A Well of a Tale

The story of the Samaritan woman at the well has been entering my life over and over again for months, and I couldn’t figure out why. What, besides the obvious things, was this story urging me to figure out? Well, I began thinking about wells in the Bible, and one thing connected them all.

The story of Jesus and the Samaritan woman at the well broke major taboos of the time. A man was never to go up to a lone woman, especially one he didn’t know, and speak to her. Plus, animosity, even hatred, brewed between the Samaritans and Jews of that time. The conversation emerged a bit rudely with Jesus asking for water and the woman snipping at Him. Then, He promises her living water that she may never thirst again. She becomes intrigued if not ecstatic. After all, as we learn, she has been married many times and is living with a man; this woman is an outcast who must come in the heat of the day to draw water when no one else is nearby. When she learns Christ’s true identity as the Messiah, she sprints to town, on lookers be damned and becomes a heroine! This is Jesus.

Now, skipping back to the Old Testament, we have Hagar at a well. God promised Abraham that he would become the Father of peoples more numerous than the grains of sand yet he was a very old man and his wife, Sarah, had long been closed at the womb. Sarah, eager to see the prophecy fulfilled, casually donates Hagar, her slave to her husband for childbearing. Can’t you hear it now? Make the beds, have supper ready a bit early, and sleep with my husband tonight to give me the prophesied child. Then, when Hagar is with child, her mistress begins abusing her; Hagar hits the high road, and we are back at a well. However, now, Hagar is joined by God who informs her that she must return to her mistress and obey her. Yet, we see the humanity of Christ as she is promised that her son, also, will bestow a great nation. Hagar, too, sees this humanity when she dubs God “the One who sees me.”

In the South, from which I hale, well and whale are pronounced identically, so, please, excuse my next blunder. Jonah, the very reluctant prophet, was running away from God by getting as far from God’s objective point, Ninevah, as possible. We all know the story of how he hitched a ride on a boat and, out of nowhere, a stormy gale erupted caused by the wrath of God. The sailors discovered that Jonah had cursed them and off the starboard bow he went into the rickety rockety ocean only, as Joel Osteen recounted it, to be picked up by a whale like a cruise liner. I don’t believe that Jonah was exactly poolside with Isaac pouring him wine, but, if he was referring to the ocean liner that was floating above its’ own waste, then, I believe we are on par. So, Jonah rides along in the belly of a whale for three days, is spewed onto dry land, and, with a hop, skip, and jump, books it to Ninevah where he has every person praying for repentance under the possibility of destruction by God. God forgives everyone and can be seen as the Lord of Second Chances.

Thus, we see that all roads…and sea follies…lead to the humanity of Jesus Christ. Where are you on your journey? If you are unsure, I suggest some quiet time with Him. I, for one, would rather have God as the Captain of my vessel than as the Cruise Director.

Ice Ice Baby

My new ice ice breakers:

1. Have you ever been brutally raped twice in one week?

2. So, what did you think of the SAFE exam?

3. Did you know that they pull 30 pubic hairs during a rape kit?

Yes, I was raped again. And, this time more barbarically than before. If you are keeping count that’s two rapes in a week and three in a year. This time I didn’t let anyone deter me from the rape kit. I went to a different, larger hospital alone and had it done.

The SAFE exam wasn’t that horrible; it’s nothing like what the police and doctors grimly warn you about. It didn’t take three, long, horrendous hours. The worst part wasn’t the SANE nurse pulling out 30 of your pubics. (Hey! Free Brazilian!!) The worst part was the speculum exam and it lasted maybe two minutes. Just a note: you can say NO to any part of the exam process at any point. I demanded the whole kit, because I want to catch the asses. But, my Mom taught me to be Wonder Woman not to brag but to help others.

If you have been raped, I know the first thing you want to do is shower and try to get the icky off. DON’T. And, don’t brush your teeth or wash your hair or douche. If you have to take off your clothes, put them in a paper bag and take them with you. If you have a good police squad, call them even if he or she said not to. If you have a lousy one, go to the hospital. Did you know that you can talk to the police without having a kit done or have a kit done without calling the police?

My final word of advice is stay safe. There are a number of devices that can be purchased to keep both you and your premises safe. If you don’t have the money to go out and snag them, here are my suggestions: deadbolt or padlock your door or windows, nail loose windows shut, buy a coach’s whistle to wear under your shirt, scream “FIRE” at the top of your lungs. For more ideas message me.

