Sir Jesse Has His First Time Out

12514086_10204121176029108_2114739482260523343_oI suppose it was only a matter of time, you know, before he rebelled.  He wasn’t an Alpha, and-especially since his brother’s death three years ago, he has always been good, and I mean-perfect.  Yada, yada, yada-everyone’s dog is perfect, I know-I admit it, I am biased, but his loyalty and mild manner were taken for granted, as if he was one dimensional, and honey let me tell you, he is multi-dimensional.  He is locally famous, as my husband takes him to breakfast with the big wigs, his friends, or anyone who will join him at 6:00 a.m.  Arrrgghh.  I haven’t seen 5:30 a.m. in eons, let alone 6:00, but everybody has his or her preferences.  🙂


The only time our beloved canine and poop head extraordinaire gets feisty, as a matter of fact, is when there is snow upon the ground, at least a few inches.  Mother nature blessed us with a foot of “onion” snow, and I watched, ecstatically, from our kitchen, then living room.  I have always loved snow, everything about snow was and is appealing to me.  Is there anything more lovely than a soft, lazy falling of flakes so intricate, so  inspiring in that not a one is like another?

So, even though it was 20 degrees with the wind chill; despite the fact that I am still having some lymph node discomfort; and in spite of the fact that I was only one person and had never attempted this before-in the history of me-I got out in that gorgeous white precipitation and I was a goner.  The big problem when I was a kid was that I didn’t have the patience to make a snow ball, let alone a snowman.  I was always going at warp speed, even as a child.

So, I broke the work down in four twenty minute segments.  What started out as wild entertainment, began to hurt my lower back in places I didn’t know I owned.  The ball of snow took on a momentum of its own, and I ended up deciding to make a boy and a girl-as I had two heavy bottoms, and I couldn’t lift either.

The fourth time out, I brought accessories.  I was only finished with the male statue, and I had a lovely scarf, carrots for the nose, old buttons for the eyes, and I painstakingly tooth picked my husband’s hunting cap to the top.  He wasn’t perfect, but I loved him and I could hardly wait to surprise my husband.

About an hour ago, I let Jesse out.  He was pretty insistent, and I thought he had to relieve his bladder.  I am in the laundry room and have my eye right on him.  I open the door to let him in.  No Jesse.  I call his name out loud, twice……No Jesse.  As I walk through the house it hits me.  NO!!!!!!!!!  I run for the window and look at poor Jude (I named him, of course) laying in a pile of smashed snow and stepped on trinkets.  What.  The.  Bloody.  Hell.

And here’s the thing-it was my fault.  I spent too much time, wouldn’t let him near it while I worked, even oohed and ahed over him-excluding the dog who does everything with his mother.  And, to be honest, after I told him to go think about what he had done, I stepped into the mud room and grabbed a towel-to muffle the sounds of my laughter~

roses 2018 (46)


“It’s hard to tell you how I feel without hurting you…” – Soho

This is also an essay on how what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, and that there is hope-for each and every one of us.  You can read my tags, or About feature and see that fate had dealt me a raw deal, and that was 27 years ago!  The hits keep coming, but I will bow to no evil, stay true to my faith and carry on, as He has great and good plans for me, and you, my beloveds.

I had just read the article in Ladies Home Journal that was written by Susan Dey, the ex Partridge, about her cervical cancer and how she knew she had it-her symptoms.  Karl was on a business trip, and I was alone in our house, which had been stress-cleaned by me the minute he left the abode.  I had been having similar symptoms, and as I headed up the stairs to use the ladies, a feeling of foreboding swept over me, like so much dust, so dreadful… real.  Shake it off, Michele, my thought cloud read.

And, as fate would have it, I saw the odiferous, grey discharge-which sent me reeling and running to the telephone to talk with my mother.

“Honey, I am sure you are fine.  Just make sure to go to the doctor this week.”  Incredibly comforting, yes.  But I knew………and I was internally combusting at warp speed.  Earlier in the year, I had been diagnosed with HPV-given to me by a long ago boyfriend.  Back in 1998, there was no talk of the vaccination or the virus, really.  Only now does it make sense.  I had no money for the antibiotic, and, being the hair brained procrastinator that I am, I let it go.  Only now, five years later would I be paying for my ignorance.

The next day?  A nurse called me with my pap smear results, which was taken two weeks before.

“The doctor needs to see you to explain the results,” she said.

What do you mean?  I need to speak with the doctor, please tell him to call me.”

“You have cancer,” she said.

