by Ruthsella Corasol http://WorkingAtHome101.com.

'Barrack and me, and Eddie makes three/ we're happy in my blue heaven.' Obama,Putin and Snowden, their menage a trois, the most riveting story of the year, with lots more scandal to come.

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant.

 Author's program note. Call me irresponsible... call me capricious... call me shiftless...  call me devil-may-care... call me fickle... call me feckless... call me giddy. I don't care  what you call me, but make sure I don't miss the next installment of the most captivating  saga of the year, a saga replete with hapless presidents, clueless and uninformed prime ministers, lithe spies and ham-fisted spy-catchers who couldn't catch their beloved in  flagrante delicto, even if they saw the bitter outrage with their own eyes.

 It's got exotic ports of call from the red Orient to the once red (now pink) lands of  all the Russias... it's got more twists and turns than the greatest roller coaster on  Earth. It's got a tintinabulum of bells going off in the grandest capitals on terra  firma, Washington, D.C., Paris, London, Berlin... with breathless chancellors  calling their opposite numbers worldwide; "Angela, darling, have you heard what  Vlad just did to Barrack ...?" and of course Angela drops everything, and I do mean  everything to find out. "No, really... I can't believe it! Do tell!"  Thus these poobahs of  exalted rank and tax-exempt perquisites, ensconce themselves in easy (albeit gilded)  chair, box of Godiva at the ready, expectantly awaiting the dirty little secrets to follow.  Delicious.

 And here's the best part: none of us is ever disappointed, because each new  installment, each outrageous revelation is more enthralling than the last... which  means each is more demeaning, disgusting, disappointing and degrading for  the Great Republic and its flatfooted president, the Right Honorable Barrack,  who celebrated his 52nd birthday just the other day by eating another plate  of crow flambe', that delectable dish for which I surely hope he has developed  a penchant, since he's eating so very much of it these days.

 Music to dine by.

 To ease Barrack's dog days and unsettled, restless nights I herewith leak the  little ditty we know to be Vladimir Putin's favorite; the one he whistles daily in  the opulent malachite shower once used by tsars, whose worthy successor he  deems himself to be; a permanent imperial presence, not some quotidian  official, here today, gone tomorrow. The tune is "My Blue Heaven".

 Go to any search engine now. Find the original version composed by Walter  Dennison one afternoon in 1924 at the Friars Club in New York City, when  he was waiting for his turn at the billiard table. George Whiting wrote the  affecting lyrics.... and crooner Gene Austin threw his notable tantrum

 Austin, a man with a healthy opinion of his talents, told Victor Company which  had him under contract, he was unhappy, needed better songs, and insisted  that he get the chance to record "My Blue Heaven"... or else. The tantrum paid  off... in 1927 Victor gave him the Victor Orchestra, including the famous "His  master's voice" canine... and he then warbled the tune that sold over 5 million  copies, one of the best-selling singles ever with 13 remunerative weeks at the  top of the charts. "Just Molly and me, and baby is three/We're so happy in  my blue heaven."

 It is said that Vlad renders his version with that special voice we all have for  shower effusions; resonant, confident, "improved" by brilliant new emendations  and astonishing contortions, ready for Carnegie Hall and a certain, certainly  deserved position at the top of the pops, not merely a singer but a star... And that  Mr. Putin most incontrovertibly is, if not in shower, then most assuredly in life... as  the Honorable Barrack has come to know... and to rue. No wonder... for Putin (and  his new BBF Edward Snowden) are eating his lunch, enjoying every morsel.

 Let me catch you up on this scintillating business which has otherwise good  people worldwide wagging a nasty finger at each other, "tsk tsk" their mildest  charge and imprecation. It all goes down hill, and rapidly so, thereafter. Before  it descends still further, you need to get up to speed . I aim to give satisfaction....

 Edward Snowden. Edward Snowden. Edward Snowden.

 Just weeks ago you had never heard the name Edward Snowden. You didn't  know him. Didn't care. And certainly didn't have an opinion about him, be that  positive or consigning him to the devil. All that changed because of Snowden's  now universally known expertise as a master spy, perhaps the most influential  ever; a nimble man, fleet of foot, lucky beyond luck, gifted with just the right  friends in high places, and the ability to out run, out think and out maneuver  battalions of NSA bozos who, despite every resource on Earth, have never  laid a hand on him. No wonder Vladimir Putin, president of the Russian  Federation, likes Eddie and wants him close at hand. Vlad, after all, is ex-  KGB and he knows an admirable and useful colleague when he sees one.  And, by goodness, he's seen one here!