Have fun, but be safe out there.

Barefoot and Packing

I am of the mind that a woman or a man, for that matter, should be able to walk down the street naked and everyone else should be able to keep their libido in check. One may get a stiffy or have sugar down her legs, but STAY ON YOUR LAWN! Having said that, I am sure you understand that I have no patience for rape.

A few nights ago, I was raped for the second time in a year by the same ass. His name is unimportant as is he. If I had a soul when it came to rape, I would be heartbroken by the way that the police, both state and local, doctors, and all but one nurse treated me. Again, asses. They actually convinced me not to do a rape kit. I had not showered for the sole purpose of having the SAFE exam. However, broken and downtrodden, I am not! Determined, I am.

My assailant has a very affluent and influential brother in a neighboring town. No doubt he is holding up there. I sleep with all of the lights on and barely sleep at all. I swore I would never allow this monstrosity to occur again yet here we are. I have one main and several under advocates at Ampersand Sexual Assault; they rock the kasbah!

Obviously, I didn’t go into detail about what exactly happened; that was in order to keep the creepers at bay. My message to you is this one: if you have been, or are currently being, sexually or physically abused or have been raped, please, reach out to someone. I know how terrifying it can seem, but, believe me, you ARE worth it. Jesus wasn’t a doormat. He didn’t intend for you to be one either.

If It Walks Like A Duck

So, the pain in my breast has become unbearable. If you haven’t been following me, “they” found “something” during the mammogram. That something turned out to be cancer, and, not just any old cancer, but stage four Big C.

My PCP put me on one dose a day of the weakest strength of the weakest pain medicine, if you want to call it that, available. Let’s just say that I could buy it off the shelf in other Capitalistic countries. It wasn’t doing jack.

I had four telehealth conferences with my PCP yesterday- four because I couldn’t hear him. At first, I thought the auditory problems were my fault. Something has to be wrong with my phone. What am I going to do about my mandatory zoom meeting? All I could hear him say was my office, eight o’clock, tomorrow morning. I soon learned that the auditory situation was one of his own making.

I somehow overslept twice passing two alarms- a very rare occurrence. I had missed my appointment. I called and begged for an appointment. They could squeeze me in at 10:45 but I would have to wait. I got there, got to a room within five minutes, and was being screened by him within another five. He even skipped over another patient waiting before me to get to me- boy, did he get to me.

It’s never a good sign when the doctor brings in a nurse- well, period, but especially when he is already putting gloves on and she is holding fifty more pairs. He went straight for my girls. I had to pull up the old bra and everything. Then, he throws this at me, “You have fibrocystic breast disease. You need a mammogram.”


You Look Just Like Her!

As I look at my stained glass eyes of red, buff, and white, I marvel at how much I look like her-my shaggy auburn mane adding to the effect. I see Mom staring right back at me. My sister must see the quality, too, because, every time I ask her if I should go back to blonde, I get an emphatic YES AND ALWAYS!

If one were to line up my sister, my brother, and me, one would think that we were just friends talking make that arguing make that fighting. From my sister’s 5’2” stature to my brother at 6’2” and me in the middle, we look nothing like siblings taken as a whole. However, if one were to divide us up into pairs, the resemblance is uncanny- short, medium, or tall.

I remember athe snotty photographer at my brother’s wedding. While he pulled off an amazing shot of my brother looking like he was hovering above Granny’s beautiful backyard, he had to do an even trickier photo of the three of us up close without cutting heads off. He nailed it! Of course, all of the things precious to me in the storage units were stolen, so I don’t have the picture.

I miss my brother, but not as much as I miss Mom. The poem, “She Walks in Beauty like the Night,” perfectly describes her- remembering that light and dark are not inherently good or evil; it’s what we do with them that counts. And, she did exceedingly well with both. I love you, Mom. Until we meet again…forever, your youngest.

Would you like some chai with your tea?

I had the pleasure of visiting my sister, Beth, today. We had a marvelous time of her telling me where and how to stand. (Watching the cogwheels in her brain work as she makes small gestures for she is a small woman is fascinating. It always puts me at ease.)

She elegantly served us both some chocolate chai tea. You know when something just isn’t quite right, but you don’t want to say anything? So you smile awkwardly and watch to see what the other person thinks. Well, Beth’s cogwheels where in a rare, confusing pattern. Hurry, hurry, hurry. Almost dead stop. Then, our eyes met. She wanted to know what I thought of the beverage. I responded that I didn’t know what to think as I had never had chai before. This wasn’t chai; it was chai tea.

