Damn Right, It’s Better Than Yours

I remember the day well, we were hiking in treacherous Blue Mountain territory-when I say treacherous, I mean SNAKES. My husband had just tried to convince me that snakes weren’t around on sunny Fall days such as the one we were blessed with-snakes don’t come out in the Autumn, he said. I didn’t believe him, but it sounded good to me at the time. That was until I almost stepped on the slithery, incredibly long and imposing black snake, who, by all appearances, had been waiting for me since 1973.

“You know to put a piece of tape over your webcam on your computer, right?”

Thinking this was a new way of terrorizing me, I laughed.

“Why, on God’s green earth, would I have to do that?,” I cackled.

Just then, and with no warning, a shot rang out, and I hit the ground for cover, you know, your EMT training kicks in at the craziest times. As I spit the flat earth out of my mouth, my husband assured me he had “frightened” the snake.

“He won’t be bothering you any more.”

Folks, that is a true story, and I am telling it because I need to explain how I am the victim of some of the most bizarre tomfoolery ever witnessed by mankind-at the whim of my husband, no less.

So, after I had put my hat back on and had somewhat regained what little composure I had left, I asked again. Why would I have to tape my web cam shut?

And as it happened, on Christmas Eve, the meltdown of a lifetime, now on video, for all the world to see. At least I think they got a shot at me-as I was caught with my pants down, so to speak, and it went like this:

The Deep State Cabal is having a temper tantrum because they know. They know what’s coming-and if you want a good laugh at their expense, by all means, Tweet the word GITMO. Or QAnon. It drives them crazy, and they’re already hot messes of the Kuru kind-their assets have been frozen, they are monitored by ankle bracelets and espionage of the White Hat variety. We know every move they make. But it goes both ways, and after a day of struggling to get the news (my wi-fi mysteriously disconnects each time I hover over the target, my phone insists on me pin pointing my location, I have screen shots of frightening threats and computer codes-I have learned how to take said Android apart, and put it back together once safely home) out, I had a conniption fit befitting HRC herself. I mean, I lost it…

I began ranting at my pc-cursing the shadow government, raising my fists to the air at the injustice, and yes, at one point? I pulled up my shirt to expose a breast, whilst uttering a Tourette-like stream of ugliness in their direction.

I felt better, until I took a second look at my computer webcam, where the masking tape had been.

I gasped, thinking of the shit show I had allowed them to see, and then it hit me-I have really nice breasts. I mean, after a lifetime of flat chested agony, the girls have finally sagged a bit; giving me ample bosom for flashing the best of the best, those sons of bitches who rain on my parade.

Take that, clowns.

Christmas By Myself This Year

I am ready to crawl into the fetal position and be done with this nightmare. What was the movie?The Nightmare Before Christmas? Never saw the flick, but who cares? Who gives a flying fazuck? It’s Christmas time, the halls are decked, the tree is done, my shopping almost complete. Wake me up when it’s time to take a long Winter’s nap; put a fork in my for crying out loud-I’m DONE.

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As a matter of fact, this Facebook post just about sums it up right now. All I want for Christmas is to have my husband and critters healthy and safe. That’s it, that’s my list. But the unseen forces of this world have a different idea-they want me a withered nub of nothing, so I have news for them.

STEP OFF!!!

Last Sunday, exhausted from a weekend of socializing, I drug my weary ass cheeks up the concrete stairs-I had a drink in one hand and a purse in the other. I was also carrying my dog’s collection of toys; left like little bodies, littering the yard. And so it was that I had no hands to break my fall when the inevitable happened. I tripped, my forehead breaking my fall.

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Not very pretty, but after an OK from the Emergency Room doctor, I went home-thinking, this won’t be so bad. I’ve suffered worse, believe me. But a week later? I still feel nauseous and the headaches are not so pleasant. But none of this matters, it truly doesn’t. Last night, God put everything in perspective for me. I was spent from crying all morning; I miss my parents at this time of year-Christmas was truly special at our home. I know what the reason for the season is-I just want a modicum of peace to fill my heart and soul.

I turned the music up (Charlie Brown Christmas, my favorite holiday tune) and Jess and I began to dance. Jubilant for over a minute, the smile was wiped from my face when I bent down to hug the dog-I found a small lump on his chest. The room began to spin, my heart was beating erratically, this can’t be happening, NO, no, no, no. My husband was in the shower; I yelled up to him, told him the grim news.

I thought a word of comfort, solace…maybe even hope. What I received instead? Name calling, of the you ruined my Christmas variety. It was if he thought I was purposefully looking for bad news: Lord have mercy! He had put up the Christmas lights, cut us a tree, dealt with my weeping just hours before.