 What Snowden did.

 Snowden, just 30, was an intelligence analyst wanted by the United States  for leaking details of the National Security Agency's massive, and almost  completely unknown, surveillance program. Snowden saw what was going  on, unilaterally decided the country and the world needed to know what Big  Brother was doing , and with the assistance of Britain's left-leaning newspaper  "The Guardian" leaked the details which made all of us wonder why it took just  1 whistle blower to do the work a dozen congressional committees should have  done; protecting us without giving the spooks unlimited power. My own 89-  year-old father, a sensible midwesterner with solid conservative credentials,  said that while he was glad to know, he wished we weren't beholden to Snowden  and his thievery for the details. Exactly.

 But we were beholden to Snowden... and the lad didn't need to be told twice  that the NSA wanted to have a little chat with him. Quick as boiled asparagus  Snowden was off, a host of people glad to assist, including the anti-secrecy  organization Wikileaks, the ever popular Red Chinese, and anyone ready,  willing and able to take the US of A down a peg or two... which included Vlad,  the cleverest rogue on Earth.

 Eddie, of course, was drawn to Vlad... and, finally, Vlad decided having Eddie  was more important than his relationship with Barrack. And so he gave Eddie  permission to stay in Russia for a year. Barrack, poor Barrack, unlucky in  love, unlucky in everything, called Vlad and begged him to send Eddie home  for a good spanking, nothing more. Vlad just kicked sand in his face. He knew  how much the Great Republic wanted Eddie, and decided to humiliate lame-  duck Barrack, who counts for less and less every day of his dwindling term  and so gave him the back of his hand. He had Eddie (and access to all Eddie's  secrets), he'd insulted the president, he was happy. Tomorrow could take care  of itself.

 "Balm to the hearts of all Russians". Now what?

 Go to Moscow or St. Petersburg today and you find every true red Russian  toasting Snowden, Eddie Snowden, the geek who has caused glee. This  North Carolina born boy has people like Ivan Melnikov, a senior Communist  Party member of the Russian Parliament calling him a hero. "Frankly speaking,  he is like a balm to the hearts of all Russian patriots." Can you hear the "1812  Overture" in the background? I surely can, cannons and all.

 The Honorable Barrack, of course, is fuming, kicking the dog, growling at  Michelle. More seriously, he's upped the ante, demonstrating an extreme case  of adolescent petulance by cancelling his summit with Vlad. After all Eddie  might be there, too, and that would never do. No one cares except Michelle  who looks cute in fur and wanted a little something in ermine as a souvenir.

 As for Putin, he will tire of Eddie, as soon as Russia's agents milk him for  all the details of what he did and how he did it. Putin, who loves only Mother  Russia (but mostly himself), will kick Snowden out without a qualm, ensuring  only that this road runner run anywhere but Russia.

 No one, however, dare breathe a word of this unhappy future. Today it's all  Beluga caviar and the best vodka, served in glasses that once brightened a  grand duke's table.

 Vlad is happy. Eddie's ecstatic about all his new friends. Every Russian  Communist is happy. Barrack is humiliated, miserable, out classed, a bumbling  factotum capable only of missteps and muddle.

Tomorrow will come... but today is a joy thanks to one traitor named Snowden.  After all, he knows "what makes the world go round, nothing but love."

About the Author

Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is the author of over a dozen print books, several ebooks and over one thousand articles. Republished with author's permission by Ruthsella Corasol http://WorkingAtHome101.com.

So you want to be a CEO. Think again! Newly discovered manuscript by Scarlet O'Hara tells all... and you'll be shocked and aghast at what she reveals about life at the top of the business heap.

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant.

 Author's program note. Is there a person alive (or at least a movie goer) who doesn't  know about Scarlet O'Hara, the spit-fire whom author Margaret Mitchell (1900-1949)  originally wanted to call "Pansy" and was only persuaded to change with the greatest  difficulty. Pansy, indeed! Why not "Shrinking Violet", or some other botanical faux-pas?

