We are back from the beach, and safe.  I thank and praise God as I feed my cat community (sixteen fixed and beautiful babies, three are crippled but please don’t tell them that) and comfort my newest adoptee-Miss Maybelline.


I did not ask for these kittens, they asked for me.  Some drop offs, some rescues, and all loved beyond comprehension.  I rush to the kitten, make her purr soft and thick.   The deal was that Dwain would leave the garage door up a foot, and we would place the cat food in said space.

When my husband is going on vacation?  He is in such a mad rush, all besides himself.  Poor guy literally trips over himself in excitement.  I’ll never forget my grandmother’s funeral, and one of the reasons I won’t is because of Dwain’s utter joy at arriving in his first ever hotel room.

“Look, honey!  We have a sitting room!  Wow, look how big that bed is?.” he yelped.  It touched a place in my heart, you know?

light landscape sky sunset
Fall is just around the bend-my favorite time of year. And no, I don’t allow satan to ruin my Halloween. I absolutely refuse!

So, as it turned out?  Dwain left the garage door open alright, but about 4 inches at best.  Meaning that the skinny ones may have had a chance, but our big old farmhouse cats?

I didn’t see this until I jumped out of the truck upon arrival, and noticed my entire cat population was giving me the hairy eyeball.  I mean, I never felt so bad for an animal in my entire life, and I’m the idiot who always feels sorry for animals.  See: crazy cat lady.  Actually, my brother gave me the greatest gift before he moved to LA and broke our collective hearts.

The Crazy Cat Lady action figurine, complete with cats, a litter box and a zuit suit that cracks me up every time I see her.  Wild blond hair, I mean, it’s me, what can I say?

I always learn something new about myself, my faith, when I’m away relaxing.  Problems are solved, a new awareness of my humanness, my weaknesses and strengths.  As we drove home, I was saddened for more than one reason.  As much as I adore my man for booking my first ever house on the beach?  I can’t just do three days.  I have had a love affair with the sea since early childhood-I bloom at the beach.  I need at least a week, before I feel compelled to even think about leaving.


And I did so love the house, the people we met along the way.

God has a way of showing his immense love for me in ways I could never had noticed when I was using.  As I strolled through the woods with my pup this morning, I thought about how much I prayed that people will turn to Jesus if they haven’t already-and know that peace and joy that surpasses all understanding.  I almost wept, thinking of the lonely, the homeless, the ostracized.   If you would just give your life over to Abba, there are no words in the English vocabulary I could use to describe the peace that a life with Christ provides.

The house was jaw drop beautiful.  On the bay, with our own private “beach.”  I thought we were on the ocean for the first two days, until a neighbor said to my husband-

“This isn’t the ocean?”  The look on his face so comical I had to change my panty liner.

But Jesus was there in a multitude of ways, blessing the crud out of us.

The rainbow the first night, confirming our faith and our love for one another on our twenty seventh wedding anniversary.

My childhood furniture in one of the bedrooms, a painting of a golden retriever above the fireplace mantel.  The perfect cloudy weather that makes me come alive.  The opportunity to help a sister awaken, and the beautiful child Aria-the granddaughter of our new friends-who absolutely flit like a butterfly, alighting on each new discovery with child like abandon.

She and her eyelashes?  Restored a part of my heart I never, ever thought would heal.

nature red girl model

On the drive home I felt troubled.  What did I learn about myself?  What new revelation about my walk with Jesus?  Was three days insufficient?  Maybe I wouldn’t have that aha moment this time.  It didn’t matter really, but it was there in the back of my mind.

When we left on Thursday I was a triggered nub of nothingness.  Between the drama involved in trying to help a friend who was dying of cancer.  His wife was not happy about me being there, and the situation was toxic for me.  One day into it he offered me a morphine pill, and I took it.

I relapsed.

He was putting me in between he and his wife, complaining about her and manipulating my emotions.  I was enabling him, buying cigarettes and feeding in to his story that his family ignored his presence, wouldn’t buy him groceries, showed him no sympathy whatsoever.  I didn’t just take a drug, I had relapsed into my old codependent ways of thinking.  I was a human punching bag, it seemed.  He was constantly telling me that his wife didn’t like it that I was there.

