Stan Had Other Plans, Man…………..

If you have never heard Satan called “Stan” before, welcome to my crazy, unapologetic but divinely wonderful church.  In a sermon that left me shaking my head, we were told to call the devil “Stan,” one letter removed, in hopes that we would no longer fear him.  I’m sorry, but that is the most ridiculous statement I have ever, ever heard.

Yesterday was a cluster F*** if there every was one.  I began my day by reading the latest letter from my attorney, who will be by my side on July 6, as I face the judge, whom, I’ve been told, “makes people cry.” With just that notion in mind, I read the missive which tells me that my therapist of five years did not send in my records.  I had a wonderful weekend, so amazing that the first thing I thought of as I lay my head upon my pillow Sunday evening is this: “God is being really good to me because he knows this week is gonna be one HELL of a ride….”  As I stood there, letter dropped from my shaking hands to the floor, I flew into a tantrum that epitomized Jack Nicholson in The Shining.  Having not heeded the lesson that Abba has been trying to teach me for thirty plus years……I reacted, and it was pretty ugly.  Even as I told myself to calm down, I wrote a review of her services that went something like this:

“I would avoid this whack job at all costs.  She has lied to my attorney, overbilled my health insurance and had me stalking her boyfriend on more than one occasion.”  All truth, but was that necessary?  I then proceeded to phone her, hysterical and screaming.  I told her I would come up to Hershey with the WGAL Channel 8 news team and protest in front of her practice.  I ended the voicemail with this:

“How could you do this to me?  They will subpoena you…..” Yada, yada, yada. I barely refrained from calling her a bitch.  I was that far gone.  I never saw the other piece of paper from the lawyer, stating that Pam had indeed sent my paperwork in, and to “please disregard the previous correspondence.”  Nope, I didn’t see that until our electrician left, for the second time in one week.  It appears I was correct when I told my husband, ten years ago, not to mess with electricity in a hundred year old farm house.  Apparently, we had been sending very expensive juice into the ground, ever since Dwain built his man cave……or, “professional garage”-  that was nine years ago.

Nearing psychopathic rage, (let’s blame it on CPTSD, oh, and menopause-that’s always a good excuse for going bat shit crazy) I screamed at Stan- at the top of my lungs, spitting saliva I cried “Satan-I rebuke you in the name of Jesus Christ.  You mother f***er, you piece of crap, I hope I get to watch you burn in Hell……Coward……Antichrist…..STAN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

I was at the kitchen sink when my pink, camo cup fell over.  “Seriously?  You want a piece of me?  Come on Satan, is that the best you can do?????????????”

What happened next could have been a chapter in the latest Dean Koonz novel.  I ran out of my house to water my flowers (my in laws, who live directly across the street, had already run for cover.  This is not the first time they have seen my Irish “temper,” but I was stone cold sober, even the cats-all thirteen of them-ran under bushes, the truck, whatever shelter they could find.)

As I finished my watering I thought to myself, “Oh for crying out loud, take a deep breath and calm down already.”  Laughing at my own expense,  I tried the front door.  Locked.  I quickly ran to the back door, locked.  How could this be?????  I had just come from the back door and there is no way it could have locked…WTF???????????  I ran back and forth, between front and back doors, becoming angrier and sweatier by the minute.  As I grabbed the wheelbarrow and pushed it directly up hill, (I had the strength of a super hero, my adrenaline pumping, my heartbeat racing) aiming for the kitchen window.  I had entered our home this way before, only last time it was after my sister in law’s bachelorette party, and I was covered in straw, looking up at my husband who was none too pleased.

I stepped on the wobbly wheelbarrow, and afraid this would end in a trip to the emergency room, I turned the rusty thing around for better footing.  This time was different.  Alcohol makes us brave, and indifferent to the pain.  I was wedged halfway in, halfway out-and my ass was taking a beating, I mean… hurt like Hell.  Finally, back in the house I turned on my computer.  I felt something crawling on my skin, and sure enough I looked down to find a tick……a deer tick.  I am on a three month waiting list for the Lyme specialist in our area, and just coming off of a thirty day round of antibiotics. I walk around in a cloud of OFF, in jeans and long underwear, to avoid those crawling minefields of doom.

The next time I ask Satan if he wants a piece of me, I’ll be wearing full body armor and carrying an oozy.

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