I'm Such A Hipster

I’m a bit surprised at the speed of the healing process at my advanced age, especially since the area of my body undergoing said healing is one of my hips, a notoriously vulnerable area for us centenarians. I bashed myself up a bit on Thanksgiving, having opted to ride my bicycle around to a couple of parties, rather than drive, knowing that I would be most likely end up being coerced into drinking a beer.

The roads, as it happened, were icier than a woman’s stare at the pub upon being approached by me, and once that front wheel decides to go out from under you (notice the externalization of fault … I love me some anthropomorphization when laying blame), there’s just not enough time to come up with and vocalize an appropriate cry of despair, much less unclip from your pedals. So onto my hip it was. Several times.

I was called out on the folly of my decision at the first stop:

Party Host: Dead Acorn! Glad you could ma … umm, wow, did you ride your bike?

Dead Acorn: Yeah … I’m freezing, and I’ve already fallen once, but I didn’t want to risk driving on these roads with all the kids out.

PH: ummm … kids?

DA: Yeah, the trick-or-treaters. Usually I like to stay home for a while to check out some of the cool costumes, but I just left a plate of sliced beets on my doorstep and a sign reading “Please Only Take One.”

PH: Is … is that why you’re dressed up as Snow White?

DA: Nice, huh? When are you going to get dressed?

PH: I think you're a little confused ... Halloween was a month ago. Everyone will be inside tonight spending time with friends and family.

DA: So, what you're saying is, I could totally drink to excess and drive around and be perfectly fine?

PH: (yelling into the kitchen) Honey, we have to move and find new friends!

Anyway, after a couple of more falls during the course of the evening, I could barely move on Friday morning, even after I was able to wriggle out of the ropes (I’m still trying to reconstruct the evening as to how that happened). I spent the day limping around, mostly just whimpering, but occasionally sobbing openly – the dogs* were confused, but wholly unsympathetic. Saturday, though, I felt surprisingly spry, and by Sunday, I had returned to my baseline level of non-specific physical achiness and my mental mixture of despondence and apathy.

Baby, I’m back!

* Indy's got her boyfriend over for a few days. Two hundred pounds of dog pushing me off the bed at night. Boneheads.

I KNEW It!

I’ve long suspected that the North American Booze Hound with whom I share a home knows where I keep the key to the fridge and helps herself to the frosty cold beverages while I’m slaving away to keep her fed, but I’ve never been able to prove it, since a few more empties strewn about the house when I get home aren’t really noticeable (imagine trying to discern a few extra grains of sand on a vast beach).

Thanks to the recent necessity of her having to wear The Cone Of Shame, however, I believe I have the evidence I need:

Above: She is SO busted!

I guess I’ll have to start keeping the beer up in the attic or something, though I imagine that whatever plan I come up with (Operation Dry Dog), she’ll figure it out in short order, necessitating a perhaps-daily alteration in hiding spots. She’s a sharp one, she is, and I fear it will take cleverness far beyond me to stay a step ahead of her. My only hope is that my love for lager will unleash some heretofore unknown creativity within me.

Let the battle of wits be joined.

Cone Of Shame information: I think she may have been bitten on the eye by a spider. It heals up pretty well over a day or two, then I get home in the afternoon to find that she’s gotten it off and re-aggravated it, starting the whole process over again. Plus, she walks around behind me poking me in the back of the legs with it … this is getting old.

Above: I’m thinking about just riveting a steel eye-patch into her skull, like that guy in Water World.

There's Always Tomorrow ...

I am, by any measure, one of the great procrastinators of our age. (I have, in fact, been putting off writing this post for several years.) Being something of a behaviorist, it’s clear to me that procrastination is a rewarding approach to most tasks; otherwise, I would stop doing it. (See? It’s not that I’m lazy, it’s just sciencey stuff about positive reinforcement!) The very fact that I was allowed to go to college, much less graduate, is a testament to the power of the hastily written research paper:

EMDAMOTLA*: Shouldn’t you be working on your dissertation?

