You Talking to Me?

Nothing like having your smile ripped right off of your lips.

There is nothing in this life that irritates me more than labels. People simply cannot be defined by one trait, be it color of skin or disability-we are multi faceted, and extremely complicated creatures.

And then there’s husbands.

I put them in a category by themselves, as often is the case that I find myself absolutely flabbergasted that I have not, indeed, murdered my life partner and then, as an afterthought? Cut him into pieces.

Sure, it’s funny NOW.

Before you think me full blown mental, please listen to my side of the story. My husband is, shall we say, extremely sensitive. 24/7. This used to drive me to the point of calling my shrink, hysterical because I thought I had done something to displease him. And, back then, I was in recovery from my demons, but also extremely codependent on Dwain.

I let alot slide, trust me. And I only now realize how very blessed I am that he didn’t leave my drunken Irish ass. HOWEVER, there are power struggles each and every day-and it can and does get fugly.

When I’m sick, I don’t get depressed like some-I become hair triggered temper itself, and even my pets walk on eggshells during “my time of the month.” My mother was a screamer, and as embarrassing as it is to admit? Due to extreme duress under which most would be institutionalized -I tend to rant and rave. I am prone to punching the living shit out of inanimate objects, or, say, threaten my cats-in a nice way, of course.

It does take quite a bit to blow my fuse (God has changed my heart as well as my impatience) but every so often the conditions present themselves to be nothing less than a perfect storm. That’s when all bets are off.

True story.

Getting back to the subject of labeling others. I have been emotionally manipulated by the people I love most for a lifetime. My mother excelled in this department, and to this day it rattles my cage-no, sends me into orbit, when my husband practices this malignant behavior. I am much wiser for the years, however it hurts me to the core when he belittles me by categorizing the reasons for treating me like crap. There. I said it.

“Oh, well, you’re stoned so…….”

“Obviously, you’re in a mood, so I’ll just….”

“Never mind.” As if I would break out the machete had he uttered word one.

I admit there was a time when I would beg him to love me, or at least treat me with some modicum of respect. Our faith has transformed our weaknesses, mostly, into strengths and given us compassion for those that struggle with disharmony on a day to day basis. We get it. We do.

Back to what happens after Dwain says something incredibly stupid: I almost always laugh, at first. I laugh because I can’t believe he’s being serious, and because I know it will be my last laugh for days, in some cases -weeks. Case in point: it is 3:30 in the afternoon. He enters the living room and sees that I am content to be writing, even have a smile on my face.

“I want to pack all that shit up, and I’m not waiting until the end of the day to do it.”

He has leverage because my computer took a crap two weeks ago, immediately after my blog about Ms. Belenoff. I do not like being indebted to anyone, especially my husband. Does he really need to pack his computer now? My guess is no, and here we go again.

And here’s the rub-I have a zero tolerance for bullshit of any kind. I absolutely refuse to let things of this nature slide, no one gets away with belittling or manipulating this girl, sorry. This drives him to frustration, at which point I grab my things and isolate myself for the duration.

I know, I know-the bible tells us not to go to bed angry. These words are in my VOWS people. In the 28 years of my marriage I have yet to practice this rule. Stubborn yes, a doormat? Nope.

A few weeks ago our pastor brought this subject up. He preached a lovely sermon about the subject, and the importance of forgiveness.

I can’t tell you I’ll never go to bed angry again, but my God forgave me-He made me as white as snow.

Thing is, same goes for my thug of a husband.

Always, always forgive. Even if it’s a major pain in the anal cavity, forgive.




I have talked about caring for my friend Scott, who has end stage cancer.  Allow me to go back to the beginning, as the background is important.

In 2009 I worked for Scott at the dog lodging business he owned.  I hadn’t really any interaction with him or his wife until this job.  Although they lived down the street, we didn’t see them out and about-ever.  I grew close to his wife, or so I thought.  The job ended badly, for various reasons.  My hours were wrong, and I called to talk with Cheryl about the discrepancy, the mistake.  The conversation ended badly, and I was very upset.  I had thought us friends, but her reaction to a simple request sent my mind reeling.  What had I done?  

The very next day Scott came to the house, and offered to pay me the difference.  I had grown fond of him, and I felt badly for him-he seemed so jittery-as if he was afraid someone might catch him in the act.  We became friends, and in time the four of us would dine together, mostly in the Summer.  In the Winter months Scott would call and say his pond was ready for ice skating, we were good.

Long story short?  I received a text from him one day in late Spring.

“I’m sorry, I can’t be around you anymore.”

I Sherlocked the shit out of that scenario, and my gut reaction was correct-Cheryl began driving by our house, to check on him, make sure he was following “the rules.”  I ran into her mother in the grocery store one day, and sure enough, I was told that her daughter thought I was having an affair with her husband.