Hold on, his wife asked me to be there.

I dreaded coming home to this, as if I had no choice.

Last evening I contacted him, and explained the reasons why I simply could not be his hospice “nurse.”  I told him that I didn’t want to come between he and his wife, nor could my CPTSD handle the constant high drama.

As I finished the text, my Maybelline screamed outside.  She had food and water, and I shushed her mouth, with a firm I. will. see. you.  tomorrow.

It wasn’t until this morning that I realized what had happened.

God grew me a backbone.

Turns out, there was only one set of footprints on that beach-and that was because He was carrying me.

Haunted by Sheeple


I am mildly disturbed.  Some would say deranged with rage, and I am surrounded by Sheeple at each and every turn.  How does a girl, who suffers from PTSD, get to the bottom of it all without terrorizing herself, her dog and even, yes-even the mail lady?  Poor Tammy.  She slid into our mailbox yesterday, and I wouldn’t have even noticed if my pup hadn’t sounded the alarm.  Does that ever happen to you?  You’re in the middle of deep concentration and the dog barks you out of your stupor?  Scares the red blood cells right out of me, I swear.

The poor girl was traumatized, as her truck was hanging on the very precipice of an embankment.  As I leaned in to see if she was okay, it was clear to me that she was in shock.  Once I had her in the house, we needed to wait for my husband to arrive and pull her vehicle out.

“Did you know that President Trump is saving the world as we speak?”

“JFK, Jr. is alive and well, and I think he’s Q, and Trump is Q+.”

I stopped talking when I saw the fear mounting in her eyes.  She had absolutely no idea what I was speaking about.   I’m quite sure she went home to her husband and bitched about the “crazy lady” that bent her ear with nonsense-and that is the point of this blog:  Q is 100% real.  The Great Awakening is 100% real.  I live in a town of 300 people, and aside from my friends Sherry and Scott?  Not one of them believes a word I say.

No more redpilling for this girl.  I try to understand and practice patience, but I have to say I am frustrated more than not.  And with so very much at stake, I remind myself that day by day (maybe not in the sleepy town of Kleinfeltersville)  the masses are truly awakening.

Recently, I have had a hard time keeping up with the news; an even harder time at making the distinction between truth and crapola-so, I cancelled most of my YouTube subscriptions and now get my news from the horses mouth, on 8 chan, of course. The SGT Report is real news, and Q has confirmed this.   I have to be honest, I am not quite sure what to think of the new QAnon book:  we were warned a while back-be careful who you follow.  You see, there are Patriots and Paytriots-those that are trying to profit from the Great Awakening and Q movements.  As it turns out, the people who wrote the book are the very same who helped me to make sense of it all-and I am torn between supporting and condemning. 

I suppose we all need to understand that false information is necessary-there are bad people, even our enemies, on this board.

I agree with Sean; ask those questions of God himself.  He is the author of our reality, our past and our precious future.

He is the Alpha and Omega.  Abba won’t censor, ridicule or abandon you.

This is a war that is gaining momentum, good vs. evil, a shift in consciousness, a new world-God wins in the end, and that, my friends, is all I need to know.

For now.

Miss Maya and the Missing Link

One of my favorite felines, Maya Angelou, has come so incredibly far in her quest to find herself. I am a firm believer in the notion that animals have souls, and like Angelou she is a fearsome lioness, a freedom fighter-a survivor.


Born 8 years ago, the last of my longhairs (I kept the entire litter, four cats in all)she was petrified of her own shadow. The runt of the litter, she was always last to get nursed, last to be bathed, pushed aside like so much dander. She immediately found a hidey hole, up in the rafters of our bedroom. Incredibly tiny, I often feared she would fade away. It was because of her frailty that I put off having her fixed- rather than take her to the Humane Society clinic for thirty five dollars, as I did with each and every other cat before-I had her spayed by our family vet, who charged me over four hundred. I know. I know. This made my husband cringe and carry on-one of the reasons Maya hides to begin with. Dwain has a strong and deep voice-he frightens all of our cats; yet Maya would run upstairs and jump to her happy place-not to be seen for days.