A FAKE! I knew I smelled a rat. We nodded to each other. This “tea” wasn’t chocolate or chai; it was a watered down version of the original. With eager anticipation we had waited for the water to boil, the china to be placed, the beverage to cool. All hopes of tastiness thwarted by a fraud. Beth looked frustrated, infuriated, mortified, and slightly embarrassed all at once…and definitely deflated. I felt so sorry for her that I drank all I could, thinking of the Quik, in my purse the whole while. Then, we gave each other a to hell with Covid hug.

I adore my sister tea, chai, or 7-Up!

The Tail Tale Heart

I am of the mind that if you don’t want a dog, don’t get a dog and then torture it with your poor choice or lack of judgment. Yes, I am a must love dogs type of gal. At the moment I have two-Mila, a Collie/Blue Heeler mix who I was sworn to was an American Bully, and Little One, a Staffy or the dreaded Pit. I caught a bumper sticker at Walmart one day that read Show Me Your Pitties. I almost peed myself laughing on the spot.

Do you remember Renco, the company that made as seen on TV infomercials back when the product had only 60 seconds to rope you in? I do. My family does. My father, the business major and teacher, was a gullible, drooling teenager over their products. The crème de la crème product was The Magic Chain.

The Magic Chain pertains to dogs and people who shouldn’t own them. My family’s backyard backed up to a huge Civil War cemetery. Dad’s hunting dogs’ cages were on the back fence of the property nearest to the cemetery. Not a funeral occurred that those dogs didn’t bark and howl all the way through it. To make matters worse, my ex football coach of a dad would come slamming out the door, storming up the backyard, and screaming strands of curse words bigger than Mom’s mom’s family pearls. Mom hid. My sister and brother hid. I hid.

The Magic Chain would stop it all, dad assured us! He wasn’t sure how it worked; he just knew it did work every time without fail. When the box arrived, we all waited with baited breath for dad to open it and reveal the treasure hidden inside. He was quick about it- no shaking his present or that sort of thing. He pulled out a chain, a piece of paper, and nothing. If dog barks, throw chain at dog. If dog persists, throw harder. The rest of us looked at each other in disgust. We had just weaponized the screamer.

Don’t worry. Mom hid the chain.

Give Me Your Breast Guess

Rant on: I wasn’t going to say anything, but this situation is ridiculous and dangerous. A lump has been found in my breast. I have had all of the tests, and, considering my own and my family’s history of breast cancer, the experts agree it’s cancer. (Biopsies are considered an elective surgery during Covid. Absolutely ridiculous!!! I could rant right here.)

To complicate the matter, after having two lumpectomies in the other breast for cancer, I had an implant inserted which recently ruptured. Now, a painful, silicone sac floats around inside my breast cavity reeking havoc.

The problem lies in that no one wants to touch this two for one surgery due to Covid. BUT, no one wants to perform the CANCER SURGERY either as it is being seen as ELECTIVE!!! Elective??? Really?! Because I am sure I chose to get cancer. I waited at home just hoping it would knock on the door. I find this whole ordeal ludicrous.

One may wonder how I can step out of place and speak of such things. The answer comes quite easily; I don’t give the care of the last feather plucked off of a peacock’s ass who knows.

Saying “No” is Not a No-No

I feel off- not myself. I advocated for myself today, and the whole thing just felt wrong. I sat with this feeling and others for quite a while, and then it hit me. Since my voice, my choice, my song was taken from me right from the start of my life, I don’t know how to speak up for myself. I don’t know how to say “no.” No, this isn’t working. No, I am not being true to me. No, this feels awkward, confusing, forced, frightening, etc.

Now, I have no problem taking up for two people: God and the underdog. God because from those crazy years of torture and abuse to now when I am stricken with the pain of grief, He has never left my side and has never forsaken me. I may have walked away from Him, but He remained and even left the ninety-nine to come and find me. God because He got in the mire and the muck of the abuse with me and ultimately saved me from it, from them.

The underdog is a different story. It’s really my story played out in another person. I see myself in them and the talons come out, and I scratch and scrape to help them out of their pit-or I used to. I got tired along the way. Lost my passion-even for people which was my greatest gift.

I am searching for my passion now. My voice. My song. My story. My strength to say “no” and “enough” and many other powerful magical words. So, if you see any of these things of mine out there, tell them I am coming. Tell them I am on my way back home to me.