He gave me the silent treatment. I gathered my things and headed for bed. 5:30 folks. I went to bed at 5:30 p.m. I awoke to the piercing pain in my heart. I remembered the lump. My husband slammed the door as he left the house, as I was none to eager to hear his apology. Actions speak louder than words, you know.

I phoned the vet, made an appointment first thing. My mood was as low as low could be; until I stopped in at Walmart for a few things. I asked a woman for help finding the cat nip, and the look on her face told me two things: I forgot to comb my hair, and I was now the freak at Wally World. I stopped to take a perusal of my appearance-sweet Jesus, the tattered clothing, combined with a shiner reminiscent of Muhammed Ali? Not good. I didn’t care, I was on a mission to be at the vet on time. I paid for my things and drove to the animal hospital.

To my surprise, Dwain stood at the door.

“What are you doing here?,” I mumbled.

Thirty minutes later, with a diagnoses of a fatty tumor, I took my dog for a hike. I thanked Abba with all I had in me. And when we returned? Tootsie went to comfort his friend.

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We must remember what is truly important at this time of year; and that is our family, friends and treasured children; whether animal or human. Be grateful for the small things, and let God take care of the rest.

F.U.Q.

In the history of mankind, a woman has never been so betrayed, so angered, so ready for revenge..ready for WAR. The war on our minds continues, and this time? I am finished. DONE. For all intents and purposes, I will be leaving the Q movement and moving to a bunker at the North Pole. The first person to bring in anything electronic (tv, cell, iPad)will be shot, not once, but twice-I mean it, I am OVER IT.

I have been an avid follower of QAnon since its inception-the military boards that communicate what POTUS is up to, what the elite are up to, and-to the chagrin of many of us Citizen Journalists who have shouted from the rooftops that JFK, Jr. is alive and well, to the demise of friendships and families…well, I say this in all candor:

Fuck You Q.

Yes, I am quite upset. While I choose to deal with this particular heartbreak by writing, I will not have to worry about falling for any more “disinformation is necessary,” CRAPOLA in the future. I am finished with the movement. Finished with 8chan, and pretty much anyone who writes or vlogs on the subject.

Why am I so angry? Where do I begin?

I woke up this morning to news that I most certainly could not use. While my husband was putting on his boots, my world as I knew it fell completely apart, crashing down around my feet, my PC, my existence. The latest from Q (not to be confused with R or S)?

Anon: Is JFK, Jr. alive?

Q: No.

I looked for any kind of proof that this may, in fact, be disinformation. What I found? A nice little video about HRC partying it up in India. Recently, like yesterday. I went for a walk, had a childish temper tantrum in the woods-I kicked logs and stones, punched trees, broke my hiking stick. I didn’t care who saw me, I was a goner. Let’s just say I wouldn’t have had to use my mace had an interloper appeared on the scene.

Think, Michele. Think.

The other day, Abba brought to my attention-via Our Daily Bread-that we should trust no one but Him. And now it’s hitting me over the head like so much egg in my face, mea culpa, I WAS WRONG.

Let’s think about the thousands upon thousands of Patriots who have shared the possibility that JFK, Jr. IS alive. Why, QAnon brought all of the sightings, his birthday, the idea that he’d be on the world stage by Thanksgiving, all of it. The dream team initiated the idea, by giving us facts, pictures, video of he and his wife at rallies. And now they want us to believe he is dead.

I have a few things to say. Did anyone anywhere give ANY thought to the myriads of citizens who looked to the idea of John John being alive as a ray of hope? What about those with PTSD, depression, or Bipolar issues? How many people will end up suiciding themselves, and who was the Brainiac who thought Christmas (oh, a PAGAN holiday, lest I forget) was an ideal time to break this news?

I owe my family an apology.

I owe my husband….for putting up with my ass for a year and a half.

And I owe my readers the truth, and nothing but.

I believe in God. Anything else is a PSYOP.

Hesed Love

There are peaks and valleys in everyone’s lives-moments when we throw our heads back in laughter and joy; and those where we have to dust ourselves off, check for permanent damage and regain a grip on reality.

We had a wonderful weekend. Our Christmas party for our church was held locally, so we finally made it this year. I imagined dimmed lights and a D.J. I was dressed in an original Bob Mackie jacket, fur boots and a gold trimmed dress that takes my breath away-sadly, whilst trying to zip me in the back, Dwain broke the zipper-so I went wearing said dress anyway, safety pinned in the back. Black velvet. Vintage clothing, and luckily I bought it for 50 cents. Imagine my shock when we walk into a room lit up like the sun itself. I am morbidly overdressed, and the track lights are making me anxious. I consider wearing sunglasses, but can’t embarrass my husband like that, and trust me-I’ve tried.