We have cared for a myriad of cats over the years. Living out in the country, desperate people have done desperate things, like drop their cats and kittens off at a stranger’s home: but I look at it this way-they were meant to be with me. I have my favorites (current cat population:17)and thirteen of them live outside. They have a really groovy pad under the giant pine out back, and a covered cat home beneath our deck. We feed them, nurse and vaccinate each and every cat, thanks to the generosity and passion of Nobody’s Cat Foundation. They neutered/spayed fifteen cats, giving them vaccinations as well, at no cost to myself. I will be sending them something at Christmas, for as long as they are up and running.

She doesn’t hide any longer. She lives in our bedroom, proud and precious, content in the world she has created. She likes her pillows just so and her catnip must be placed to the right of her toy mouse. I feed her can food once a day, and as long as her needs are met? She purrs at warp volume, she kills me with kitty kisses and blinks her undying affection.12311171_932332183509072_157103928902352993_n

Fresh out of the shower, and feeling a bit more positive, I played with Miss Thang in her sun spot. She has put on weight, and her coat is like mink. And then it all came together in this supernatural way. I could see it in her cat eyes, the strength, courage and love-emanating from a cat who was at one time so depressed she pulled her hair out, in clumps.


Me and Maya?

We got it licked.

Rabbit on the Run

This song takes me back to King of Prussia and our local ice skating rink. I can smell the ice, taste the poignancy of the moment-now lost to time. Lately, as I’ve looked back upon my fifty seven years; I am amazed that I have such a propensity of good memories-you would think quite the opposite. The facts are I was pretty darn happy until anorexia. My closeness to my father had not yet threatened my mother to the point of narcissistic abuse-although Mary Lou died young? She became a loving and generous mother, whom I have completely forgiven. I seethed in rage for years and years, like any addict; popping any pill I could to change my reality-to just feel better for a moment or two. I pushed down my rage and grief, and the end result almost killed me.


The anger had to come out some way: windows were broken, suitcases packed-even physical restraint because I had become violent from drinking. This all happened after mom died. You see, rather than dealing with the emotion, or addressing a concern with a family member-I took everything out on myself. Somehow, some way along the line, someone had taught me I deserved to be punished. That I was so unworthy that to this day I have to keep my reality in check.

If I was furious with Dwain? I drank myself to sleep. Smoked two packs of cigarettes. If I thought no one loved me? I would cut my skin, as if to say “of course, no one loves you because you are unlovable…,” the pain from the self harming soothed me, pouring over me like so much manna-in essence, the pain transcended the emotional trauma, serving to distract my shattered heart.


One day an epiphany: I am not the predator. I don’t purposely hurt others. I had love and joy in my heart, Christ in my very being. Why were so many people, those whose job was simply to love me; why was I constantly in emotional pain? More importantly-why was I allowing them the opportunity? It took years of trusting, loving and following Jesus; before I could trust Him enough to realize the truth of the matter. I am a sensitive Empath who bleeds openly for others, especially animals as their nature is pure. I can’t sit through an SPCA commercial, for crying out loud. I am opinionated. I have made a few more enemies than I would prefer, but when I believe in something; when the Holy Spirit is telling me I am right on the mark? Well, then I am a rabid dog, biting at the chance to right the wrong. I don’t like authority, ignorance, condescension or bullies. It takes me an hour to get ready in the morning and I am high maintenance; meaning I carry seltzer, gum and mace wherever I go-it drives my husband crazy, especially on Sundays: I always oversleep, which means I have to bring my coffee and makeup along as well.

Through faith, and because I cling to His robes for dear life-I have learned that people who treat you with disrespect, violence or apathy; well, they don’t belong in your life. You are a beloved child of God. You deserve to be loved, respected and treated as others would like to be treated by you! It isn’t easy to end a friendship, but I have had to end my familial relationships, and if that doesn’t make you tough as nails, well, I don’t know what will.

And once you start treating yourself with love, dignity and reverence-others won’t even try messing with your heart. They’ll know you won’t put up with it; they’ll know that you are somebody.

