Category Archives: humor

The Revenge of Tamar


Why is the story of a woman justly getting revenge on people who caused harm and pain to her almost completely ignored by Christians?

What? You didn’t know such a terrific tale existed in Holy Scripture? It does, as do many such tale of family dysfunction other comedies of error. This story is also one of my favorites, because it is one of female empowerment, and a woman using one of the few tools available to her to ensure her future, while getting those who hurt her to pay for it.

It’s of Tamar, the daughter in law of one Judah, Son of Jacob, grandson of Abraham, the founder of one of the most screwed up families in mythology, and apparently a religion or three.

Tamar was married Er, a marriage arranged by her father-in-law for his oldest son.

A brief aside. Er? I can imagine the conversation in naming this poor guy. Wife. “What shall we name him?” Judah, fidgeting,  “Errr…” Midwife, “Er it is. Congratulations.”

According the story, he of the misfortune name didn’t live long after the nuptials. So instead of letting the widow Tamar have the choice of going home and finding a new husband, or keeping a place of honor in the family, Judah immediately passed her off to the next youngest son. The next son, Onan, knowing that any child Tamar would birth, would be the heir of Er, thus forcing Onan down the food chain of the family tree. So as a good dutiful husband, he used Tamar to the point of coitus interuptus, also known as birth control. This kept Tamar from the rights of mother to an heir, and Onan as the next in line after daddy died.  The scheme failed, as Onan died as well.  The Bible mentions that both men died, because God killed them. Er for some unnamed evil, Onan, for practicing birth control.

Judah, then sent Tamar home to her parents with the promise of her getting to try to be a brood mare again, once son number three was old enough to make the attempt to impregnate her. In reality, he was terrified that sleeping with Tamar was a death wish he didn’t want to fall on his youngest son.

Time passes, the youngest son grows up, and Judah has forgotten about his daughter in law. She hasn’t though. Tamar has been stuck in a contract she didn’t make to await a husband she didn’t want or ask for, unable to remarry, or live independently. So when Judah comes to the town where she is at, she disguises herself as a prostitute, seduces Judah, and makes sure he does the job right. As payment, she demands some personal items of Judah, in lieu of the goat he promised as collateral. Once the deed is done, she disappears. Judah’s people can’t find the “prostitute” to pay her and get his things back, and Judah really doesn’t want word out that he was tricked out of his valuable items.

A few months later, word gets out that Tamar was pregnant. Because she was still trapped in that contract, Judah called for her death…until she revealed that it was him who had done the deed. So Judah had to use his youngest sons as the wheirs to his oldest,  and Tamar got the place of honor she was supposed to have received all along. She never had to have sex with another member of that family ever again.

The moral lessons of this wonderful myth are many. 1. Dont treat women like brood mares or objects for your penis to play with. 2. Respect woman, or else it may come back to haunt you in the nads. and 3. Women are resourceful, creative and capable human beings. it’s ignored because 1. It really paints the men in the family in a really poor light. 2. A woman is the hero of the story, and the only with any hint of integrity. 3. She uses her sexuality to get her way, and to win the day.

So why is this story essentially ignored? I think it is possibly because the of thought of women using sex to get ahead in life and be the figure of moral fiber in doing so. To destroy that myth means risking destroying much of the dogma, dishonest dogma built up about our gender. Maybe it long past doing a bit of myth busting.

 

Middle Aged Aphrodite


Ive got back fat
And jiggly thighs
Disproportionate boobs
Tiny lines rim my eyes

My butt acts as balance
To my rounded tummy
My chin grew a back up
My joints now sound crunchy

What’s that on my hands?
Oh my lord, those are spots!
Hormones keep misfiring.
Now I’m sweaty and hot.

My body is a temple
Homage to aphroditic me
It displays the historic
With pure honesty.
Beauty evolving
With the passage of time,
Youth Crumbles slowly
Etching the life that is mine.

Wake-Up Call


sleepy-kittyShe sits with infinite patience

Knowing that timing makes all the difference.

Slowly she blinks with the passage of the hour.

Settled  in to wait, she dozes.

soothed by the rhythmic rise and fall of breathing.