With that, I insisted, demanded that I be seen by my doctor.  She had no right to say that, especially over the phone.  I wanted answers, and I wanted them now.  She told me she would call him, and to expect a return call within the next few days.  NOT GOOD ENOUGH.   I in no way think of myself as special, a prima donna, nor do I think I deserve anything more than the average Joe-but I had just moved to the area, and I had been having problems with spotting for over a year.  My gynecologist?

“You look great and your test results are great.” I called him repeatedly, this man who hated women…only to be told the same thing:  “A little spotting is normal.”  I had left him behind in Phoenixville, and the new doctor I was seeing saw it right away.  I wish I had sued the bastard, but hindsight is always twenty- twenty.

The phone rang the very same evening.  It was Dr. Overholt, asking me to come into the office, apologizing for his nurse, apologizing for the news.  As I sat, in paper robe and smiley face socks, I felt more vulnerable than at any other time in my life.  My heart pounded, my hands shook, how could this be?  I had never missed a pap in my life, why wasn’t this caught sooner?  Will I be able to have children?  Will I be able to live a life free of this sniveling coward we call cancer?

He explained to me that I had carcinoma in situ, Stage I, and that he was referring me to a gynecologist who specialized in Cervical Cancer.  I met and loved Dr. Lape from the moment our eyes connected.  He explained that I would have to have a cryosurgery first, and then-a biopsy of my uterus-to ensure it hadn’t spread and to remove the tumor.  His best advice?

“Don’t listen to ANYONE but me.  Don’t go looking for trouble.  Any questions, this is my home phone number.  God bless you sweetheart, we got this.”

And so it was, after  three cryosurgeries (in which the cancerous cells are frozen and destroyed) a biopsy and D&C, that I lay on the couch, my Tylenol #3 and a heating pad for comfort.  My parents took me to my first freezing, and afterwards took me to lunch and tucked me in when we returned home.  I remember feeling as if I had been beaten below the belt, the pain was tough, the recovery tougher.  More cells were found, more cryosurgery.  And finally, freedom.  The freedom that comes with knowing you are free of the dastardly C word.

I was never told I could not have children.  And I didn’t find out until I lost our first child-an uncaring doctor asked me why we didn’t use birth control if I knew I couldn’t carry.  He gave me a script, called it a “spontaneous” abortion and referred me to the local Planned parenthood, where I was given another scraping, and released.

Driving home, it hit me like a ton of bricks.  My girlfriend Annie, not taking her eyes off of the road, shushed my tears.  She held my hand.  She took me home and put me to bed, with a stuffed teddy bear and a sippy cup.


Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

I am what you may call a freedom fighter.  I believe in our rights individually, and collectively as a society.  I have followed the QAnon boards since their inception, and I have no intention of committing blogger suicide by getting into the middle of the politics behind it.  But the MSM is so bias, so many puppeteers and not enough puppets, so many “sheep” but not enough Shepherds.  What we now know is that there has been a shadow government, run by the likes of the CIA, FBI and others, and their end goal was that we turn over our guns, our rights and our minds to the powers that be.  FEMA camps are no joke, and they intended on leading us to slaughter.  Military tribunals will be held for thousands upon thousands of pedophiles, many of them will be disturbing, as the elite we have entrusted our very lives with, well, they want to end us.  They want a NWO, and they will stop at nothing to get it.  That is why we have the Executive Order to allow the military to try the perps-can you imagine trying to find an bias free jury in Washington, D.C.?

I don’t have a prejudice bone in my body.  I believe it’s time to put America and its’ citizens first, and I believe that the time is now.

Pray for POTUS, pray for our country, pray like your very life depends upon it.  The good guys are winning…….and we won’t stop until these derelicts are tried, each and every one of them.

Your Private Life Drama Baby…………

I LOVE Grace Jones.  I listened to her every chance I got in the eighties.  I was painting in the kitchen when WXPN played this tune, and I was shocked at how the lyrics still punch me in the gut-but for different reasons now.

I once dressed up as Miss Grace for Halloween, back in the day.  I bought a beach hat and attached Christmas balls to it, then painted my face brown.  I actually won the best costume that year, but coming home to my girlfriend’s house, wearing said costume, proved to be a bad idea, as Sally’s dog wanted me, wanted me bad for a midnight snack.  I had to go out to the back yard and strip, and my bestie got me a wash cloth…….brand new me, no rabid dog attacks.

