Queen of England to the Hounds of Hell

There is a frenzy, a terrible excitement in the air.  Tomorrow is Donald Trump’s 4th of July celebration-and there are some of us (okay, a ton of us) who are hoping for a big reveal, and we are hoping that John F. Kennedy, Jr. is the surprise.

Oh, you say, my God that is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!!  At least that is what my sister in law said to me last Thanksgiving, after I announced that John would be attending the Macy’s Day parade.  I waited all day to throw it back in her face, but nothing came of it.  Some say he was Santa in another parade, but that wouldn’t have helped.

“Look!  Look at that television!  I am telling you that the Santa on that float is John F. Kennedy, Jr. himself!  How can you NOT see that?”

Nope.  I’ve been butt hurt enough lately, no thanks.

So, I have been keeping all hope at bay, as the Q post that stated that John isn’t alive pissed me off beyond all logic and reason.

“It’s a betrayal on the largest of levels!,” I wrote to Joe M., a dude on Twitter who was calmly trying to tell me to get bent.  It hurt, and it hurt much more than I thought it would or could.  In the past two and a half years, the patriots have been maligned, censored and shunned; given disinformation because damnit that’s  how military intel works, and and woke above and beyond the call of duty.

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Why are YOU screaming, bitch?  At least you can walk down the street without being assaulted, or worse.  I mean, STFU ya snowflake.  Can you feel me on this?  If people would just calm the F down, and do their own research!!!!! there would be much less TDS, and much more healing of this country.

I felt a buzz about me throughout the day, it was electric.  I had more energy than I have in years, and my man even spoke about what a great mood I was in-that never happens.  I have been praying and questioning and searching my soul.

And the Holy Spirit led me to this video.

I know who won’t be sleeping tonight.

John, I pray an army of angels protect you and your family.

We will never fully know the sacrifices you made for this country.

Your father’s death will be avenged~

 

The Mark Taylor Prophecies

I am having one hell of a time trying to upload this video, or even blog for that matter.  I am going to call out this site as discriminatory towards conservative sites.  I know for a fact that Christian bloggers accounts are being unfollowed and it pisses me off to no end to think I am paying good money to be fucked with.

I truly hope I’m wrong-but let’s just say I’m not:  didn’t work out so well for @Jack or Zuckerberg, or Google.  Class actions suits can bring moola, what did it cost Zucky boy?

Five billion dollars.

I do not have a litigious bone in my body, and if I were to proceed with a complaint the money, if any, allocated to me would go to the Wounded Warriors and Humane Society, respectively.  I know of a female vlogger who was awarded big, big bucks for Facebook censorship.  Just saying.

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I had a day, people.  Not a bad day, just an incredibly busy one.  I took the pooch for a hike, filled a wheel barrow full of weeds, planted flowers, did the dishes, made brownies and took said pooch to the groomer.  By three o’clock I was spinning…how can people say they are bored when they retire?  Seriously?  Well, everyone doesn’t live in a century old home that needs, well, everything fixed, painted or planted.  Not complaning, and I couldn’t do it without Jesus- God gives me plenty of down time with sinus infections, head wounds and depression.  I carry my cross daily, but I have to laugh about it.  Perspective is key in the arduous and heart wrenching times ahead.

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The video above caught me by surprise today, as I had just recently prayed about Mark Taylor.  There has been so much deception, it truly is hard to trust.   I have to say I had goosebumps five minutes in, and was overwhelmed by the Holy Spirit.  I wept as I stepped into the tub, tears of release-tears for the people who have not yet awakened.  I was lucky, able to take my time and tear the scales from my eyes at my own pace.  Those still under the spell of the MSM?  They will not get to choose.

Please know we are going to be okay.  I truly do think the red pill is going to send millions of people “not walking, but running to God.”  This has all been written in the Bible, and God wants us to prosper, not parish~

As always I welcome any questions or concerns.  I can be reached at dylanlover1@gmail.com.

