Aug. 16, 2019


Yesterday,a portrait of  BILL CLINTON-- "ALL DRESSED UP"---was found hanging in Jeffrey Epstein's New York City Mansion. Interesting that he's wearing a "Blue" dress.  In fact, Hillary wore a very-similar dress in 2009, at the Kennedy Center Awards.  It's kind of an "In Your Face" moment--with all these "blue" dresses although Monica's infamous blue dress was an open-collared, shirtwaist style dress and definitely not the shiny "showpiece" Bill's wearing in his portrait!

In my book, published in the Fall of 2016, I described how Bill liked to play Dress-Up. He confessed that when he was younger he often put on his mama's high heels ...even her underwear... most particularly her bras... which he stuffed with hose or toilet paper. On several occasions, he dressed up in my nighties and strutted around the bedroom playing his saxophone. This is an excerpt about Bill Clinton from my book promised earlier: 

Sometimes after making-love, we snuggled and indulged in pillow-talk. Bill and I seemed to cover every topic imaginable, from—childhood, past loves, and sex—to people, fantasies, and funnies. I found it intriguing when Bill talked about his mother and the impact she had on his sexual fantasies. He talked about his mother coming home from work or a date, still wearing her high-heeled, ankle-strap shoes. He described his mother unhooking her garter belt, then sitting down and putting her feet on the bed.

That’s when she’d motion Bill to remove her shoes, her nylon stockings, and start rubbing her feet. Bill laughed about getting an erection each time he rubbed his mother’s feet, ankles, and legs. Bill confessed that sometimes, when he was younger and his mother wasn’t around, he’d put his feet in her shoes, dab on some of his mother’s lipstick, and practice walking, swinging his hips, like her.

I thought I’d heard everything until Bill said “You might enjoy hearing this one. A few times, I slipped my mother’s bra off the hook behind the bathroom door and pulled it over my bare chest. After fastening it in the back, I stuffed nylon hose in each breast cup. It was fun, looking in the mirror at my big breasts and stiff penis. I even played with myself a couple of, is that kinky or what?!?!”

I listened and learned that—growing up—Bill Clinton had very little experience with women and sex, until his late teens—early twenties. From his earliest days, his mother dominated and controlled him and Bill never had a real father-figure. Acting amused, Bill described himself as a chubby, late-blooming virgin.

Yes, without a doubt, the center of Bill’s sexuality is his mouth. He uses his lips and tongue, his mouth, for everything, including instruction. One evening, after smoking several joints, he persuaded me to play the role of a dominatrix. He begged me to control him, dominate him, and force him to obey me. If Bill disobeyed, he wanted me to whip his butt with my dog leash and shame him; he wanted me to call him “my bad boy” and demand he perform oral sex. It was another of Bill’s fantasies—to be controlled and dominated by an older woman.Looking back on that particular encounter, I’m convinced Bill never out-grew his fantasy of having sex with his mother.

There was another fun time when Big-Bad-Bill (the name he used when he phoned me) dressed in my long and frilly-black nightgown and strutted around my bedroom playing his saxophone. Like a young narcissist, he admired himself in my full-length mirror while he tooted his sax.

Sex, Sax, Silliness— it was all fun but every visit called for a time-out so Bill could smoke a joint or two......"

* From my book: THE BEAUTY QUEEN, Let No Deed Go Unpublished.

Aug. 13, 2019


Shortly after I started running, my body began channeling my stress into useful energy.  It didn’t take long before I threw away all my prescription drugs and invested in a daily running routine that lasted more than forty years. I used my morning television program and later, my radio show, to promote running. I couldn’t stop bragging about the benefits of sweating--- how sweating was improving my acne-prone skin.

 I ran years before jogging and running became a popular fad and a major industry. It was only a matter of time before my female critics raised their ugly heads. I heard “by the grapevine” that women in the neighborhood were gossiping about me, referring to me as an exhibitionist.

These were the same women who not only slept in flannel pajamas but went to bed in granny hairnets ‘stuffed” with toilet paper to preserve their weekly hair “dos.” To these socialites, daytime appearance was everything. These women didn’t dress for men; they dressed for their competition—other women.

