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~

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I am in the mood for hijinks!  What, you ask, is holding me back?   Someone to play along.  I grew up in a household of practical jokers.  My siblings (my sister Courtney and my brother Craig) and I scared the bejesus out of each other on a daily basis, but I have to admit, I ruled the house in a reign of terror that left my brother an almost emotional cripple.

My earliest memory of scaring my brother is the day I decided to mess with his Sesame Street puppets.  Poor Ernie.  It takes a pretty sick mind to come up with the prank, but this was just one in a line of many, many horrific frights, leaving him paranoid, emotional and let’s just say pissed.  It was so out of hand that my mother screamed at me, more than once:

“Are you trying to commit your brother to a mental institution?”

No, but I sure as hell delighted in watching him scream.  So, one night he is in the shower and I grab hold of Ernie.  I manufactured a little sign to put in his hand, it read:

Help Me!

I lay underneath my brother’s bed and awaited his doom.  It seemed like hours, and the thought of my father, just feet away at the living room bar, made it even harder to contain my laughter.  Finally, he opens the bedroom door.


The thing is-he didn’t stop screaming.  It was one continuous scream.  I had to do something, so I stood up.  That may not have been the best move, as his scream turned into a shrill siren’s call to people everywhere who have been the victim of tomfoolery.

Craig!!!!!  It’s me, Michele, calm down.”

But he didn’t.  Not one iota.  And the louder he screamed, the louder my father’s laughter became.  Needless to say, I chilled out for a bit, I loved my brother.  I loved seeing him frightened even more, but nevertheless.

One night my best friend, Denise, slept over.  My sister had been given a wicker mirror for Christmas, and the box remained in my father’s work shop for weeks.  Craig’s bedroom was downstairs, next to the shop.  I talked poor Denise into waiting, in the box, for 2 hours.  I though his return was imminent, but he had been working a shift at Victoria Station, and came very close to putting the kibosh to our fun.  When I heard the cellar door open, (my parents were away for the evening) I warned her that he was coming.

“Why would he come in here?” Denise blurted.  “Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” I demanded.

“Hello?  I heard a noise, is someone down here?”  My poor brother.  It is my opinion that he was never the same after seeing The Exorcist.  My mother would NEVER have let him go, so he snuck to the theatre with a few of his dimwitted friends.  My sister and a few neighbors  had gathered out in my front yard when it happened.  Craig came barreling out of the house, as if Linda Blair had popped out of nowhere with a cross in her back and murder on her mind.  “SOMETHING IS IN THE HOUSE,” Craig bellowed.  It took a good two hours for us to calm him down, insisting it was just the wind.

So, back to the night at 202 Riverview Road.

“I hear something, is anyone here?????”  Denise and I,  trapped like sardines in a can, held perfectly still.  My brother approached the box.  What happened next is seared in my memory forever.  This time, there was little, if any sound emitting from his weary body.  It was a silent scream, if you will.  Convinced I had really done it this time, I moved away from the box to apologize, but instead we crumpled in laughter on the floor of dad’s shop, hopelessly breathless.

After that, I was pretty much under my mother’s direct supervision.  But I remember the laughter, even if it was at Craig’s expense.


Jagger Justice……

It began innocently enough. My husband took me to his favorite shed hunting spot-by “sheds” I mean deer antler sheds. The very first day I found two, and that set me off on a new and dangerous direction-frolicking in the tick-ridden woods for antlers the buck may or may not have dropped in any specific location I happen to find myself in…and let me tell you, my nemesis? My aching ass cheeks I hate jaggers. DEPLORE THEM. I have screamed at, stomped on, cut off, pulled off (screaming JESUS HELP ME-Lord I hope my neighbors aren’t watching)and cursed at my share. The good news? They don’t curse back. The bad news? They get me coming and going, each and every stinking time.

It would be quite comical if I could somehow attach a video cam to my forehead. I struggle with thorns like my dog struggles with dandruff. It’s never a good thing, and no matter how many I beat down? They grow back. Meaner, tougher, out of control briar bushes that I believe were put on this earth to plague me.