 It may be true that "a rose by any other name would smell as sweet", but naming her  protagonist "Green O'Hara" (for all that "Pa" Gerald was as Irish as the day is long)  would have cost several million in profits, not to mention a few of the film's bumper crop  of 10 1940 Oscars. And so Katie Scarlet O'Hara she was christened and Katie Scarlet  O'Hara she has remained, perfectly named for the character Rhett Butler enjoyed  watching (and infuriating) so much, "What a woman!"; now in the headlines again,  improbably one might have supposed; in "Forbes", "The Wall Street Journal" and  "The Economist", to name but a few of the world's leading financial and business  publications, now tripping over themselves to see, and so report, the facts of  this intriguing matter.

 They, however, can but hint at what may be forthcoming. But you, dear readers, will  be gratified before the panjandrums of the media... all because of one indefatigable  researcher, on the case early and late, his encyclopedic knowledge of every  occurrence at 12 Oaks and Tara, even unto the contents of Miss Pittypat's sewing  box and why she just couldn't help herself when rapscallion Rhett turned up with  blockade-run presents far too useful and scarce to decline, whatever the social  consequences. How could a lady valiantly get through the long evenings without  her indispensable pins and needles? That Butler was a clever man all right.

 That researcher, Harvard-trained mind, is me... and as I find false modesty to  be in appalling bad taste, I ask you to acknowledge my achievement and  perfect your well-turned compliments which I have so well and thoroughly earned.  For this I thank you.

 The process of discovery.

 As any honest researcher will admit, and rightly so, it is painstaking work and  careful process that produces the serendipitous outcomes we call "discoveries";  these discoveries are not random, not accidental, not unexpected, but come to  be because dedicated and resourceful researchers set out and consistently  remain dedicated, resourceful... and organized to a fare-thee-well. Thus only hoi  polloi are surprised when these seminal finds occur; the researchers fully expect  them and are gratified rather than astonished when they occur. And so it was  with my own researches into this important matter.

 Rumors, conjectures, hypotheses advanced, considered, discarded, reconsidered.

 For many years rumors had been rife in Hollywood about a particular piece of  furniture found in Tara's home office, the place where, amongst so many scenes,  Miss Ellen tells her husband about the illegitimate child fathered upon white-trash  Emmy Slattery by Tara's randy, Yankee foreman, Jonas Wilkerson. The piece in  question was the desk, the desk which in one way or another was accessed and  used by Scarlet, Melanie and Ashley Wilkes, Gerald, Miss Ellen, etc. It was also  the desk from which Gerald, unhinged by his wife's death, eerily extracts a pair of  diamond ear bobs, almost his last remaining asset.

 Speculation about the desk's contents.

 Guessing just what the desk's contents may have been grew into a parlor game  at every star-studded soiree. One said it was the long and exhaustive list of  Leslie Howard's amours with complete phone numbers, addresses and the  dizzying list of their particular expertises and their ability to satisfy his exacting  requirements.

 Others suggested Clark Gable's false teeth, the contours of which helped  give him his instantly recognizable grin, so suggestive and impertinent. ( After  all, a set had been lost during the great burning of Atlanta scene.) Or the packet  of salacious photographs taken by a crew member of the complete cast. He was  fired. His photos abided.

 And, of course, the idea was mooted that the ear bobs belonged to the adamant  wife of David O. Selznick who hid them there, because he had mortgaged their  every asset, often multiple times to produce his masterpiece. But because the  desk itself had been misplaced, maybe even sold (those pesky debts again), no  one could say with authority... until now.

 Needle in the hay stack.

 Enter your worker of wonders, your prestidigitator of renown, your man of  protean energies, imaginations, inspirations and luck... and, yes, that would be  me! And I did what every good researcher must do... I went to the movies,  this time to watch, and in the middle of a beautiful afternoon at that, GWTW  ("Gone with the Wind") all over again... and all over again to be swept away by  a film that remains the chief of its ouevre, quite simply the single best film ever  made. And because I am and have been throughout my life the most loyal  and tenacious of fans, the film granted my wish. Not for the object itself... that  would be too easy; rather for the significant lead that would deliver the object  in question and burnish my already bright reputation as the discoverer of  dazzling discoveries.

 Thus after I swept away the mandatory tears that flow at  GWTW's  conclusion, the moment when Scarlet comes to know, for the first time, that  love is not about what you take... but what you give without stinting, without  thought of gain or recompense... at this poignant moment of reverie and  recognition... I took my hunch and went to the UCLA film school and, with  trepidation and fast beating heart, asked to see their extensive records on  the film, its production, script, actors, costumes, and so much more.

