Walking back from Daddy’s after a late lunch, I was attacked by a stick.

Now I didn’t KNOW it was a stick when it happened, so I was SURE it was some wild animal, vicious and relentless in its stealth as my demise was planned and plotted.

I was walking along, carrying the extra fried chicken wrapped in tin foil (oh! You thought I MADE the fried chicken? Bwahahahaha), my tea glass firmly held in the crook of my arm, and Tater’s Capri Sun dangling from 2 fingers.

I looked back to make sure Tater was behind me and as I took that next step, mere feet from the safety of my own front porch, I stepped in the trap of the little known, rarely seen but often rumored to-be-deadly, “Stickintheground”.

The moment I stepped in its nest, it reared its ugly arm and slapped my ankle to let me know I had angered the beast.

Naturally, I screamed and dropped the Capri Sun (but not the Fried Chicken because that would have been a sin), threw my arm up, jumped about 3 feet (ok, I skipped a little but it SHOULD have been about 3 feet) and started swatting at my legs, while looking for the wild beast that attacked me.

Mac was already at the porch and turned around to see why I had screamed. (However, he didn’t come rushing …. Hmmmm…). I told him about the wild animal, sure he would come running to save me from a certain horrible death.

He looked at the ground, looked at me, looked at the ground…..looked back at me.

“Honey, it’s just a stick. You stepped on a stick” as bubbles of laughter began to cascade from him, even as he was trying NOT to laugh. Tater had caught up to me by then and even SHE was laughing.

So I did what any normal, self-respecting, slightly stressed, maybe strange, and perhaps tired, woman would do.

I went over to that stick, stomped on it about 20 times, then picked it up and broke it into a bazillion tiny pieces and ever-so-calmly walked over to the fire pit where I let it fall from my hands like a baptism of fear mixed with victory.

My slightly shocked family watched me pick up the foil wrapped fried chicken (of course I laid it down…taking no chance of ruining that chicken), walk into the house and carry on because killing a wild animal in the middle of a Sunday afternoon is just how I roll.

And THAT’S why I’m having a nice glass of wine at 3:42 pm on Father’s Day…..

*** First Posted on Facebook  on 6/19/16 at Lipstick, Margaritas, and Hairspray ***