Dead Acorn: I’m formulating.

EMDAMOTLA: You’re watching the Bears game, drinking beer in your underwear at noon.

Dead Acorn: I’m a multi-tasker.

EMDAMOTLA: I want an annulment.

I guess my completing college could also be viewed as a damning indictment of our educational system in general, though. The jury’s still out, as they say.

That’s certainly not to say that procrastination always results in mimosas and strawberries, of course. For example, I’ve been putting off raking the leaves, rationalizing this by noting that there are still a few left on the trees, and by god, I ain’t rakin’ that consarn lawn twice! In a related procrastinatory process, I’ve neglected to call and have my sprinklers blown out for the winter. Unfortunately, I’m informed by the Weather Bunny that it’s going to snow this weekend, with temperatures in the 255-260 range (in Kelvin ... 0 to 10 F, -17 to -12 C), so now I’m pretty much guaranteed busted pipes and rotten leaves come the spring. Worse yet, any snowpersons that I construct this year are going to be covered in maple leaves, which will serve as a constant reminder of this country’s blindness to the advantages of the universal health care system enjoyed by our neighbors to the north.

[UPDATE:] I’ve found a lawn-care person who can do the job this afternoon! Woo, I say! Woo, indeed! So let’s see: Stimulating the local economy? Check. Creating an excuse to leave early on a Friday to meet him at my house? Check. Metaphorical mimosas and strawberries once again?

Check and mate.

* Ex-Mrs-Dead-Acorn-Mother-Of-The-Live-Acorn

I Suppose That Unicorns Aren't Real, Either ...

Do you remember finding out that Santa Claus isn’t real?

(Ok, I should have had a “spoiler alert” at the top of this. To my 5-year-old-and-under readers (and Walter, down at the pub) – I’m sorry. Try to think of Santa not so much as a real person, but, you know, as that holiday spirit that makes people a little cheerier around Christmas, ok?)

Anyway, while things like Santa and the Kwanzaa Kangaroo seem to be important for kids, we eventually grow out of the need for them, and into a more reality-based world. That’s how it’s supposed to work, at least.

I never thought that at my advanced age I would once again have to go through the agony of being told that something wonderful, something that made life really worth living, was simply a lie, but I had this conversation last night:

Dead Acorn: What a great day! The Silo Fairy visited me again last night!

Girl With Whom I Was Conversing: (after a spit-take with the beer she had just chugged) I’m sorry, what?

DA: The Silo Fairy!

GWWIWC: What the fuck are you talking about?

DA: You know … the Silo Fairy! Every once in a while, she visits at night, and leaves a 24 oz. can of Bud Light in the water bottle cage of my bicycle!

GWWIWC: (silence)

DA: Doesn’t she ever visit you?

GWWIWC: Dead Acorn, I need to tell you something. There … there is no Silo Fairy. That’s you leaving here all hammered and buying a can at the Stinker Station and forgetting about it on the ride home.

DA: Wh ... what?

GWWIWC: Yeah.

DA: (putting my hands over my ears) SHUT UP! SHUT UP! THAT’S NOT TRUE!

GWWIWC: Look, Dead Acorn, I know this is hard. But take a look in your wallet.

DA: (fighting back tears) Wh .. why? Why are you doing this?

GWWIWC: Just do it, Dead Acorn. You have to.

I pulled it out and opened it up. Nothing caught my eye at first – there was the customary lack of paper money and the ever-growing stack of business cards from people I don’t recall meeting. Then I saw it … a crumpled up slip of paper wedged way down in the corner. I caught my breath, and slowly drew it out. Deep down, I knew what it was, but I couldn’t make myself uncrumple it, so afraid was I of the horrifying truth I was facing.