 There, in a file simply marked "Tara, properties therein, Gerald O'Hara desk  and contents" was the grail (if not holy, at least venerable) ...  a yellowed page  in what turned out to be Scarlet's anything but copperplate hand... to be  followed by over 200 such pages, dated and numbered, with her razor  sharp observations on the business of business, a subject she was more  than qualified to discuss... Here are just a few of her trenchant recommendations:

 1) Surround yourself with the team of people every business owner needs to  succeed... and reward them handsomely. It pains me today when I  think of how  much I relied on Mammy and how little I did for her. It was Rhett after  all who  gave her the bright red petticoats she loved.

 2) Don't fall in love with your partners or, far worse, your employees unless  you have an author of genius at hand to tell the story and reap the profits. A  love affair with Ashley Wilkes in real life would have been the very devil,  disruption to business being just the beginning of the problem.

 3) Know who your friends are and be good to them. Every business owner  needs a friend or two to let off steam with, share tragedies and triumphs. I  had the best of these in Melanie Wilkes but let my own selfishness get in  the way. I rue her passing every day and squirm when I think of how I treated  her. But she was a true lady... and never complained.

 4) Honor the employees who give their time, loyalty and heart's blood to help  you move up and up. I am proud that young as I was, I didn't have to think twice  about giving Pa's gold watch to Pork. He was the best, even to the extent that  he filched from others to help feed me and my family. No O'Hara ever forgets  that.

 5) Treat your employees with kindness and humanity. I am chagrined when I  think that I gave Johnny Gallagher, the supervisor of my lumber mill, "a free hand",  knowing what he would do with it; working the convicts I employed to their very  deaths. Ashley warned me... but I wouldn't listen.

 6) Take time for charity and good works. No person can lead a balanced, worthy  life without empathy; not just in words either. You might think that because my saintly  mother died by performing a charitable act, I'd be firmly opposed to any charitable  act. However it is because of what she did, when she did it, that made her a saint.

 7) Work your investments... first by having and keeping a good trustee. Even when  I was a young woman I was rich, though after Sherman swept through Atlanta  on his punitive, punishing march to the sea, it didn't seem so. However, my first  husband Charles Hamilton and my second, Frank Kennedy, were both wealthy,  until the war. Luckily I had the best trustee, Charlie's uncle. He moved heaven and  earth to preserve what I inherited. I hardly gave this a thought then; I'd advise you to  be more intelligent and informed.

 8) Listen to the "old goats". They're often lonely and firmly believe they are helping  when they deliver their jeremiads and admonitions. Dr. Mead, Atlanta's physician  of choice, was windy and dull but good hearted. I could have been kind. Melanie  was. But then Melanie Wilkes was.... (Editor's note. Here the manuscript seems  smudged as if a tear had fallen on it.)

 9) Don't worry about the hurtful criticisms and verbal brickbats thrown at you  by people who are so often jealous and envious of your success, whatever they  may say to the contrary. They aim to hurt, but can only hurt if you let them. Never,  ever respond in kind; as the Good Book says, gentle words turn away wrath.

 If I'd known this way back when, I would have treated India Wilkes with more  kindness. After all, she lost the love of her life in Charles Hamilton. She was  entitled to more than my irritation and impatience with her very presence.

 10)  Fight for love and loved ones. God knows, the world knows how I treated  the great love of my life, Rhett Butler; how I ignored him while pursuing the false  chimera of Ashley Wilkes. I learned the hard way that you must fight and fight  hard to keep the good people, the loving essential people in your life, for they  are the best people of all. Rhett, when you read this, come home to me. After  all tomorrow is another day and given good will and love, above all love, we  can find happiness and serenity with each other... well, at least happiness....

 A dedication

 The author dedicates this article, the first based on Scarlet O'Hara's honest,  timely and practical business management and life enhancement advice, to  three wonderful people, each of whom has contributed to the enthralling  ambiance and worldwide success of GWTW and Scarlet herself.

 These include score composer Max Steiner (1888-1971), the lyric genius  behind "Tara's Theme" and a host of Hollywood's grandest films. Ironically  this stupendous achievement failed to win him the Oscar; that went to  "The Wizard of Oz." Go now and listen again to Steiner's music, sublime,  soaring, note perfect.

 While you're at the search engine, listen to Itzhak Perlman's entrancing rendition,  pure magic. The Maestro (born 1945)  is ill now and needs our prayers. May they  be as heartfelt and beautiful as the genius he brings to music.