Checkpoint Charlie



I attended the funeral of a sister to a dear friend this morning.  The service was held in Kleinfeltersville, my home town.  As we entered the parking lot, we took note that it was a full house, and I smiled, sadly-remembering 15 years ago-when we buried my best friend, Barbie.  Today was about celebrating the life of Fran Compenhaver, who also happened to be Barbie’s sister.  I had never met her, but I am rather close to her family, in a myriad of ways.

Inspecting my latest tick bite, I shook my head, disgusted.   I cried out to God-what now?  I cannot continue on these antibiotics-they aren’t good for our kidneys and extended use can be extremely dangerous.  I had literally just finished the Doxycycline, and the fatigue, migraine and fever all screamed their bloody heads off-telling me that I had to do something different-after five years of going round and round with Lyme disease?  I knew I had to get truly serious and begin some research.

As I read, my mouth remained open to the point that saliva slid from the corner of my lips.  I couldn’t believe what I was reading:

From a Lyme disease specialist:  …so, antibiotics simply do not work in killing the spirochete that causes the disease itself.

“Craptastic,” I mutter, as my anxiety mounts to the point of near hysteria.

The article went on to say that even extended doses of doxy do not cure the disease: they kill the bacteria, yes, causing symptoms to recede, if not vanish completely.  Yet the spirochete remains, causing reoccurring and chronic Lyme.

ok, what the shit am I going to do?

I had made an appointment with a rheumatologist for October.  My physician may mean well, but he didn’t diagnose (let alone look  at my tender and swollen Lymph node) me.  I diagnosed myself six months later, when my husband and I burst into the practice the day after Christmas, 2013.  Luckily, I didn’t see my regular physician, this time a woman; a compassionate, understanding, well educated woman.

“I believe I have Lyme disease (I was drenching in sweat, wearing my tattered bathrobe-hadn’t even tried to comb my hair, and as the good doctor took note, was white as a ghost) please give me 30 days of Doxycycline and we’re done here.”  I ended up having to go for an ultrasound-the lymph node was now the size of a grapefruit; then a uterine biopsy, and then two years of normalcy, energy and strength.

Back to this morning.  My mouth was slack jaw because of the next few words:

In short, Stevia cures Lyme by killing the spirochete.  Here is the link to the article:

STEVIA?  Why, I had a Stevia plant in my garden.  I promptly ran out and picked the biggest leaf I could find, and swallowed the sweetness…and here’s where it gets good.  I had been feeling absolutely awful for a week.  As I sat in Dwain’s truck I did inventory.  I wasn’t stuffed up, my headache abated, lost energy returned and my mood improved dramatically…and the best part?  Seven days.  A leaf of Stevia for seven days.

This is how Jesus leads us, but we need to pray for ourselves as well.

Ask and you shall receive.

As we left the service, in which we reunited with dozens of friends we hadn’t seen since my recovery.  We were the partiers, the click, the druggies and the hippies.  We rocked Kleinfeltersville, shook it up a bit, got ourselves some reputations.  And here we were, together again-but this time complaining about aches and pains, sharing doctor’s numbers and hearing about other losses of which we had not a clue.

And as the crowd prepared to descend on the K-ville Hotel (our collective bar of choice) Dwain took my hand.  We walked in the other direction, somewhat stoic, older and wiser.

In loving memory

Barbie, you were with us today, and I know that with every fiber of my being~

Barbara Ann Shipper

Please don’t take one another for granted, not even for a second.

Only God knows for whom the bell tolls.



Spoon Man


Did you know that God has an amazing sense of humor?  Well, He does-and I share that with Him; however, the joke is almost always at my expense, and today?  Well today was no different.

It’s about one hundred degrees in the shade, and muggy as hell.  I detest this weather, however, the dog needs to be walked-and I am a glutton for punishment.  Been that way since I was a wee toddler, asking questions that had no answer, (Mary Lou did not take kindly to my constant questioning of everything) packing my Barbie suitcase in defiance-I would run to the Teany’s house-hey, they had one of those pianos that plays by itself, and their home was SO cozy-usually because my real mom was locked in the linen closet.