Like contestants in a beauty pageant, these women competed with each other to be the most beautiful, stylish, elegantly-dressed and most perfectly-coiffured woman in town. Their hairdos, makeup, and expensive clothes may have impressed their society friends but their bodies—not so much.  I’m sure the husbands in these rigidly-routine marriages were starved for some bedroom “fun” and visual “turn-ons.”

In the fifties and sixties, well-dressed women in Arkansas wore expensive, tight, form-fitting girdles, complete with “straps” to hold-up their hose (Panty Hose weren’t invented until the seventies.) Of course, the girdles weren’t complete without sensibly-structured and matching-color bras.

Ladies who were less “endowed” wore either a padded bra or slipped sponge-rubber falsies-- complete with fake nipples-- inside their bras. Over the undergarments, every “lady” wore a full, color-matching slip. The slip was for modesty—the mark of a true Southern lady.

Women of the fifties and sixties, both old and young, wanted the fashionable hour-glass figure—no humps, bumps, sags, or wrinkles.  Only by wearing tight-fitting undergarments could a fashion-minded woman achieve the hour-glass look.I remember being “locked inside” such foundations and undergarments for a while and feeling claustrophobic--- but not for long. 

Considering all the time it took to remove all-those-many-layers of clothing, including the undergarments, spontaneous love-making was nearly impossible. Besides, the average “lady” didn’t want some man messing-up her makeup, her perfect hairdo, ripping her hose, wrinkling or—“God forbid”—staining her expensive outfit.

Like well-dressed Mannequins, High-Society Ladies were obsessed with looking well-dressed and “presentable” all day, every day. These were the same women who trained their husbands when-and-where love-making would take place and even controlled how long it would last.

When I first married and didn’t know how to say no--- I sometimes--although reluctantly--accepted invitations to play party-bridge.  One afternoon, sitting at the table with Ann (from a wealthy-old family and married to a man from another wealthy-old family), I was shocked when she began complaining-outloud: “God, I just realized today is Thursday which means I have to give Al “a little” tonight! I’d rather visit my gynecologist every day then have Al’s hands push and probe me for one hour, once a week!”

Another woman seated at the same table spoke up: “Ann, I can’t believe you actually plan sex in advance. How can you control how long it lasts?” That was Ann’s moment to shine: “Of course I plan it. I put it on my calendar, just like my dental appointment and everything else. I control how long it lasts by setting the alarm clock. Al better be through by the time that alarm goes off because that’s my signal to jump up; party time’s over!

I chose Thursday evenings because Al’s usually at the farm all day and gets home dead-dog tired. Also, I have my hair done on Friday mornings, so he can’t ruin a fresh hairdo. Insatiably-curious, the other woman asked: “You mean Al agrees to only one night a week and for only one hour? Surely he tries to sneak-in some kissing, petting, or a little touchy-feely, on other days.

In response, Ann rolled her eyes, smiled and confidently replied: “Al’s smart enough to know if he complains or tries any “hanky-panky”— I’ll cut off his weekly supply and he won’t “get any” for months!”

Sally Miller


Aug. 10, 2019

Most people who are older and find themselves single and alone…move to a condominium-- or rent an apartment-- or find a duplex because…they want to make friends, find companionship, and enjoy the company of others. 

Let me be frank:  I’m nothing like some or most people and have very-little in common with women-- in general. My life has been anything but “typical”.  I know the difference between “an ordinary day for me” and “an ordinary day for others”.  I’ve lived in condos and apartments and been completely traumatized by sharing Walls, Ceilings, and Floors with strangers.  I have perfect hearing and nothing repulses me more than hearing someone next to me use the bathroom; hearing someone  below me screaming/fighting with a family member; hearing those above me having wild, noisy sex.