 As for my final dedication, it is to my beloved grammie, Victora Burgess Lauing  When I was 10 or 11 or so, she invited me, and just me, into the cool recesses  of the movie house in Downers Grove, Illinois. It was a place of dreams, excitement,  of high comedy and searing drama. During GWTW, she held my hand and  squeezed it when the drama was fiercest and most pronounced. I didn't understand  just why over 50 years ago, but I understand now.


About the Author Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is the author of over a dozen print books, several ebooks, and over one thousand online articles. Republished with author's permission by Ruthsella Corasol http://WorkingAtHome101.com.

'Til death do us part.' Maybe. The strange menage of JoAnn Nichols and herexacting husband James.

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant.

Author's program note. Being that I am a well-known commentator of many years standing, folks are constantly bringing "must" story ideas to my attention. But just how this tale came about is, in my experience at least, unique, as you will see for yourself in the next few minutes.

It started with a good sized box delivered to me by one of the nameless couriers who frequent my neighborhood and buzz me from the lobby. "Package for you, Dr. Lant. No signature necessary," and then with a "have a good day" on their lips, they're already on their swift way.

I descended to the lobby via our ancient elevator, and there found the box with my name on it, no return address. I noticed that right away. My informants, after all, commonly wish to go unknown.  I dragged the box onto the elevator, as completely uninterested in its contents as it is possible to be. But I was soon to change my mind...

The contents.

I am a stickler for order and efficiency. I was pleased that whoever sent to me was the same, although I didn't know this until I had taken everything out and spread it all on the floor of my celebrated Red Drawing Room. It was only then that I noticed the envelope marked "Contents of this box." This envelope was hand addressed in handwriting that was reasonable for our illegible times.

Item: Key ring of my late wife JoAnn Nichols with JN initials, house keys, car keys, etc.

Item: Our wedding license and her wedding ring.

Item: A menu dated December 20, 1985 from the Ground Round Grill and Bar in Poughkeepsie, New York.

Item: A recording of "White Christmas" by Bing Crosby on a seasonably white colored vinyl record.

Item: a letter from me, James Nichols, the man accused of murdering his wife and interring her remains behind a false wall in our house, to you Dr. Jeffrey Lant, the man I have selected to hear my story and, perhaps, to tell it. That'll be up to you.

Aha!

And then I remembered the case first reported by the Associated Press and Mr. Nichols had my fullest attention, for the case was sensational, gruesome, grisly and utterly and completely fascinating.

The Last Letter of James Nichols.

By the time you receive this, Dr. Lant, I will be beyond man and man's justice. Just where I'll be I cannot say; no man can. But the general run of the world will be certain I am burning in Hell on Satan's exquisite rotisserie. Perhaps. But, perhaps not. At the critical moment in my life when I murdered my wife, I bet that there is no God, no final judgement, no retribution of any kind; just man's puny version of deity, cosmos and the eternal.

Anyway, let me start my rendition of events by telling you honestly, I murdered JoAnn after sitting across from her at dinner at the Ground Round in 1985; I have included the dated menu from that night to establish the date beyond cavil. I seem to recall my well-done steak was particularly tasty that evening, though perhaps the savor derived from what I already knew I would do upon returning home and knew that unless I got away with it, this might be my last steak. That made me sad and thoughtful. Murdering my wife did not.

Never worthy of me.

As I contemplated my options vis a vis JoAnn, my eye fell upon the jewelry she was wearing on her sweater. It was a Santa Claus broach, the kind you get at Woolworth's for $1.59 plus tax. It was cute, of course, entirely appropriate for the first- grade teacher she had been for 22 years; gimcrack, cheap, vulgar; not worthy of the wife of James Nichols, for I am fastidious to a degree, sophisticated, cosmopolitan, a connoisseur. What's more, I don't just say this; I can prove it.

I always knew from my earliest days that I was destined for greatness. My mother, a true and thorough lady, told me so. She would take her hands and place my head between them, her eyes looking into mine and say, "James, be worthy of yourself... James, be worthy of me". Then she would squeeze, hard, to remind me. One day when she did that, I saw, really saw the jewelry at her throat. It was a Maltese cross in what I later learned to call brilliants, 15th century Venetian, studded with rubies. Breathtaking.

It is in the box in front of you now... to live life at the demanding standard of this necklace and my mother who wore it with hauteur, elegance and an unmistakable air of majesty became my firm and constant objective. JoAnn was just a convenience, to be used for what women can be used for and nothing else. And when my dear mother died and I inherited the Maltese cross and stunning rubies, I didn't even show JoAnn, much less let her wear it. Herein lay the problem.