And so it was today, dressed in six layers, Off sprayed on every crevice of my body, that Jess and I headed in the direction of the Crouse farm. Acres and acres of beautiful, deer trodden land. I was trying to be extra careful, as my lymph node is still swollen and painful. (Lyme) I tread stealthily among the woodland creatures, smiling at the ice crystals formed within the swamp grass, (oh what a glorious land God prepared for us!)the sun rising from the East set an eerie but lovely glow on the fallen trees, acres of pines and cornfields. It was at that moment that my bladder called, and I meditated on waiting until we returned home.

“Jesse, no way, no how and I going to make it. Wait for momma, she has to pee,” I yelled at my dog, a few feet away-making some squirrel’s life a living hell…I squat down, steadying myself against the maple tree.

“MOTHER F***ER, MOTHER F***ER!!!!!!!,” I screamed at warp volume.

And so it was, that the briar I didn’t see upon squatting, shoved itself up my anal cavity and had its way with me.

Somebody pass the preparation H……please 🙂

Bliss (The Shroom Room)

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As deep and dreary as my addiction was, there were moments of extreme levity, and for that I am grateful.  Back in 1995, my brother threw a Halloween party.  He lived in Fishtown, a charming city within a city, the colored buildings decorated with goblins and ghouls alike, and, as it turns out-a city in which you can walk for blocks and blocks in the middle of the night-safely and uninterrupted.

I brought along a date, Tim, the cook from Houlihan’s, where I was presently employed.  He was nice, tall, and very much the gentleman.  I had no interest in him whatsoever, but always the people pleaser, I had no idea how to say no, thus the mitigating circumstances-allowing a stranger into you inner circle, your familla… end up red pilling a perfectly sane human being, whom, before meeting you and your brood, was as white on rice as you can get.

Upon arrival, Tim and I took a seat on the couch.  I dressed up as Madonna, my costume of choice for ten years straight.  So easy, and downright sexy, I thought.  Mini skirt, fishnet stockings, fuck-me pumps, heavy eyeliner applied to give the appearance of bushy eyebrows, a leather jacket and….voila!  Madonna.  Craig, my brother, wore no costume, and many of the men, including my date, had no intention of looking the fool in an outfit their better half picked out at Marshalls.  We had just started to relax with our beers when my brother said this:

“Courtney dressed up as the devil.”

I could tell by the spark in his eyes that I should turn around and take in her apparel.  My poor sister had bought a devil costume, complete with horns, cape and pitchfork.  The dynamics of our relationship back then was complicated, yet loving.  I saw her as the kindest human being on the planet, so Little Bo Peep compared to my Twisted Sister.  I was wildly protective of her, and as the older by five years sister?  Let’s just say nobody messed with her, at least not while I was within a five mile radius.

My sister took a boat load of teasing from her siblings.  It was the thing to do at the time…..but this was an opportunity so rare, so appetizing, so off the cuff…..I had to shame her, lovingly of course.  We laughed at the store bought  uniform, and then we went upstairs (I have to preface this story by telling you about these particular stairs-old house stairs that wound tightly in a spiral up six flights of building.  Dangerous for a sober party goer, deadly for the drunk) as Craig had a surprise for us:  mushrooms, of the Timothy Leary kind.  Psychedelics from nature, what could possibly go wrong????????

As I poured my second beer from the keg, my sister, wide-eyed and stressed to the max, whispered in my ear: “I didn’t get off right away, so Craig gave me more in a candy bar.”

“MORE???????”  How much MORE??????,” I asked my red as a beet sibling.

You have to understand, neither of us had ever tried such a thing, we were very sheltered growing up and weed was as strong as it got, at least until this evening.  My sister was not a seasoned partier-Craig and I were older, prone to experimental drug use…..but Courtney?  She was afraid of chemicals, and I had to hide my horror that she had just ingested a boat load more than she should have, and now I had to keep my eyes on her-for the duration of this shin dig.