 Nothing about my life has been usual, ordinary, or predictable so in 2006—I wasn’t surprised when I was diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) after students I was teaching in the DC Jail rioted and murdered two substitute teachers in my classroom.  Stress has been part of my life-- all my life.  Although the effects of stress "build-up" in the body...stress never stopped or limited my ability to keep moving forward. Over time, my ever-increasing strength and confidence has enabled me to fight-back against critics---the many hateful-jealous bullies and bitches around me.

I grew-up with constant criticism. For too-long, I allowed the ugly words, nasty remarks, and hurtful attacks to shatter me; devastate me.  Full grown--- I tired of the irritating and destructive abuse, especially in the workplace. With  the help of a lawyer-friend, I initiated a “strike back” program that ended criticism where I worked and it quieted the female "harrassers" in my neighborhood. The program combined a full-frontal confrontation with an official warning on legal letterhead and signed by a well-known attorney. 

 My most relentless critics are almost-always women. Invariably,  they  fit the same profile: physically un-attractive, basically un-known, un-popular,  no education, and completely void of accomplishments.   It’s fair to say that none of my critics volunteer their time, money, or talent to benefit others.  Not even one of my critics shows signs of being happy or confident--except when they're criticizing or bullying other women and me. These homely, uninspiring women (visualize Hillary Clinton) HATE OTHER WOMEN for being attractive, happy, confident, and admired. 

Predictably--- Hateful people don’t like Happy People because, well, Haters aren’t Happy People.  Today I’m proud to say I’m happy, both spiritually and emotionally.   Never-again will I allow women to bully and attack me.

Like chiggers, lice, rats, and roaches--hateful, mean, spiteful and jealous women live everywhere. It isn't surprising that, after buyin a home in Hot Springs Village, I moved and immediately discovered I'm the only single woman in my small neighborhood-- the only Trump Supporter-- the only former-beauty queen—and that I live just a few hundred feet from two very-spiteful and hate-filled women.

Within a few days of meeting the woman next door-- she began talking-to-impress me.  I learned that her husband had been married to five women before her BUT…her husband recently confessed that he’d never been in love with any of his other wives. Six is now his lucky number.  For the first time in his life he is in love…with her! Isn't she lucky?!?!?

I patiently listened as this very-boring woman shared that her last husband had been a “leg” man but her present husband just can't get enough of--what he calls-- her “delicious” breasts.  Never mind that the only thing this common-looking woman and her big-bellied “prize” of a husband appear to do... every day... is sleep, nap, and “hangout”.  I never see any visitors, friends, or family at their house yet she feels so “sorry for me” because I’m “all-alone”.

After reading my book, she made it a point to confront me one afternoon when I was working outside. She felt the need to brag that everyone always told her she had the best-looking legs and greatest figure but-- she also had to share her intense hatred for Trump and how she hoped he’d die soon. She also had to challenge me with "how much" she loved Bill Clinton.

All this jibber-jabber from a woman in her seventies, a so-called Christian, and someone who’s accomplished nothing.  From what I've heard,  she's just another no-name secretary from a small Arkansas town with nothing to her credit except--legs, breasts, husbands, love for Clinton and hate for Trump.  Apparently…her determination to put-me-down is re-enforced by her partner-in-hate who lives directly across the street.

The woman across the street-- has no honors, no accomplishments, or educational achievements to her credit BUT she does play bridge 2 or 3 or 4 times a week (a great place to share gossip and negative opinions). Within ten minutes of meeting me, she told me that her tanned legs are her claim-to-fame.  Seems she's read my book, too. 

Other than having very-unattractive teeth and very-few-hairs on her head, this insignificant woman who thrives-on-hate---- spent years of married life working as a secretary. There's something scary about secretaries.

From the moment this unknown neighbor knocked on my door last year---in the middle of a very-frustrating move---I sensed her resentment.  Within ten minutes of opening my door, I recognized this neighbor as someone to handle with caution. Looking around my house, she asked “Didn’t anyone ever teach you about de-cluttering or down-sizing?!?!?”  She continued to make sarcastic comments like "Don't you have any color but black in your wardrobe?!?!?" or "Do you expect to find a boyfriend or husband in a community where almost-everyone is married....or do you enjoy the competition?!?!?  I'm paying movers by the hour so---being verbally- confronted by a new neighbor couldn't have come at a worse time. 