For you see, I decided to collect more jewels, even a king's ransom in them... and over time I did. Where did the money come from? For openers, there was JoAnn's paycheck, meager but useful. And my own ingenuity. Renowned Vassar College was in the neighborhood, and I robbed the young ladies of their pin money and baubles, which I traded up and sold, thereby raising funds to get pieces which became over time luminescent, magnificent, splendid.

I visited my trove often and thrilled as I ran my fingers over some of the Duchess of Windsor's famous canary diamonds; a magnificent ivory pendant containing a miniature of Marie Antoinette's sister Marie Christine, and that gem of gems, a diamond and emerald necklace fashioned in St. Petersburg by Faberge', a gift of Grand Duke Sergei to his wife the Grand Duchess Elizabeth, sister of the last Tsaritsa. All three were killed by revolutionaries, so that I might have it. You, Dr. Lant, with your great knowledge of such matters might imagine how ecstatic and proud I was to acquire this, to acquire everything.

But just acquiring was never my objective. I wanted to see them worn, by a woman who was to the manner born. For this JoAnn had to be taken care of and not by divorce either, for that involved lawyers, expense and the stringent laws of New York. What's more JoAnn had begun to hint about just how much she knew about my secret life and a trove now worth over $5,000,000. To keep it all intact and forfeit the delights of legal entanglements, JoAnn needed to be permanently removed, neatly, cleanly, surgically, finally, immediately.

It was in the event ridiculously easy to snuff the remaining life in JoAnn's tired, worn out  body. She bent down to turn on the phonograph. Her favorite Christmas song began to play. It was "White Christmas", and she went to her maker with Der Bingle's sweet seasonal melodies in the air. Just one blow to the back of her head sufficed. I had been practising, and what I do, I do well. There was hardly any blood at all.

La pie'ce de re'sistance.

Killing someone is child's play. Getting rid of the body is not. That's why I'm so proud of my solution to this insistent little problem. I simply buried her intact in a container in a dry basement, behind a false wall and piles of hoarded items, which had hardly any smell whatsoever. Yes, that was a pleasant surprise!

Then I sat down to type the most important letter of my life (until this one), the one I handed to police December 21, 1985. It wasn't a suicide note; rather a brief letter in which she admitted to "a degree of depression" and the need to go off by herself and get some peace; not least because she was dwelling on the death of our only child, a son, years ago.

Like everything else I touched this masterpiece worked too.

Of course the police "knew" I was guilty. I knew it, too. However they couldn't prove a thing and couldn't even get a warrant because the judge said there was insufficient evidence to convict. And so I found out how easy it was to get away with murder, lowering my already deep disdain and contempt for police, judges, courts and every other authority. But you, sir, are not very interested in hearing all this. You, I know, want to know what happened to the trove, the king's ransom that is my life's work.

The key.

I could have given it to charity, to wash away some small part of my sins, except that I never thought I'd sinned; quite the reverse, not to mention that I'd been burdened with JoAnn's putrefying remains and the occasional, always annoying police visit, hoping to trip me up --- me!

I found my solution in the astonishingly beautiful article you wrote on your elegant Red Drawing Room. I knew I had found a kindred spirit who would take the necessary  pains to protect and enjoy what it has taken me a lifetime to acquire.

Thus in the packing box, beneath a false bottom (I must have my little joke) you will find a key and thorough details on where the trove resides and how to access it so you can bring it back to Cambridge, for yourself.

You will think of course, dear Dr. Lant, of calling the Poughkeepsie Police and Dutchess County authorities, turning this letter and everything else over to them, thereby becoming eligible for the derisory reward they are offering; then writing the story in your elegant, inimitable way.

Think again.

Take my mother's magnificent jewel-encrusted Maltese cross in hand. Stroke it. See it amongst all your magnificent treasures, substantially augmented by my great gift to you. I think we both know what you'll do, sir, don't we?

Envoi.

James Nichols died last December of natural causes, aged 82. He had no heirs. A contractor in Poughkeepsie was clearing out hoarded items and debris from Nichols' home, when he came across the body of a woman in a sealed container behind a false wall in the basement. She was still wearing a Santa Clause broach in perfect condition. "And may all your Christmases be white..."

 About the Author Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is the author of over a dozen print books, several ebooks, and over one thousand online articles on a variety of topics. Republished with author's permission by Ruthsella Corasol http://WorkingAtHome101.com.