So long as we love we serve, so long as we are loved by others,
I would almost say that we are indispensable; and no man is useless while he has a friend. -Robert Louis Stevenson

We didn’t dance, there was no music. No disco ball.

The food was fried chicken and mashed potatoes. Corn. Warm pineapple compote.

No booze. No hard drugs.

Just us and our belove brothers and sisters in Christ. We laughed until it hurt, shed a few tears of compassion-and loved one another. I won a door prize, which shocked the shat out of me. There was no hangover the next day, no remorse, and no time to waste-we were having good friends over for dinner, I had promised spaghetti and meatballs-and we prayed before they arrived, as they are facing hardship and heartache, in their unique valley of doom. We love them so much, it hurts to see them hurt.

I broke into tears over the parmesan cheese. Somehow, the conversation had turned to the Great Awakening, politics, the hardest stuff…and after carrying the weight of the world upon my shoulders (or so it seemed) I cracked. I began blubbering about the Bush funeral. I sat with my dear friend while she watched videos, articles and memes-convinced that I would hear what I have heard from day one- Fake News!!!!

But here is the profound conclusion I came to last evening:

If another truly loves you, and respects your thought process and ability to think for yourself? Chances are that you will be heard. Heard and loved, despite your words, despite the news. She took it all in, calmed my heart, heard me out.

Psalm 136 speaks of God’s steadfast love, which endures forever. The Hebrew word for this is Hesed love. It is repeated over and over in the Old Testament, and written twenty six times in Psalm 136 alone! While no modern word can fully capture the meaning; we translate it as “loving kindness,” “mercy,” or “loyalty.”

Hesed is a loved based on covenant commitment; love that is loyal and faithful. Even when God’s people sinned, He was faithful in loving them. His love for you will remain steadfast-a reality that provides the foundation, therock on which we place our entire lives.

Oh what a foundation it is!

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B.O. and Bad Sushi…

I don’t know where to begin.  Ahem.  I don’t blame this on anyone but me, and I have come to the place of acceptance, and laughter-and a deeper understanding of my profound love for my husband.

The morning began with a decision.  Dwain had gone target shooting with his son, (thank you for your prayers, dear friends-that situation is healing) and I was left alone, looking at the darkened sky, hearing the rolling thunder.

“Should I risk driving to church with the jeep top down?”

I knew darn well that every time I stayed home because of the “weather” I missed out on relationships, the lunches, the shopping.  I decided then and there-I was going to chance it.  My friend Leeny awaited me.  A sinus infection had kept me away from the every other Sunday service (we are members of a church in Lititz, Hosanna A Fellowship of Christians) I had promised her, upon learning of her recent health scare.  I just wasn’t about to let her down, that’s what it came down to in the end.

At the service, just as the preacher began his sermon on the prodigal son, thunder shook the chapel-the congregation laughed.

“The Holy Spirit has joined me,” he chuckled, to the delight of the crowd.

All I could think, was crapstastic.  And oh, how tastic the crap became.  I left the church, in a light Summer frock, no jacket-to buckets and buckets of water.  On the way to my jeep, I see a poor woman fall-flat on her poor face-right down the backdoor stairs.  The EMT in me assesses the situation and kind men pick her up and set her on her feet.  Prognoses?  Possible broken nose.

I run as fast as I can in heels, on slick parking lot, without killing myself.  I open the door, the jeep has at least 2 inches of water puddled on the floor.  It’s pouring and I am chilled to the bone.  I see that traffic isn’t moving because a big, black truck is trying to come towards us-he is going the wrong way!  Son of a BITCH!!!  

Now I’m in full panic mode.  I reverse and try to go the other way.  It won’t work.  I see the car in front of me move, so I do a U-turn and try again.  This time the truck is coming alongside my vehicle.  The parishioner is asking if I want him to help me put the top on.  I just want to get the mojo out of there, and I brush him off.

“JUST GO!!!,” I scream.

And just then, it hits me.  The “parishioner” is my husband.  Later, he will tell me that when he hit the Pretzel Hut (a local ma and pa burger joint) he realizes that I am at church with the jeep top down and it is raining cats and dogs.  He says he drove 100 mph (frowny face indeed!) on slick roads to come to my rescue.  When I get home, he apologizes profusely, saying had he not gone away with his son, I wouldn’t be shivering and, well, drowned is the only word that comes to mind.

I tell him he’s ridiculous.  He needs to spend time with his son.  I am not a child, I am accountable for my own actions.  In the shower, I beam and my heart swells with love and gratitude.  I take my time in the shower, jump into warm clothes and my favorite bunny socks, take a little bit longer with my makeup.

I nuzzle up close to my man, and he is pleased.

“You smell like B.O. and bad sushi,” he gushes.

And he laughed and laughed and laughed, until I found the little piece of flesh, on his inner thigh, and twerked it-as hard as I could.

