Paranormal presences and Jagermeister hand it to me.
I’ve been telling people lately that my apartment was built on an ancient Indian burial ground because stuff keeps breaking: My hard drive died a few weeks back. Then I broke my hand (don’t ask—and all you hockey players out there, don’t tell). My remote control is on the fritz. Water glasses are performing spectacular swan dives onto the tile floor left and right.
I came home from work the other day and my doorknob flat-out gave up the ghost: turn, turn, turn—nothing. I hauled myself in through the window only to discover that the damn thing wouldn’t work from the inside, either. And let me tell you, crawling in through the window is a cake walk compared to crawling out: profanities and appendages thrashing out of a one-foot-by-two-foot hole in the outside wall. The neighbors must’ve been baffled.
But where the angry spirits really got me was the fire water.
In Tampa Saturday afternoon, the Beerslingers had four hours to kill between our “Rink of Dreams” game and the Lightning game. So of course, I accompanied teammates Cheetah Club Boyfriend and Big Tom the Defenseman, newlywed ‘Slingers Mr. and Mrs. Harrible and Little J (honorary Beerslinger for the day) across the street from the St. Pete Times Forum to Newk’s for beer and burgers. Perfectly acceptable idea; we’re most of us responsible adults. I assumed.
Then CCB felt compelled (by the spirits, obviously) to buy everyone a round of Jagermeister shots.
And another.
Aaaaaand another.
(Now would be a good time to remind you that this was the same charming young man who once passed out while receiving a lap dance.)
(Now would also be a good time to remind you that I am an intelligent, upstanding young lady being horribly misguided by bad influences and angry spirits.)
Having successfully avoided Jager for my entire life up to that point, it’s now my belief that that particular beverage should be served with preprinted “I’m sorry” cards. Certainly our waitress deserved some sort of apology. Then again, she automatically added a 20 percent tip to our tabs—I can’t imagine why.
Ok, I’m not naming names, but somebody threw salt, somebody ate paper towels, and somebody squirted CCB with mustard.
And then somebody got lost coming back from the bathroom, somebody forgot how to form consonants, somebody tried to moon Mr. and Mrs. Harrible on the interstate on the ride home, and somebody spent the night in Samoset on Big J’s and Little J’s couch before catching a ride up to Brandon the next morning to pick up my car. Er, somebody’s car.
(Ok, it wasn’t me eating the paper towels, dammit.)
But a Champ burger and a couple of Aleve successfully staved off any sign of a hangover, and Sunday evening we got to relive the fun via some pretty hysterical video footage shot by Big Tom. So the spirits seem to be benevolent at their core, at least.

Then again, I have fewer brain cells (courtesy of the Jager lobotomy), a broken hand and a hole in my door where my doorknob used to be. Perh