Now, the moment has come.

She stands, and stretches

then begins to lick his nostrils.

His eyes snap open

followed by the alarm clock’s clamor.

She goes to await her breakfast

Knowing he will follow.

Wait…What?


My eyes fly through words.

Speed reading dyslexia

Makes reading more fun.

Tootsies


2016-06-05 20.04.12Who would have thought that the simple task of painting one’s own toenails would give a stark reminder that not only you not as young as you once were, but what little flexibility, dexterity and visual acuity you had been lost along with your restraint when using profanity. I just discovered that, by not only trying to put polish only on my toe nails, but going for broke and trying to paint a simple tricolor design on them.

What was I thinking?

My first problem is that my toes are now too damned far away. I can get closer to my left foot than my right, thanks to spinal damage. If I try to paint by sitting and bending over, then my slowly….oh so slowly shrinking  food baby and its matching middle-aged grandma double chin, gets in the way. I still  can get a foot up onto the bathroom counter. It’s not pretty and my hips bitch and moan the whole time, but I avoid curved obstructions easier that way. Then I have to tackle issue #2.

I’ve never been all that coordinated. In fact I readily admit that I do lack a coordination gene. I can stumble over thought, and fall down over the ghost of pebbles turned to sand.  I drop everything, pens, glasses, my phone, my food.  If its in my hand, an item’s remaining there for the time allotted is in peril. I also have learned that my artistic skills are best left to crude stick figures, and coloring books. The act of painting polish neatly onto a nail is beyond my skill set. And I was professionally trained! Or at least they tried. I can make either a single color that I wait to dry, then pick off all the overage, or a beautiful mess, with more than one color. Which is caused in part by #3.

I have had horrible myopia since third grade. I can now wear contacts to mostly correct my distance vision, but then a couple of years ago, my close vision decided to take a trip just a bit further than the length of my arm. Ironically, I can see perfectly, if my contacts are out, and any object is no more than five inches from my face. Readers, I now own 4, help with closer activities, like  reading, computer work, texting, Facebook. But there is this no clear vision zone. That is the closest I can get my feet to paint my toes. That means I am painting tiny little dots of nail, in a blur.

If I wasn’t so darned independent and very ticklish I’d get  daughter to paint my toes for me, or rope my darling spouse into it. But not today. Today, I;m just waiting for my brightly colored mess to dry.

 

 

Woodpecker


 

Pileated_Woodpecker_m57-4-021_l_1A woodpecker jackhammers for her breakfast

I microwave mine.

I listen to her impassioned rhythm

While I stumble towards the bath.

She begins her day with a song.

Mine? Ten more minutes. please.

Flitting from tree to tree, she hunts for food.

While coffee brews in leisure.

Woodpeckers don’t seem to have bad days.

Unlike most of us.

Mistaking the neighbor’s gutter for wood doesn’t seem to bother her

I wouldn’t take it near as well.

Simple is the life of Lady Woodpecker,

The original headbanger

Rat-a-tat-tats of a small bird, remind me

To take to heart

The simple task of enthusiasm.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Curse you Bathroom Scale


scaleOk, here is a disclaimer.

I have hypothyroidism, and several joints that don’t work near as well as they used to. Allergies, and mild asthma round out the list of fun things that keep me off the exercise bandwagon more. Add being over 50, possibly menopausal, and the task is just that much harder Losing weight has only been accomplished in the past ten years by losing a body part… a uterus and its resident squatters. Of course that was only temporary. This time around, I know its going to take a long time, and an acre of celery, but I’m determined to try to get a little healthier.

Since I started the project of “Make Less of Sylvie” I’ve noticed a weight reduction once in the past 7 week. That’s right one time. Granted it was a big drop a few weeks ago. Nine pounds over night. I never have figured out how that happened. Of course I didn’t complain, but instead felt I was on the right track, so I’ve done well on keeping under my calorie goals…most of the time.

Well this morning, I got on the scale, and those nine little fuckers had returned. I weighed myself three times too. I just know that little square of metalics and springs has been snickering all day long.

Sigh.