This tune falls into the “narcissistic abuse” category, and if you listen closely there is a line about someone’s marriage being a “tragedy,” but I can offer no further details at this time as I am about 150% positive that my blog is now being hoovered: not just my sister, but other family members as well.  One of the things you learn, being the scapegoat of the family is this-if you open your mouth, for any reason, to defend or uphold your integrity, you will look ape shit crazy.  The narc has poisoned others’ minds with their vitriolic script, and if you do choose to stand up for yourself (believe me, the hardest thing that God has yet to ask of me is to turn the other cheek, realize my beloveds have been brainwashed, and-well, shut my mouth) you will only feed into their psychopathic, narcissistic rage.  You can’t play the victim card, they own victimhood.

In another few weeks, my family, cough, will be heading out to the Adirondack mountains, sans moi, and I can tell you right now the loss I feel is real.  I can only wonder if I did the right thing by cancelling our plans, but know this:  her day will come, and though I have began praying for her once again, the spirit of the Jezebel is not of this world.  We are the peacemakers, the empaths, the lovers and sympathizers.  And one day, we know not when, we shall be redeemed.

See You Around…..

In a galaxy far, far away-in a distinct moment in time, I lost my virginity to a serial date rapist I had been dating.  I was left bleeding and weeping, while he went out to the quad to play Frisbee.  The trauma so daunting, I developed Stockholm Syndrome, and stayed with him until he unceremoniously dumped me in the cafeteria at Villanova.  I was 19, still lived at home, and truthfully I had been saving myself for the man I would marry.  How could this have happened?  Why did I trust him?  I didn’t, but that didn’t matter at the time, as I was broken and unhinged-too wobbly on my feet, no boundaries, just the need to please.

He came to my home in King of Prussia, to take me to his home (mausoleum) in Long Island.  It was Summer break and I thought I was “in love.”  Turns out?  Didn’t know what love was, only now, in my later years do I know love, and that wasn’t it, baby.  Not even close.  His father owned a camp near Gilgo beach, and the house?  I felt as if I was Shirley Temple, you know the movie where she wakes up (she is in a dingy orphanage) and everything had changed.  Toys, dolls and lace everywhere, Shirley awakens to find that she has been dreaming about the orphanage, and that her cozy bedroom, her parents and housemaid are all there, not unlike the Wizard of Oz.  She is home……..home for good.

My room was a fairy tale.  Crystal, bay windows, antiques and Victorian lace everywhere I looked; fresh tulips in a vase, an iced tea at my bedside table.  We stayed for four days, drank wine and did the bone dance, but my heart and soul were elsewhere.  I felt as if I had talked myself into crappiness, drudgery, and heartache:  these were the seeds he planted in me.

Fall comes, and now I am starting to feel safe with him.  He is kinder, even jovial in his walk.  One evening, I raced to his apartment to spend the evening.  He was sheepish.  Wanted nothing to do with me.  Apparently, a new semester meant a new girl, and this time it was my best friend, Mary Lou-also from Long Island, also naïve as hell.

The pit in my stomach told me it was over.  I left his fraternity house in tears, forgot my overnight bag, and phoned him to ask if he could bring it on Monday-meet me for lunch in the cafeteria.  I was going to break up with him, and warn Mary Lou I did, but she didn’t listen.  So, here I am, waiting for Michael to meet me, my stomach in knots because I didn’t like hurting people.  

“Hey.  Sorry to keep you waiting,” he was all smiles, all sunshine and roses.

“Michael, I wanted to talk to you about us,” I said, no laughter in my voice.

I don’t know to this day if he sensed what I was about to say, but I do know that he was finished with me for all intents and purposes.

“Hey, you know, I’m young, and well, I have been dating Mary Lou, and………hey, see you around, ok?”

When I say hell hath no fury, I say it with reverence, rather than fear.  I was livid, beside myself, how could I let him play me like that?  I decided, right then and there…

“Oh, you’ll see me around, alright.”

I proceeded to platonically date each and every man in his fraternity.  Danny Ahern, Matt Ahern, Butch Styles………they took me to concerts, dancing, frat parties, nice restaurants and good company.  I didn’t run into Michael at first, even though that was my plan-to make him jealous.

One evening I took Matt’s arm, dressed in formal wear, as we entered the Bryn Mawr country club.  Have to say, I looked stunning….lol.  I have a picture of that evening, and if I could have seen myself through the photo lens, I might have known I was a looker.  Who isn’t at that age?  But point being-I may have mustered some self esteem, at the very least.