My friend reached over and took it from my shaking hands, then flattened it and placed it in front of me. My eyes were filled with tears, but I could still make out the words ... those terrible, terrible words:

Hyde Park Stinker #2754
Date: 11/14/2010 01:37 AM

24 oz. BudLt .......$1.49
Tax ................$0.09
Total ..............$1.58

I think my sobbing caused a bit of a scene, because she led me out to the parking lot so that I could compose myself. “Hold me …” I begged. “There, there,” she said, and while I knew my life had been irrevocably changed, her embrace provided much needed solace, and I knew that somehow, I would be able to go on.

We eventually went back inside and finished our beers. I guess I’m okay with knowing the truth, and in all honesty, I’m sort of pleased that hammered Dead Acorn has the foresight to make such strategic late-night purchases.

There’s no way in hell, though, that I’m going to tell my friend about the Bacon Bunny.

Sh*t Don't Even RHYME!

[UPDATE:] I've been told by an actual poet that it needed a title ...

a short poem of longing

i see your face when the moon rises high in the night sky
i feel your embrace when the warmth of the sun washes over me
i hear your voice whispering in my ear when the birds sing as daylight breaks
i see your eyes sparkle as the stars shimmer in the heavens
i feel your fingers on my back when the autumn winds bring a chill

i sense you at my side when I am alone

oh, that I knew who you were ...

But I did use all lowercase, at least.

This Is The Last Straw

Every once in a while, I take a short trip at lunchtime down to the local grocery store and pick up a meal from their delicatessen (while stocking up on Progresso Low Sodium soups for the days on which I don’t take a short trip at lunchtime down to the local grocery store). The fare isn’t bad – I usually go with some type of chicken and cole slaw, which has no relevance to this post whatsoever. What is of relevance is that a drink is included in the price (about 3.59 euro).

The beverage dispenser is around the corner, and next to the soft-drink machine itself is a large rack with the plastic lids, forks (here in Idaho, we drink our pop with forks), straws, and sundry items to assist in transporting and consuming the food. Without fail, I slide the straw behind my ear to carry it, much as one might slide a pencil at work, or a cigarette (if one was a hoodlum in 1950s America).

Also without fail, at the moment just prior to the actual slidage, I find myself gripped with fear that the razoresque seam of the paper wrapper is going to slice my ear open, unleashing a crimson torrent of blood, drenching my clothes and slowly spreading across the tile floor, horrifying the other customers, who will want to turn away but who will find themselves unable to do so, so shocked will they be by the hideous sight of the dark red ooze continuing to pulse from my ear, while I stand there in utter disbelief, like Carrie on prom night.

And yet, rather than place the straw in the bag with the food, the fork, and the sweet’n’sour sauce, I slide that straw back, each time wondering if it’s going to be the last; some dark part of me relishing the adrenalin rush and feeling dangerous and somehow more alive, even feeling pity for those around me who never experience such thrills – those poor souls who go through lunch and life with their straws safely tucked away, far from any vein or artery, never knowing the sheer exhilaration of taunting death with such abandon.

[UPDATE:] I really should probably quit drinking at work.

I Was Blind, But Now, I See

As my Jewish friends say, oy vey (which, according to yiddish-to-english.com, translates roughly as "jesusfuckingchrist"). This has been quite a way to kick off the weekend.

It being a normal Friday, I was sitting around this morning, and, having pored over all of the new content on the googlewebz, was searching for new methods of procrastination. “Hey!” I said to myself (okay, not totally to myself, but not loud enough to be heard over the music). “I’ll clean my whiteboard! I can avoid actual work, while looking productive to any bosses walking by! And maybe even catch a good buzz off of the fumes!”

I pondered a moment over how little progress we’ve really made as a society, still clinging to our differentiation between “whiteboards” and “blackboards,” but I have hope that by the time the Live Acorn’s children are grown up and procrastinating the day away in their own dead-end gubmint jobs, the boards will all be rainbow-colored and they’ll ride to work on unicorns.

Soon enough, though, I got to the task before me, and with my dry-eraser in one hand and the spray bottle of board cleaner in another (the third was holding my drink), I set about the cleaning proper.