The party eventually moved upstairs, into my brother’s room.  Starting to feel a bliss heretofore unfelt, I laughed and carried on:  we hung out with comedic people back in the day, big personalities and broken psyches.  We all had a past in common, one of waiting tables yes, but more times than not?  Depression and mood disorders, addictions and afflictions.  But we were family, and my brother threw the best ever parties.

The shrooms now in effect, I found everything hilarious…..I have never, ever laughed this uproariously in my entire life.  Jokes weren’t just funny, they were deliriously mad cap….a spirit of frivolity hung over our collective heads.  The bliss that set in was heady stuff, and it all came to a dramatic stop when we noticed the drama unfolding in front of our very eyes.  Courtney, always incredibly vanilla, incredibly modest, was laying on my brother’s bed.  My friend Terry had just made a hilarious observation, and Craig was gone…….his face purple, his laughter echoing throughout the house………and then it happened, in slow motion, the docudrama that featured drugs, booze and my little sister….becoming unhinged in front of our eyes, and no one could stop what was about to take place.

Apparently, while loosing his proverbial shit at Terry’s story, Craig did not notice that my sister’s store bought costume was stuck underneath his elbow.  The harder she struggled, the louder he laughed…..until she was literally down to her bra and panties.

“Red alert, red alert,” I repeated over and over again in my head.  I have to help her.  People screaming and crying laughing at the site of her didn’t help.  I was angry and ashamed for her, yet I could not move-not one inch.  The hilarity had kept me frozen in place, and the more my brother laughed, the harder it was to move.  My eyes swept the room… gawking, women crying….and my little sister, also frozen-but in fear and embarrassment.

After what appeared to be hours, I finally took her hand, walked her to the bathroom and redressed her.  She clung to me like a cure for cancer, and didn’t leave my side for the duration.  We did everything we could to sober her up, walked her around the block a hundred times, coffee, Ativan…..nothing worked.  By four in the morning, everyone had left the party but my siblings and my date.  Exhausted, we fell into my brother’s king size bed, Tim laying on the floor next to me.  It had taken us hours and hours to stop laughing, to calm down enough to get some shut eye.

“Phatt, foof, tweet, (sound of a balloon in the last seconds of life) farrrrtttt, farrrrtt, farrrrttt.”  By the time I discovered that the noise was coming from my own ass?  It was too late.  I could see the silhouette of my brother’s face in the dark-laughing so hard he was gasping for air, and then it hit me:  my date was lying behind my behind, and he was getting the worst of it. The HORROR…..the EMBARASSMENT.  Suddenly, the joke was on me, and I finally caved and went with it, laughed until I cried, despite my growing panic.

The happy ending?  Tim never darkened my door again…….poor dude.


Sunday Papers………….

Day two of staying quiet, listening to the Holy Spirit’s comforting whispers, and plain, good old fashioned rest.

Every month, and I do mean every month, there is an unholy collaboration of hormones and the full moon that have their way with my mind, and I, and everyone that loves me, is put through a series of tearful phone calls, disturbing Facebook posts, and blogs that could make the Grinch cry out in anguish. I never remember this until I am, quite frankly, hysterical. I get to the point of outright paranoia, and my fears run wild, like so many deer chasing the wind. I cry on and off for a day or two, suffer fits of irritation few could survive, and scream Hare Kari at my cats, husband and, well, anyone who darkens my day to the point of pitch black preparedness-meaning, I learn to EXPECT bad news.

When the Eclipse happened, I was so frightened (stupid YouTube) that my husband left work to come home with special goggles-first to allow me to actually see the Eclipse, and second-to walk out of the house for the first time in days. What had me so terrified, you ask? Well, it was LA Marzulli’s video on BEKs, better known as Black Eyed Children. This phenomena has been discussed, at length, on sites such as his and a few others, Stranger Than Fiction, A Call For An Uprising, and Richie From Boston.

