That moment. It happened. The one where I legitimately realize I am crazy.
I stood with hands perched firmly against my cold and unfeeling granite countertops, baffled. Jerky doesn’t just disappear.
Sure, my kitchen was one step beyond cluttered and only half a step shy of mayhem. Things could easily get lost in there. But not jerky. Not a colossal feed-your-family-for-three-months size bag of jerky from Costco. The bag was almost as big as I was. A crane would have had to lift it out of the house and buried it in a piano box had it died. Er. You know. As bags of jerky go.
And… I had just barely had it in my hands. Not hours ago. Minutes ago.
I hadn’t left the kitchen. I hadn’t run for a quick trip to the loo. I hadn’t run out to check the mail, or to scrub my butt, or to check the Facebook. I never left the kitchen.
And it was gone.
Gone. Gone. Gone.
Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone.
That’s one “gone” for every all-inclusive, maniacal, ever-intensifying sweep through the kitchen I made trying to find the damn thing.
I opened drawers. I pulled things out of the pantry. I checked the back of the fridge and down in the produce drawers where I seem to only find things long after they need to be thrown away. I turned that place upside-friggin-down. Again. And again. And again.
Now, I’m not one to deny that sometimes I’ll run off and do something without realizing I’m doing it. So, to be safe (even though I knew I hadn’t left that kitchen), I checked the bathroom. And the car. And the bedroom. And the living room. And anywhere else my mind might have made me wander acerebrally. It wasn’t there, either. And why would it be. I’m telling you; I never left the kitchen.
Yet the jerky was gone.
And I know the jerky existed. As I stood with my hands perched against that countertop, I could feel the stringy bits of meat still lingering between my teeth. I could taste the residual teriyaki. It was only moments before when I had been animalistically gnawing on a piece of meat as if it were the key to my survival.
I glanced around the kitchen. I could hear my mom’s voice as I did so. “If it was a snake, it would have bit you.” I willed the jerky to be somewhere so obvious. I scanned all the most obvious places one more time. Still no jerky.
I was legitimately crazy.
And I finally gave up.
I walked over to the coffee machine and brewed me up a cup of Joe. I pulled the used and abused K-Cup out of the machine, walked to the trash, stepped on the trash-open-pedal (hey, do you have a better name for that?), and there it was. In the garbage. My giant, humongous, 622 lb. bag of jerky. Almost new. Almost full.
Sitting in the garbage.
Check out this straight-jacket I found on Amazon. I just ordered one to use on myself.
Dan Pearce, Single Dad Laughing
And PS. I realize that the angle of the photograph above makes my “Frogskins” shirt makes it look more like… oh… I don’t know.
Ahem. Deal with it.