This is 100% true, in the “I shit you not” sort of way.
Where the “Spooked” posts are biographical blather about me and junk that happened to me in my past life to create whatever this is that passes for my personality now. “Ooh, Scary” posts are an attempt to reconcile my inner Amazing Randi and spook-believing Cowardly Lion in a functional and non-psychotic whole [good luck with that!]. These are all current and timely weirdo things that happen to me, and I will obsess about them here with uncomfortable regularity.
Because here’s the truth of the world, writ large and typed slowly so just about anyone can read and comprehend: SHIT HAPPENS, BOYS & GIRLS. Sometimes you can understand it, and sometimes you cannot. Accept it, or not. Pick one from each column and move along.
I myself have been surrounded by a lot of things which I cannot wrap my little brain around. Some resolve themselves over time. Some don’t.
Saturday night is bugging me. Here’s why:
I was home alone [as opposed to the first Ooh, Scary where the animals were home alone, so who knows what happened with the slippers, really?].
Settling in for the night, Kirby [goofball mutt] decides he wants out, I decide I want a snack. I tie him out, so there’s only me and the cats loose in the house. They, being cats, are pooping in my shoes, or sleeping, or whatever cats do when they disappear–play poker, eat them mousies, whatever.
I rummage in the fridge looking for a snack and lo and behold find half a stick of pepperoni. Yay! I pour a glass of wine [Yellowtail Big Bold Red, stemless glass], grab a bag of pretzels [because pretzels + pepperoni = fat boy happiness], and start slicing up the pepperoni with a very sharp knife on a plate. I slice up the whole thing, leaving the stub end on the plate for Kirby [as you do].
The goofball mutt, meanwhile has peed and is barking, so I leave my snacks on the kitchen counter and go let him in. He was trained as a pup that he got a treat for peeing or pooping outside, so he still runs to the counter when he comes in. I gave him his nubbin of pepperoni, a puppy cookie, and I took my junk food and went into the living room to watch TV.
Said TV is being a pain in the dick–not the TV, the DirecTV, which seems to have lost connection to the interwebz, so I piss and moan but ultimately cancel my video on demand because I have wine, pretzels, and pepperoni so screw it. I watch something else, I don’t even remember what. [Dead router, thanks for asking. Still not finished sorting that out.]
I have enjoyed this particular snack since I was a kid [minus the red wine until I was at least 18 or 19], and I am very methodical about how I eat them. It’s one slice of pepperoni with one pretzel [Utz sesame pumpernickel pretzel sticks]. The dog gets sub-par slices, and he waits patiently for them. Apply wine as needed.
Munch munch, sip sip, etc. etc.
I run out of pepperoni, so I slug the last of the wine…and I’m all WTF? I thought there was some sort of sludge at the bottom of the glass, but no. It was three slices of pepperoni, INSIDE the glass, stuck to the bottom and swelling like ticks as they sucked up the best of screw-top wine.
Now, the sliced pepperoni was in my control the whole time, except for the couple of minutes it took to unhook the dog and get him inside. Not long.
Never let it be said that I lost control of my pepperoni. Never. Not once, dammit.
Nobody loose in the house but three cats [who are not known for pranks other than trying to kill their owners by making them fall down the stairs], incarcerated spiders and a hedgehog, plus fish. Nor is Kirby a prankster. If he got hold of the pepperoni, like me, he would have eaten it, not flip it into Johnny’s wine glass for a giggle.
Was I unnerved. Yes, I was. Did I freak out? No, not at all. Okay, maybe a little. Did I eat the wine soaked pepperoni? You bet my fat ass. [I can’t recommend it as a serving option.]
So, what happened? SHIT HAPPENED, that’s what happened.
I don’t know. I know I didn’t spike my wine with pepperoni. The hedgehog, spiders, and fish couldn’t–even if they joined forces, and don’t even think about giving them that idea. I know the cats didn’t, because cats. Kirby wouldn’t. He’d eat that shit and see if there was more. And because unexplained shit happens, you have to be open to explanations, but be able to live without them.
So, was it space aliens? Doubtful, but I won’t eliminate the possibility. Ghosts? Why not, plenty of assholes have died on me that would piss themselves to fuck with me for eternity, if such a thing is possible. But I don’t know, and I won’t until something worthy of being called proof happens. It could have been some freak pepperoni accident at the Yellowtail Winery, too, just as believably.
It’s these quirky little oddities, aligned with my own little peccadilloes of personality, that make me the big ol’ beardy weirdo that I am, so that’s cool.
Peace out. Also, boo!