So here’s the story, in Reader’s Digest form: there is a little known phenomenon called BEKs, Black Eyed Children-who, for all intents and purposes, appear out of absolutely nowhere and ask to be allowed into a person’s home, car or business. They are children, sometimes teens, who have soulless black eyes. They talk in a way that tips you off, a stilted, 19th century vocabulary. Their clothes don’t come from any stores you and I frequent. Au contraire, they are clothes from the 20’s, even 30’s. Their main objective is to get inside your house, where they will cause disease, freak accidents and untimely death.

Do I really believe in this phenomenon? Yes. I have seen a few pictures and reputable videos to know that these demonic energies are a little known fact of life, the life we are currently living, otherwise known as THE END DAYS. My question? How in the Harry Belafonte does ANYONE know that these are the end times? Is there a manual I am not aware of? Didn’t the end times begin when Jesus said, centuries ago, “It is finished?” The reality, in my opinion, is that these strange and mind blowingly frightening oddities have occurred since the beginning of time. Yet now, we have the World Wide Web, where we can look up just about anything that suits our fancy: Illuminati, Aliens, Demons, New Age-why, a person as impressionable as myself might be convinced that the world is a scary place, and if the internet isn’t a problem for you, just look at the Main Stream Media.

What is a person to believe? Do your research thoroughly, use reliable sources, and if that doesn’t work? Run. Run like your bloody hair is on fire.

My Analyst Told Me……..

About a week ago, my brother sent me an email with the information for a local therapist. I had given up therapy (God and I had this) and frankly, he was concerned. If I am going to face upheaval and pain, I call my bro, as I can emote at whim and he will not judge me. He gives great advice, so I looked so forward to meeting Nancy. The appointment was made for this morning.

I haven’t eaten in two days. I shake, from my feet on up to my hands. I have crying bouts-I cannot sleep through the night, never a problem before. This isn’t good for my Lyme recovery-let’s face it, what happened Wednesday afternoon wouldn’t be good for anyone. I drove in the wrong direction for 30 minutes, so distracted was moi. Finally, after driving miles on slick, rain drenched country roads. And I drove aggressively, fearlessly-which isn’t really me.

I spoke of the “incident” with my stepson in my last blog. How he has walked around in a state of rage for three months now, first depression-now red hot anger. He went on a verbal tirade about how I was a “blood sucking leach,” that I was a “joke” to the entire family. I was in fear of him punching me, and when I tried to go back inside, he blocked my way.

So here I am at Nancy’s pad. I fill out the paperwork and wait. An attractive and cheerful woman greets me with a hug. We sit down and I commence to lose my shit, and cry like a child. She proceeds to ask me a myriad of questions, mainly about brain fog and forgetfulness. By the time she gets to what she thinks I have? My mind is moving one hundred miles in seventy different directions.

“Dissociative Identity Disorder,” she says in a hushed tone.

She gave me the reasons behind her thinking, admitted that it was too early to be sure, gave me a tissue and rescheduled. As I drove to the pharmacy on the way home, it hit me pretty hard. I broke down and called my brother from said pharmacy. I wept through my interaction with the cashier. They know me well. They were concerned.

I have a few questions for sure. I am not going to go head over heels into this without ensuring that she can help me with my PTSD and Narcissistic Abuse syndrome. The only time lapse I remember was two weeks ago, albeit a four hour lapse. I was reading my bible on the couch in the living room, the clock read 8:00 a.m. When I traipsed into the kitchen for a glass of water (I had just received a very upsetting email from my sister)and the stove read 12:30 p.m.

I would poo poo the whole thing if it weren’t for the dichotomy between my mellow self, and my ‘I will cut a bitch” self. But doesn’t everyone have another side to them? DID happens for a few reasons, but in my case she believes that I suffered such devastating trauma from emotional abuse in my childhood, that I created another persona if you will.

Emotionally and physically exhausted, I made an appointment with Nancy for next week. I won’t let this ruin my weekend, as God has the final say on what I am suffering from, and He alone has the cure. Be blessed family.