Six months later, the same cold neighbor asked me to drive her to her scheduled cataract surgery in Hot Springs. She mentioned that her husband was unable to drive because he’d recently had eye surgery for a torn retina. I was happy to help but…when the doctor came to me in the middle of the surgery and said there was a problem….I had no idea I’d be taking my new neighbor home then bringing her back later that day….then driving her back and forth to the Doctor’s Office for the next eight days! I never considered the wear/ tear on my car or the amount of gas I was using for all-those-many-trips because I believed in neighbors helping neighbors. Each time I move, I start life with a clean slate and a positive attitude.

I've lived in many states and learned that hateful individuals can only hide-- undetected-- for just-so-long before a strong woman like me-- with no “ax to grind”-- challenges the dark side of these haters.

It took about fifteen months before the hateful women on my cul-de-sac joined forces to “bring me down”.  Their ugly verbal attacks were short-lived.  These amateurs under-estimated my ability to fight-back with words and actions. 

I don't need ANYTHING from these cheap "imitators of life".   I don't need their "approval" or  their high school attitudes;  I don't fear their efforts to abandon me/ ignore me/ exclude me from their little cul-de-sac "circle". These pathetically-shallow women can't imagine the incredible pleasure I feel from being all-alone. I want a simple life without phony friends and a hurtful family.  I'm very happy being "abandoned and ignored" by the likes of such a hateful twosome.

Trust me when I say: I am A World Champion when it comes to BEING HATED, ABANDONED,  CRITICIZED, UNLOVED, and ALONE. After all---I wrote the book on it.

Sally Miller

Aug. 7, 2019


At various times in life, everyone needs someone to talk with, someone who will listen and offer advice.  Sometimes, our friends or family are all the help we need…  But, other times, we need the help of a medical professional.

In the late sixties, toward the end of my marriage, I unloaded my fears, frustrations, and anger on a Psychiatrist. He was a kind and sincere gentleman who was respectful of my heart--someone who listened as I cried through every word.  My psychiatrist understood when to stop listening and start sharing the hard facts I so desperately needed to hear.

It took less than twelve visits to regain my confidence…to understand that my accomplishments far-outweighed my failures. The psychiatrist guided me through a simple process that opened my eyes to basic facts:  My children and I deserved more from life than living with a bully, a womanizer, and a selfish-heartless narcissist.

More than forty years later, when my two children abandoned me—walked out of my life forever-- I tried to work through my shock and sadness, alone.   Realizing my sadness was beyond my control, I called the Arkansas Psychiatric Center.

 When I arrived at the center for my first appointment, I was concerned that too-many patients, including me, were forced to stand in the hall.  The staff told us that the doctors were running far-behind and—as a result-- the waiting room was full.  I waited almost two hours for the nurse to call my name before being ushered into the doctor’s office.

The Center’s lead psychiatrist was short, completely bald and wore open-toed sandals with a suit and tie.  Without a hint of a smile, the Doctor directed me to a straight-back chair before dropping—or should I say flopping-- noisily, into an over-stuffed recliner across from me. “What medicines are you taking?” he asked and I proudly replied, “Nothing.”

The doctor picked up a prescription pad and, without looking in my direction, replied: “Before I will treat you, you must first start taking the three medications I’ll be prescribing for you.  I see you have Blue Cross/Blue Shield and Medicare so…your costs shouldn’t be over-whelming.  Also, I see that you’re still working and that will defray expenses, too. Now, are you allergic to any medicines?”

 Puzzled to hear that I must take prescription drugs, I said: “Doctor, I don’t need drugs or medicines. I’m here to discuss my depression, to find ways to cope with my devastating sorrow. Can’t you help by--” The Doctor interrupted, abruptly standing up. “I do not talk or listen to any of my patients until they are totally medicated. Ms. Miller, if you don’t agree with my terms then we have nothing to discuss.”   And, hearing that rude declaration, I left the doctor’s office.