This may or may not surprise you, but I don’t put a whole lot of effort into keeping a tidy office. I like to think that the reams of paper strewn about the floor gives the impression of busy-ness and deters people from wandering in. This being the case, the bottle of board cleaner had not been used in … well, quite some time. Apparently, it was long enough ago that the spray plunger thingy had seized up, so that when I pressed down firmly, rather than emitting a fine mist onto the whiteboard, the top of the sprayer broke off and was forced down into the bottle itself, displacing the cleaning fluid quite violently, which resulted in my face and head being drenched.

Luckily, a coworker was nearby.

Dead Acorn: AAAAAAGGGGGHHHHH!!!!

Coworker: Sup, dude?

Dead Acorn: AAAAAGGGHHH!!! MY EYES!!! MY EYES!!!!

Coworker (clueing in to the situation, and picking up the
broken bottle): Hmm. Let’s see … directions … ingredients … oh, here we go: Mild Eye Irritant. In case of contact with eyes, flush for 15 minutes.

Dead Acorn: AAAAGGGHHH IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS!!!!!!!

Coworker: I don’t know what flushing for 15 minutes will do, but okay. (walking toward bathroom)

Dead Acorn: I think it means flush my eyes, Jim. My eyes.

Coworker: We have to stick your head in a toilet for 15 minutes? Dude …

Dead Acorn (sighing): Just lead me to the sink, please. I’ll take care of it.

So I’ve spent the last little while with my head under the faucet, trying to wash out the hydrochloric acid that I assume they put in that stuff. I’m also wearing my hat at my desk, as that is my primary method of hair management. I’m fairly certain that no one would blame me if I went down to The Flying Pie for a slice and a beer for lunch.

I wonder if they have discounts for the blind.

Another Butchered Post

In this life, you have to be ready to take advantage of opportunities that present themselves. You know, that business about it only knocking once, and all that. You can hope and fantasize all you want about finding yourself in the perfect situation where something you immensely desire presents itself, where you have a chance to really do something you’ve dreamt of forever, but if you aren’t ready to pull the trigger when that moment is upon you, then just what, really, are you even living for?

Luckily, I was prepared when I found myself over the weekend in a situation for which I’ve been waiting over 6 years. It concerns the hell-hound. I’ve never told anyone this, out of fear of being ratted out by one of my so-called “friends” to her, but I’ve been carrying a meat cleaver around for a long time, harboring hope that she would eventually let her guard down for just a split second and give me just the slightest chance to end her reign of terror.

That time came on Sunday, as we sat in our my living room; she on the couch growling menacingly (as always), and I on the chair next to her, fearing for my life (as always). I’m not exactly sure what distracted her – perhaps a squirrel she caught a glimpse of in the yard, maybe an unfamiliar demonic voice inside her head – but I saw her furrow her brow in what seemed like a bit of confusion, and for the briefest of moments, she took her eyes off of me.

I didn’t even think. Had I hesitated even in the slightest, I’m sure the outcome of the next few seconds would have been far different. I reached behind me and grabbed the handle of the knife ever-so-smoothly, ninja-like, as I’d practiced in my mind countless times, and brought it down upon her neck as swiftly as a guillotine’s blade, ending at long last her cruel, brutal dominance over my entire existence:

Above: The lack of blood only reinforced my belief that she was not of this earth, but a beast from the bowels of hell.

The sad look in her eyes in the picture, at her end, gives me faith that, as she took her last breaths, she regained some part of whatever soul she once had, and somehow felt gratitude for being freed from satan’s shackles. It was as if, while shuffling off her mortal coil, she became once again just a simple puppy, longing only to chase rabbits, romp with the other dogs, and maybe get a little belly-scratching once in a while.

Shoulda thought of that earlier.

Note to my younger readers: That’s not a real knife; she just likes to dress up on Halloween. So dry your eyes, little ones, for the demon dog remains alive and well, my antagonist for many more years, I’m quite sure.