We entered the club by a rose covered bridge, which led us into the main ballroom, and the entire fraternity and their dates, dancing, clinking champagne glasses, the music thrilling to my ears-music was, is and has been my thing for as long as I can remember.  The men were in on the joke-they didn’t like Michael; and as a result they took to me like big brothers, never aware of the rape, just that he dumped me unceremoniously.

“Would you like to dance?,” Matt asked.  He looked so handsome with his tux, the rose boutonniere I had placed on his  lapel, his aftershave so enticing I almost forgot that he was my beard.  It was tempting to fall for him, but alas, we were just friends.  He led me onto the dance floor, me in my floor length black gown, slit up to my thigh……..

“Excuse me, may I cut in?”  It was the man himself, Michael, and he looked none to pleased to see me with his fraternity brother, at his fraternity event.

Matt looked at me, I looked at him.  He squeezed my hand as if to say, girl, this is up to you.

“Why Michael, how dapper you look this evening.  But I will have to pass.  But hey, I’ll see you around, okay?”


In the Dark I Have No Name…..

After I wrote my positive outlook on life blog yesterday, things changed and quick.  I  had been referred to a specialist for Lyme, however, she wouldn’t take me unless I faxed all 4.6 billion pages of my family practitioner’s files-a feat so great, so daunting, that I crossed her off the list.

So, now I am on the phone with practice after practice, looking for some enlightenment, and receptionist after receptionist gives me a hard time.  Why, one of them was so rude I hung up on her-because she was about to get a fresh can of WHOOP ASS, and I have offended God enough in one week, thank you very much!  

The thing is, I have never been diagnosed with Lyme.  They did bloodwork twice, and both times told me that I had an autoimmune disorder.  Do you have any idea how many immunity disorders there are?  However, I had the tick bites and bullseye to go with my other symptoms.  Now I need REAL answers from a REAL Specialist.  I finally found a woman in Lancaster, an internist.  I have to wait a few weeks, but do have to tell Peter about it, my physician for all other things Michele.  That should go over well, NOT.

So, with Lyme you have so many symptoms of depression, mood swings and outbursts-and now I can’t tell if I’m truly depressed, or is it the Lyme spirochete?  So, I am on the verge of a full out meltdown.  I’m not going to lie, I thought about taking a drink.  Unfortunately, or should I say FORTUNATELY every bartender within a fifty mile radius of my home knows I’m in recovery.  Seriously floundering, I began yelling at God.  I do this very, very rarely-only when I am distraught.  The mere thought of hurting Jesus is enough to make me faint-I wasn’t so much angry as frustrated, and frightened.  And that just isn’t me.

I decided on a joint and a sit by the lake, and drove away from my house like a bat out of hell.  Actually, I didn’t know my little jeep had it in her, but I was doing 75 when I saw her.  Laying in the road, blood everywhere, surrounded by three elderly women.

I jumped out of the jeep, horrified, and tried to contain the situation (I am a highly trained EMT) when the news hit me that no one had called 911.  I didn’t have my cell, so I drove back up to the house and called.  This is what I abhor about phoning 911-the idiotic questions.  You are sitting by a woman who is bleeding out, right there in front of you, and this jerk wants to know if she’s alive.  WHAT THE HARRY BELLAFONTE??????  I told him three, count ’em THREE times I was an EMT.  Finally snapped and just told him to send the flippin’ ambulance.  Not before he said this to me:  “don’t touch her.”

Jesus, Mary and Joseph, why can’t people do their jobs?

So, the ambulance comes, to see Nora.  She is a kindly and mentally challenged Amish woman who lived down our street.  She has diabetes, and her sugar crashed-she took a face plant into the concrete, with her glasses on.  The blood was everywhere, and, as always-a woman on the scene who thought she knew everything.

The bus (ambulance) arrives.  I am busy directing what little traffic there is, and I (seemed like slow motion) turned to see the paramedics lifting her by her arm pits on to a gurney.  No concern whatsoever for her back or spine.  I have never, ever seen such malpractice in my life.  She should have been C-spined, and put in the gurney with padded protectors to keep her spine straight, but she wasn’t.

I left the scene when all was over, the know it all blubbering (she was as upset as I was, to see their lack of skills) and various neighbors talking amongst themselves on the pavement.  I turned towards home, and I let out a holy cry-God knew what it would take to get me out of the house yesterday.  I never leave the house after noon unless I have plans-I am too busy cleaning and cooking and baking and…………………He knew, and he used me even though I was the biggest, whiniest brat on the planet.  He used me to help save a woman’s life.

Cast your burdens upon the Lord and He will sustain you: He will never allow the righteous to be shaken.

-Psalm 55:22