One of the nurses behind the check-out desk, spotting my tears, said: “You should make an appointment with Dr. Johnson.  She's very kind and, because she’s a psychologist, her patients aren't required to take drugs.

Two days later, I returned to the Arkansas Psychiatric Clinic to see Dr. Johnson.   I was a little surprised that Dr. Johnson seemed older than me, shaky and fragile, and—she was wearing fluffy-white-rabbit house shoes.  If she noticed me staring at her feet, she never acknowledged it by offering an excuse or an explanation.

Dr. Johnson motioned me to a particular chair then sat down across from me. Her first words were: “Tell me why you’re here.”  I began talking, sharing my heartbreaking story, crying at times, feeling emotionally crushed until-- I happened to glance in the Doctor’s direction and realized her eyes were shut, her mouth was hanging open because…she was fast asleep!

When I spoke her name….she quickly opened her eyes, shut her mouth, and—clearly confused--- woke up.  The psychologist fought to make a few comments then looked at the clock and said: “Your time is up.  Stop at the receptionist desk on your way out and make an appointment for next week.”

The next week was exactly like the last week except this time-- Dr. Johnson was wearing fluffy bedroom “booties” in a Tiger design. I had barely begun describing the details of my daughters’ abandonment when Dr. Johnson’s snoring interrupted my train of thought.  Rather than wake her, I made the decision to leave….permanently.

On the way out, I stopped at the scheduling desk.  I cautioned them not to charge me for either appointment since Dr. Johnson slept through both of them.  I made sure they knew I was ready to send a complaint letter to the National Psychiatric Licensing Board. 

Soon after this experience, I began talking out-loud to the mirror; to write endless volumes about my unhappiness; to take longer-more vigorous-walks with Cubby-Dog and….to take my sadness to God. I activated my years of Strength Training and began my Walk Of Faith.

When it’s apparent that the so-called medical professionals lack respect for you; when money and drugs are more important than you... then turn your back on them.  When it's clear that a psychiatrist or psychologist has more "hang-ups" than you and... lacks comportment and all sense of "style"….then it’s time for Strength Training.

 Fluffy-Bunny-House Shoes-on an eighty year old doctor-in a Professional Office….REALLY?!?!?!



Aug. 6, 2019

For centuries, the lack of money has challenged most Chinese; limited their lives to endless struggles.  I’ve traveled China’s alleys, back roads, remote villages and know that-- for centuries-- poverty remains unchanged.  China’s primitive lifestyles appear frozen-in-time and there’s no promise for a better future.   Only those Americans who lived during the great depression could, conceivably, identify with the meaning of the word “poor” as it relates to China’s poor.

That explains why poor country people travel to large cities like Beijing, hoping to find work, believing they can somehow improve their lives.  Sadly, the rural workers are untrained, unskilled, and too-soon have no choice but live on the streets.

It doesn’t take long before sickness, starvation, weather, or ever-alert military police, force these pitiful souls back to the countryside, back to the poverty they’ve always-known.  The few who remain become street beggars.

 China’s street beggars survive in underpasses, ditches, even in the city’s many dumping sites.  Some of the beggars are severely disabled and too-many are young children.  Chinese Tour Guides discourage tourists from donating money to street beggars, insisting that the government provides for them. But, in fact, that is a lie.

 As a self-appointed spokesperson for China’s street people, I spent months with government leaders discussing solutions to the tragic lives of street beggars. Over and over the government replied:  “China has no money; beggars make money and should take responsibility for their own lives.” I argued that many of the disfigured children didn’t have families and were forced to beg—to survive.  Most of the children, some merely babies, had been abandoned…left alone on the streets… because of their multiple deformities.

Uncomfortable with my directness and my facts, China’s leaders politely, but firmly, disregarded all my suggestions.  Their final answer:  “Today’s solutions won’t solve tomorrow’s problems.”

 Just like leaders in America, China’s leaders have money but their money is targeted for investments to create more wealth—to provide more power. In almost every country I know, there is a relentless circle of poverty/beggars/ disabled—and the circle is ignored by leaders.  The endless circle keeps revolving, continues to grow, and it has no hope of ending.