 

 

Check Out My Melody…

 

I have gone over and over the reasons I left the E.R. this past Friday- permanently.   There will never be another chance to comfort the least of these-no, not in that particular place.  I will have other chances, of this I am sure-I truly yearn to be of comfort to those who are nursing their wounds, both physical and mental.  I assume part of my drive is due to the upheaval and pain I have suffered in my own life-but more than that I have always fought for the underdog.

A few weeks ago, we were invited to the house of friends of ours at church.  Delightful couple-I jumped at the chance.  Who’s going to turn down ribs and a swim?  Not this girl.  We were so popular when we imbibed-nary a weekend went by without a party, cook out or pub gathering.  Things change when you find sobriety-and I’ll be blunt-the partiers don’t want to hang out with the sober-not now, not ever.  Now we make friends who don’t need to be drinking to have a good time.  Funny, charming and compassionate Christians, who know a thing or two about persecution and loneliness.  As we arrived at their lovely home, Joyce led me into the living room.  She began speaking of her utter and complete isolation when dealing with groups of women-

“Why?  I don’t understand what I have done.  I was in a book group for THREE years, and not one of those women dropped me a note, asked me out for coffee, or even talked to me at meetings.”  She shed bitter tears, tears I immediately recognized as my own; shed during times when the pain is just to much to handle-why, why would people shun us in this manner?  What was it about us?

“I have prayed about that very question, and God’s answer was sufficient.  He told me that I am not a part of this world.  I am a child of God, and his children are persecuted, alienated and shat upon.  But it’s okay-we have each other.”

At this she smiled, sighed true relief, and calmed her ruffled feathers.

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This fact was brought home to me the other evening, when discussing my perplexing plight concerning my good friend’s beach house-and the fact that it’s been three years and not one invite extended.

“Honey, I truly think it’s because she likes to party.”

Ouch.

At this point I wouldn’t accept an invitation, to be frank.  I will take the good people God has sent my way.  I will cherish them, as friends should be cherished.

Not being a part of this world has been a daily, and often torturous reality.

And if I am to be honest-from this point on?

It’s my way-my way or the highway.

 

 

Get Off of My Face…

I have had it up to my eyeballs with narcissists. I have had it up to my boobs with the perpetual drama entailed in anything regarding my mother in law; the 83 old energizer bunny, who needs to be coddled, admired and ass kissed. Twenty eight years of cold, hard intolerance of anything not “righteous” while also being the world’s most humongous hypocrite. In all of my days I have not seen a woman this spoiled and self serving. On a good year, we don’t have too much interaction-or as little interaction as one could have, while maintaining eye contact.

I spoke to Jesus about how I have forgiven her seventy times seven, at the very least. I asked him to please give me the grace to get through this freaking anniversary party-that they are giving themselves, two weeks after the exact same party was held at their home. This time they are renting a church hall, and I was asked two months ago if I would do the flowers.

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I used vintage glass dug up from a century old dump at the back of our property. I still have years of excavating ahead, this was a Godsend. What I thought to be a rubbish pile and eye sore, turned out to be the beginning of a dream come true. I used wildflowers and tiny rosebuds, lavender, brown eyed susans and herbs of color. Alas, it was not meant to be-even my so called friends at the time paid me no mind. (My closest friends were there for the grand opening) God had other plans, and that is why I am writing to you at this moment in time. I went to the eye doctor today, and I have to say I thoroughly enjoyed putting “Writer,” in the avocation box. My whole point? I was obviously qualified for the job.

The first slap in the face was her desire to “go to the dollar store and get uniform vases, and then we can go pick out some paper flowers,” completely ignoring my acres of gardens which are full to this day.

The second SLAP was this afternoon, when I told her that rather than walk down to her house in the pouring down rain-hurricane Mike-with a dilation procedure optical migraine, I would be down the next morning. May I remind you that last week, she blew my top off by telling me she would have to “get someone else to do the flowers” if we didn’t go shopping for tacky crap, and soon. I received an apology, after my best friend phoned her and set her straight. I didn’t ask her to call her, but after that my MIL was all about me using real flowers and whatever containers I wanted, even USING A DIFFERENT VASE AT EACH TABLE!!!!

She understands that I will not be doing the flowers until the day of the party, Sunday morning. But she says this anyway:

“You know, you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

Judas Priest, Marilyn Manson and the B52s!!!

No concern for my headache. No I understand, there is a monsoon outside. No, that will be fine, END OF FUCKING STORY.

I reassure her that I will be down in the morning. Two full days before anything needs to be done. I promise just wanting to end the mother loving conversation.

“(fake laughter) Because if you don’t want to do this….”

And right at that moment, after my cranium spontaneously combusted?

I hung up on the bitch.