As a child, I was convinced that Marilyn Monroe was my real mother.  When mom got cranky?  I told myself that Marilyn would come and find me one day-and then she’d pay, oh yes, my mother would pay the price for causing me discomfort.  🙂

So, I’d run to the neighbor’s house, beg for cookies, unpack my suitcase (various crayons and doll heads, no body, just heads) and revel in my independence for the entire ten minutes it took for me to be retrieved-I cried every time Mrs. Teany called mom-I wouldn’t get my cookies, and needless to say?  Mom was not the happiest camper when finding herself interrupted by her freakishly brazen daughter.  I was four, for Pete’s sake.marilyn monroe

Back to our :  I drove down to the lake, thinking it would be cooler, and parked.  The fishing guy was there, of course, as he was every morning -grumbling about the lack of bites; ornery but sweet as they come.

I haven’t been down here in awhile.  Last time I saw a snake!!!”

And indeed I had.  The rat bastard hid under a bush, just waiting for some dumbass to come along-then he’s make his move.   That’s right-and I ran like a cartoon character, as fast as my legs would carry me.  I run from twigs that look like snakes as well, and, praise GOD, people don’t usually hear my screaming-a bit like a Tourette’s patient on crack- I have a really big mouth.


Okay…I always have to pee on our hikes.  I have no problem with modesty (who hasn’t seen a naked hiny?????) but try to plan my spot strategically, avoiding any embarrassment, for the poor fool who finds me squatting.  I came to the perfect tree that would bear my weight, and got down to business.  The only problem?

The fucking mosquitoes saw that gimongous bullseye and went for it-right in between my ass cheeks, they held a bar mitzvah and talked amongst themselves.  Only I didn’t notice until I had resumed hiking.  I tried, like hell, to itch my buttocks-but my shorts were too tight.  That didn’t stop me from repeatedly pinching the area, looking for relief from the painful itch.  I tried to move faster, but it was an entire process folks.

And then it hit me.  This is a job for….SPOON MAN.  Why those words?  I have not one clue, but I can tell you that the picture in my head of some dude dressed up as a spoon, running through the trails of Middlecreek, well, that cracked my ass up-literally.

The laughter took my mind off of the direness; the problem at hand.  I had mace in my front pocket and my phone in my back, leaving not one iota of space in my jean shorts to, well, relieve myself, if you will.

By the time we returned?  The itching had ceased.

But Spoon Man?  He tickles my funny bone, this imagined super hero.

And for that I am incredibly grateful.



Q Anon=JFK, Jr.


What if I were to tell you that John F. Kennedy, Jr. is alive?  And what would you think if I told you he had faked his own death in 1999?  That is correct, they pulled a mannequin out of the murky waters of Nantucket, and he trusted one man with his plan-that man would be:  Donald J. Trump.

Would you or would you not believe me?

When I came upon this news, yesterday, whilst sitting in my sweaty gym clothes-preparing to write-I was filled with a knowing, the discernment that comes from Jesus.  This video caught me dead in my tracks.  On a search for the truth, which will indeed set us free, I began researching the phenomena that is our POTUS.  In doing so, I learned of things no one should ever have to know.  It is a grueling, nerve wracking journey-and every single minute up until this revelation?  It’s been worth it.  You see, knowing the TRUTH enables you to pray for the right people, keep yourself safe-your head above water.  Since my CPTSD diagnoses, I have a wicked fear inside of me.  I don’t want anyone or anything to sneak up on me.  Now that I have the gist of this, I can write, and please know that I wouldn’t be saying this if I hadn’t done hours and hours of research.

Why would JFK, Jr. fake his own death?  To avenge the death of his father and uncle.

Was his magazine George named after Washington, as most believe, or could it be named after the man who is responsible for his father’s death?

George Bush, Sr.

Watch the video, if you would like.  There are more like it out there, but hard to find.  What are your thoughts?

The air is sweeter, the stars shine brighter, my heart is at peace.

“Be on your guard; stand firm in the faith, be courageous and strong.” – QAnon