The Frosting

 

 

The echoes of yesterday, lost in time-

return to her, mouth agape-

she listens to

the insults  hurled with deadly precision.

She used to think she deserved his

rancor and belittling.

As if she were a child meandering the dark at night.

The only narc I couldn’t leave,

resurrects the Jezebel, the one who truly

dwells within.

Stomping her down only goes so far-

eventually there will be a resurrection.

She will raise her serpents high

in shaking hands.

You have no rights to joy,

peace, content.

“You don’t exist without my permission!,”

the demon rages.

 

Words are thrown like stones, the enemy

within decries keep the peace;

the Warrior retaliates in object

rage-but the voices within are drumming to the beat,

the pounding rhythm of codependency.

No, she will not cower, nor bow

before his esteemed, yet imaginary authority.

Even now, ensconced in familiar,

yet hostile territory-

she  places her bedding

upon the ottoman of dreams.

And prays for better men

ahead.

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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.

A Preponderance of Joy

I hate to complain. My mother used to complain all of the time, I think it’s an Irish thing-it is also a narcissistic thang, and I try not to fall into the rabbit hole, if you catch my drift…:)

It is Sunday, November 25th-and I have been in bed for two entire days with the flu. These past few days are among the most harrowing of my life; and I have had some batshit crazy times. This was a perfect Trifecta,(premenstrual, full moon and the fact that I knew I was getting sick, which makes me semi-hysterical to begin with) and I had to hand it to Jesus this morning, when I cracked my first joke since the FUBAR that was my Thanksgiving.

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All kidding aside, it began soon after we left the Thanksgiving dinner our church holds annually-to feed the homeless and those facing hard times. I was in high spirits, I had made a new friend whilst cutting approximately 2,687 pies-and with a head cold, thank you very much. I was trying to figure out why Dwain and I weren’t in our traditional holiday cat fight, when, to no one’s surprise-it all came crashing down.

I had a blast volunteering at our church’s annual Thanksgiving meal for our community. I was delighted to be assigned pie duty (not so delighted after slicing approximately 2,657 pumpkin pies) with a jovial woman I immediately bonded with. I had that lift in my loafers as we head out the door, bound for my in laws and we were still doing quite well.

The Mother of All Bombs occurred, and right in front of the entire family.

I was so bored watching football with the guys, but no women had formed any coffee klatches, so I wandered over to my sister in law and her sister in law. As a follower of independent and conservative news, I know how important it is to try and warn folk about what is coming. The good and great news is that we are winning, the white hats, that is…evil is being stomped out of America, and I feel a responsibility to warn others. It’s some heavy stuff, so I went with the lighter news.

“Guys, there is going to be a ton of shit hitting the fan in the near future, and I’ll start this with telling you that JFK, Jr. is still alive.”

I went on to give facts, which were met with “FAKE NEWS!!!!” and a few attacks on my credibility. I simply stood up, placed the pillow back where it belonged, and went to sit with my husband. Because of the “trifecta,” I was a walking nerve end. I had just told my husband that I had an uncomfortable encounter with his sister, and he yelled at the football game, like-right in my ear. Which led me to shriek, because it frightened the life force out of me.

I shut down, completely: grabbed my coat and head up the hill to our home, which held my beloved fireplace, dog and pc. I took a shower and got good and cozy. I sat there for a few hours when I realized that I felt like a dog crapping bones, and I knew deep within that had I lingered on that couch? I would remain there, petrified to the leather, Kombucha in hand.

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I went up to my sleigh bed, the sun shining clearly, a beam of light hitting my braided rugs. Just as I had make myself comfortable, my husband walks into the bedroom.

“What’s going on?,” he says, softly at first.

What’s going on is, I have the flu and I was just publicly humiliated by a stranger, at my own Thanksgiving, my hormones are screaming kill her, murder her and it’s full moon.

Perfectly. Good. Explanation.

And then, as if in a slow motion nightmare, my husband says this:

“I defended you down there all day!!!!”

