There was some minor excitement at my house on Tuesday afternoon.
Our sliding glass door has shattered into literally one bajillion pieces. I know that it is one bajillion because obviously I decide what that number denotes, given my name.
This wouldn’t be such a surprise, given that we have a large, rambunctious dog, teenage neighbors on one side who are practicing chip shots in golf, and kid neighbors on the other side who consider our fence the home run line for their baseball games.
Except the double pane glass shattered on the inside. At 1 pm while all the kids were at school. And the dog was upstairs dreaming about catching a frisbee and a squirrel simultaneously while having his belly rubbed and chewing on a striped fuzzy sock.
So. As we told the glass company, we have no idea how it happened.
Well, not no idea. Here’s what I’ve come up with:
- The ghost of a former lover of the first owner goes into a blind rage because we have not properly tended her begonias, distorting her view of the precious flowers in an homage to her disillusioned after-life. She is simultaneously present and other-worldly, thereby allowing enough corporeal form to destroy an object on our plane of reality but not enough to allow her to walk out the door and tend the damn flowers herself.
- Nicolas Cage ran past our house, and the door shattered in protest to the unrhymthic pounding of his feet.
- Miniaturized people of an elfish or fairy variety, similar to Borrowers or the Littles (who are different from Borrowers because they have tails, duh), were doing construction on what I can only assume is a beneath-floor-level city and/or major highway project. A miniaturized explosion intended to help redistribute the earth under our house to make for easy hauling and prevent rock slides actually ended up having a larger blast impact than expected and caused the proper vibration frequency to shatter the glass door several feet above the floor. They must now be reanalyzing the calculations on their explosives because a matter of several feet is quite extreme to a person who only stands about 7 inches high. My guess is they put too many mentos in the diet coke.
- My sister’s boyfriend is the new James Bond, and the sliding door contained his next mission, should he have chosen to accept it, then self-destructing upon his finishing reading it.
- Inanimate objects really do have feelings. The sliding door is feeling objectified (get it?) and depressed, its transparency preventing it from ever have a substantial relationship with the home owners, always being pushed around without any love. The shattering was an act of self-pity, an attention seeking ploy for us to notice it again. You’d think that with summer coming up that it would be expecting our appreciation for the sliding door to increase, but I’m not sure sliding doors have any concept of the future.
- Our house is infested with glass scaling mice. One unfortunate puncture to the glass and *crackle crackle crackle.* (That’s the sound of anti-shard glass breaking. It doesn’t really make a tinkle sound because the pieces aren’t sharp, so instead it’s rather like Rice Crispies.)
- OMG THE RICE CRISPY ELVES DID IT!
If anyone has any information regarding the whereabouts of the Rice Crispy elves, entrepreneurial miniature humans who may or may not have tails, a place to find begonias, or Nicolas Cage, please let me know.