Feeling frustrated but believing that one person can make a difference, I established The Great Wall Society.  I created a nonprofit agency to target the needs of disabled street people----starting with the children.


 As you read the following story--- a story about just one of the millions of China’s poor, disabled, and medically-challenged---I ask that you remember these classic words:   “There but for the grace of God.........”.

“Out for my usual early-morning run, I was forced to ignore the many street people aggressively begging all-around me.  Running across the Walk-Over that covered one of Beijing’s major highways, I quickly stopped.  I knew the situation in front of me was serious.

The dirty, unkempt woman sat on the cold concrete, her thin, weather-worn fingers holding a small, empty bowl. It was a chilly, damp morning, and almost hidden on her lap-- covered with a ragged piece of burlap--was a small, sleeping baby. Without a word, the mother pulled the dirty cloth away from the young child’s face.  I was shocked to see her baby’s severe lip and cleft palate.

I approached three taxis before my offer to pay-double-fare, produced a willing taxi driver. Even then, the driver insisted I hold the baby and sit in the front seat.  Before allowing the mother to sit in his taxi, he ordered her to wait while he pulled an old rug from his trunk, and covered the back seat. The beggar woman was being treated like an outcaste by other Chinese. They considered her nothing more than a worthless stray animal, most-surely infected with fleas and the mange.

I instructed the taxi driver to take me to the nearest hospital.  It was a gamble on my part because I knew very-little about Beijing’s Hospitals, didn’t have a doctor’s name…. spoke only a small amount of Chinese BUT…I knew how to lead with my heart.

From the outside, the hospital looked like part of an apartment complex. It looked nothing-like a modern American hospital.  Walking inside, I found an empty bench near the main hall, motioned for the mother to sit, and quickly placed the baby in her arms. Looking around, I saw that we were the center of attention which was exactly what I needed at that point.

Being a tall, blonde, Female--dressed in red running tights and a matching red Coca Cola Shirt-- definitely had its advantages. All I needed to say in Chinese was “Can you please help me? My name is Sally and I’m the American Woman who ran the length of The Great Wall”.  Instantly, I was surrounded by Chinese in uniforms and ushered into the office of the Hospital’s Doctor-in-Charge.

Now, are you ready for this?!?!?  The Chinese Doctor spoke English.  She was a medical expert who’d studied medicine in America! More specifically, this outstanding woman had medical degrees from Harvard, spent her medical internship at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore, and trained—exclusively-- as a skilled surgeon-specialist in severe facial deformities at..... The  Famous Mayo Clinic.

NEVER under-estimate where God will lead you when you ask him to direct your path!

The Beggar-Woman was allowed to stay in a special housing unit while her little boy received the finest in reconstructive surgery. Because the medical team needed to make certain his surgery was a success, the little patient spent more than five weeks at the hospital.  He soon became the “darling” of the hospital staff and was showered with gifts of love, toys, clothes, and money.  The staff located his father in the family's remote village in South China and sent him a train ticket.  He was excited to join his wife and son at the hospital.

I visited the hospital every day.  I was blessed to experience a divine miracle.  I soon learned that Chinese leaders had contacted a wealthy Chinese woman in Hong Kong who agreed to pay for the Baby’s surgery and the Parents’ stay at the hospital.  

When “Ching Ching”--the nick-name nurses gave their little miracle patient-- was released from the hospital, it was a full day of celebration. He and his parents were being returned to their village where life would be far-better for them now.  Not only did they have a nearly-new child, but now they had money in their pockets.

 Tears covered the many smiling faces of everyone at the celebration while Chinese TV, Newspapers, and Medical Journals took endless photos and wrote lengthy notes.  I was overwhelmed with the endless hugs I received from the baby’s grateful mother, Mae-Mae... with the multiple handshakes I received from Ching Ching's father...and with the loud applause I received from hospital employees."

If you know me, you know I don’t believe in chance meetings, luck, or coincidences.  I simply believe in God.