Guys, if you are reading this, never-and I mean NEVER tell your hysterical wife that you defended her for any reason, whatsoever.

I wanted to know why he “defended” me, but he isn’t giving. He storms out of the bedroom, and down to the settee. I am absolutely stricken with rage. Alas, I am too weak to do much about this; but the next day I feel well enough to look for apartments. My husband tells me he is “headed for a nervous breakdown.” I take lots of nighttime cold medicine, and sweat through the pain.

I cry out to Jesus. I give my weary heart over to Him. Take this, Jesus, I can’t deal another second. I end up having restless leg syndrome, and my husband and I break out laughing hysterically-even though it’s 3 a.m. and neither of us has slept a wink.

And now? Merely 24 hours later?

I have managed to make the bed and don fresh underwear.

Hey, it’s a start.

Baby I Got Your Number…

I love this song, loved it even more when I was young and in love and crazy, head over heels with a man who drove me out of my mind; and, at times, it didn’t take much.  There was so much passion back then, not that there isn’t now-we know how to push each other’s buttons; and more often than not?  The fire goes out when we calm ourselves and look at the big picture.  We have been married for 26 years this September, and I wouldn’t trade the time we have shared for anything in this world.  Okay, maybe chocolate.  LOL!

I don’t want to sound trite, but people give up too easily on marriage.  One big fight and that’s it-out the door they go.  I see these relationships in one of two ways:  either the love and passion were never there, or they think the grass is greener on the other side of Dodge.  I am here to tell you-IT ISN’T.  There will always be the first time you see him on the commode, the dirty underwear, the utter fascination with every sport on planet Earth, and then some.

You will still have to deal with his parents, and children if they are involved.  I was the step mother to a boy I was not allowed to correct, or admonish-I had the responsibility, not the power.  To this day I wonder if it would have made a difference, but narcissists are created in one of two ways, for the most part.

  1.  The child is abused or neglected by one parent and spoiled by another;
  2. The child is never asked to take accountability for their actions; they are just perfect, allowed free reign, to bully their way through life, using and manipulating others they “need” for supply.

Frankly, I am rather tired of the subject, and this isn’t about him, it’s about us, and what we have was worth the struggle, the sleepless nights, the crushing pain.  I could have given up, and wanted to on several occasions.  It wasn’t the money-I had some stored away just in case-it was that bad.

After an evening of drinking too much, I was so upset with Dwain that I called 911.  I cancelled the call, but they came anyway.  I won’t go into the details, but I wasn’t hurt, just pushed.  I had been abused as a child and young adult-it triggered me to the point of fear for my life.  The town cop came, and Dwain took him out to the garage to show him the empty beer bottles.  My empty beer bottles.  He then sat down with us and tried to mitigate our rage.  It worked, for me anyways.  The next day I was greeted by a Sheriff’s deputy, who came to serve me a PFA.  I was morbidly embarrassed as at the time?  I was an executive secretary to the President Judge of Lebanon County, and I knew everyone in the municipal building.

“Come on in Jake,” I stammered.  What fresh hell is this?

Michele, I’m really sorry to have to do this, but you are being served a Notice for PFA Hearing, and if you don’t show up on Thursday, there will be a warrant issued for your arrest.

Shakily, I signed said papers.  My heart sank.  I hadn’t done anything wrong.  Later, my husband would tell me he withdrew the court order, and I was NOT there the morning of the hearing.  Only later, much later, would I come to find out that he hadn’t revoked the PFA.  Going on a hunch, I called the Prothonotary’s office and asked my girlfriend to check.

“Yes, the Judge signed a Protection From Abuse, umm, for three years.”

How did he convince the judge to let me stay in the house?  Why did he lie to me?  I was livid and frightened-this is as close as we came to divorce.  Dwain’s reasoning: he was afraid I would leave him and take half of his net worth, which wasn’t much at that time.  His first wife had done so, and he was paying two mortgages already.  No excuse, not even close.  I called the Chief of Police that evening, enraged.