I confronted her, and believed her when she said all was good.

Two years pass and my friend is on his death bed, his cancer has returned.

I am called to his home, to say goodbye.  When I arrive I am confused, he seems well.  As well as we would have expected.  He is alert times three, his vitals and coloring are good.  We hold each other, cry on and off.  He gives me a golf cart ride around the property, shows me where the garden will be planted.

So, next Spring, when Cheryl looks to the pond, she will see hundreds of tulips.  I paid the neighbor boy to plant bulbs.  What do you think?

I feel nauseous, as if he is hiding something.  I can’t ask because my tears have created so much snot in my sinus cavity that I fear I will snot all over him.  We say our goodbyes, again, and I stop and turn towards him-the questions of a thousand lifetimes shadow my face.

I know you love Hydrangeas, please, pick some.

And with that I am too far gone to gather flowers.

I’ll plant my own garden, in Heaven, where all tears will be wiped from our faces.  And I will once again be free from the shackles that bind my heart.

woman with black and red flower tattoo standing behind blue flowers









Calmed and Broken

Every once in awhile, I think Jesus likes to remind me of something:  I am not of this world, meaning I don’t fit in and have no intention of changing one thing about myself.  I have never fit in, but today the point was driven home in a cruel and devastating way.  It may be the enemy in attack mode, but I am a work in progress, and I am God’s work in progress.

I don’t want anyone to think I pity myself, as I find that a very undesirable character trait.  Spend enough time with the narcissist population and trust me, you’ll feel the same way.   However, I will say that I was pushed to my very limit this afternoon, resulting in a public display of rage and a headache at volume eleventy.  The following story may sound shocking to you, but I have learned to expect the ludicrous, as apparently that is my cross to bear in this dimension.

I came here from the Philadelphia area, to Lancaster County-by all appearances the quaintest of the quaint.  Loads of history, horse and buggies everywhere (I never tire of it) and a few of the finest restaurants around.  Beautiful countryside, small town charm, the whole shebang.

There is something disturbing about these people.  Not all, I have met some very lovely people and you know what?  They are almost always from somewhere else.  Living on the Main Line was different for me-I had many close friendships.  I didn’t realize how very accepting these fine people were, until I entered the Twilight Zone that is this one horse town.

I don’t keep up with the Joneses.  I keep to myself, unawares of what other folks are thinking.  I go to the grocery store without  makeup, usually with my stained hiking clothes.  Not a touch of makeup.  My long hair tied in a knot, lucky if my socks match to be frank.  This isn’t to say that I don’t clean up pretty, but when I do?  Vintage clothing, the more unique, the better.  My mother was a fashion plate, but when it came to me?  Let’s just say she liked to experiment.

I remember the first day of seventh grade, because mom made me wear velvet purple knickers, matching shirt and white lace up boots.  The kids were vicious, the taunting and pointing went on all day.  It didn’t bother me as I had become accustomed to children taunting me, as they did in elementary school-simply because I did not conform.  I was my own person, never a follower of anyone else.

I am helping out a close friend, he is dying of cancer.  For the second time in a week I was a hot mess in mucks.  I entered the house to a very angry man.  He told me he had just told his wife and son that he didn’t care what they thought, he wanted me to help him.  The narrative goes back and forth between everything’s groovy to his wife hates my guts.

“Now what?,” I asked.

The other day while in the grocery store, making conversation, I told the cashier I was helping out with Scott.  Apparently, she ran with this information (wow, scandalous I know) to Scott’s mother in law, who immediately phoned her daughter.

“She’s mad because her mother told her that you were in Dutch Way, bragging about how you’re taking care of me.  I just screamed at her and told her I didn’t care that she thought you were crazy, I wanted you around, period.”

“Can you please go back to the ‘crazy’ part?,” I stammered.

“You know, your hair isn’t perfect, everyone thinks you’re crazy.  Not many people in this town like you, who cares?”

I left the house enraged.  Truly enraged.  I drove to Dutch Way at eighty miles an hour, peeled into the parking lot, barely stopped the car before getting out.  I stormed in and asked for Cindy, the cashier, who had left earlier.  I then asked for the manager, and was directed toward the office.  My friend Lu Anne stood there, looking at me with anticipation.  I told her what happened.   I was shaking and livid.

“I want her job.  I want her job.  She is FUCKED!!!,” I screamed.

I felt their eyes burning holes through my backside.

I drove home, hugged my pooch, cried in the shower.

Children of God need to realize that they will be persecuted, rejected and even shunned because the “worldly” don’t understand us, they despise us because we frighten them.  They are broken people who’ve never truly known Christ in their heart.

I pity them.




Check Out My Melody…

I have gone over and over the reasons I left the E.R.   Is it possible that Yahweh put me in that place to free one, count em, one person, from the throws of demonic possession? 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.


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.”


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.

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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.