“Why is it that I called the police in fear, but I am the one with the PFA?”

I went on a rant for twenty minutes.  Good ol’ boys stick together.  You don’t care for my welfare, you know Dwain but you most certainly don’t.  How is it going to look if he hurts me and you did nothing…….on and on I went.

Bags packed.  Waiting on a return call from the owners of a cozy farmhouse who were renting it out-and dirt cheap at that.

Dwain is in the driveway.

“I am so sorry.  I didn’t know what else to do at the time, I can’t lose everything again,” he cried.

“PLEASE, please don’t leave me, I can’t live without you and you know it.  I promise I’ll make this up, somehow, some way.

And he has, in small and rather large ways.  He forgave me my drinking career, drug addictions and Irish temper (when mom died I kicked every window out of our home,     in a drunken rage) so who was I not to forgive him?

So, if he gives you just one reason to stay, you better turn right back around.

 

Tupelo Honey

 

The day is murky and bleak.  If I must watch one more moment of the John McCain memorial, (for days now) I will pull my eyes from their sockets and call it a day.

Actually, this day has been pretty mind numbingly, head poundingly awful…I’ve missed as much of it as possible, by laying in the fetal position with my cat Pooh Bear…his fat Maine Coon hind quarters tickling my nose;  somehow irritating and soothing as a mother’s hand on her child’s forehead, all in the same breath.  Jesse let out a sigh of content; his mommy wasn’t running around a mess of nervous energy-she was in one spot, with him.

Day Three of Diagnoses From Well Meaning (or psychotic) Family Member.

I took my last Doxy today-it always bums me out, this being the fourth time with this nasty disease called Lyme; it’s many variations twist and turn as the tick and deer population in Pennsylvania and New York grows on.  And, ironically, I feel worse than I did in the beginning-hoping temporarily, but some fresh hell of a virus, for sure.

I begin the morning with the house to myself.  My husband takes the dog and ventures out at 5:30 a.m., off to look for deer trails and the treasures of a forest at the break of dawn.  I thought about not opening my brother’s latest email.  And I’m telling you, he brings this insanity up in the beginning of a holiday or weekend.  My attitude was quite different this morning, and after reading about my proposed anorexic, dysfunctional mind and how concerned he is about me-that part cracks me up.  I could be slithering across my kitchen floor, dripping in blood and human excrement, and he wouldn’t bat an eyelash.  Years ago, when I told him my boyfriend had beaten me senseless, my brother responded:

“I think Terry Love is a nice guy.”

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If we hadn’t been working at Houlihan’s at that moment in time?  I would have bitch slapped that kid to Planet Uranus.  What every victim wants to hear…what a great guy her predator can be.  Jesus Mighty.

I am at the point where I am either laughing or crying over my family’s barrage of unwanted advice, head shrinking and bitterness.  I believe my brother a man of compassion, but that isn’t saying I don’t want to punch him in the solar plexus 98% of the time, as of late.

I try to rest, but dreams of floating death brings me back to my bedroom.  I had watched an Obsolete Oddity vid on YouTube prior to laying down.  I love the narrator’s British rogue, and the stories are both fascinating and terrifying.  It was about the death of a model in the 1800’s.  She had married her painter after posing for him for years.  She was a sarcastic sort, had long red hair and a big heart-but anorexia and drug and alcohol abuse killed her.  His final painting was of her, floating in the bathtub-hauntingly beautiful-morbid and dreadful.

I finally get my sorry ass out of bed.

I practically crawl into the living room.  I take it all in, my country cottage-beams bearing antique baskets and dried lavender, rose and sage.  My husband, napping on the couch, the way his  mouth forms perfect lips as he sleeps. Jesse, by my side, gives me his goofy, hair lip face  I look outside at the mountains, and come back to earth.

And I hum this tune, as I struggle to face a day that the Lord hath made.

I shall rejoice, and be glad in it.