A Stay-Cautionary Tale

I recently went on something called a “staycation.” As I was unfamiliar with the term, The Person With Whom I Was To Staycate (TPWWIWTS) described it to me:

TPWWIWTS: “Well, it’s like a vacation, only we’ll stay here in town. I’ve got us a room, and we’ll do fun things, like role-playing and stuff."

Dead Acorn: “Wow! That sounds like fun! I’ll bring my Legos® and my Spiderman® costume!”

TPWWIWTS: “Umm … well, I was thinking more along the lines of you going into the hotel bar about 15 minutes before me, and we’ll pretend to be strangers, and then leave together. And the fun things after will be more of an adult nature. There probably won’t be Legos® involved.”

DA: “Well, that sounds fun, too!”

We arrived and TPWWIWTS checked us in, while I laid low in the car so as not be seen by hotel staff, lest our ruse be regrettably rendered ruined. The room itself was what one would expect from a low-cost two-story convention motel near the airport. A microwave oven from the early eighties:

Above: How I miss the days before digital LED indicators.

It had oddly specific timing instructions for popcorn:

Above: Unfortunately, the rotary knobs don’t have half-second increments.

The fridge seemed newer, with a delightful can dispenser built in (TPWWIWTS couldn’t decide what to drink, and so brought some of everything - yes, that is an unlabeled bottle of moonshine).

Above: Thank sweet jeebus that I didn’t have to take the time to reach into the box to slake my thirst upon finishing a beverage!

As it turns out, the microwave did serve a purpose, as the table that held the television was about 8” in height:

Above: TPWWIWTS can be quite creative at times.

After settling in, we decided to initiate our plan proper. I walked over to the main building … and walked back three minutes later.

TPWWIWTS: “Umm … what’s up, Dead Acorn?”

DA: “The … the … the bar is CLOSED.”

*stunned silence for about thirty seconds*

TPWWIWTS: *fighting tears* “This isn’t funny.”

DA: “I am NOT joking. They didn’t really explain – just that it’s closed tonight. They said there’s an Applebee’s across the street.”

So we held each for a while, then began the sad trek across the street for some grievance cocktails, comforted by the fact that the hotel restaurant was still open and we’d be able to have room service upon our return. Applebee’s was everything that one would expect in an Applebee’s three blocks from the airport, and we had a grand time with Dava The Nice Bartender, and, after a couple of hours, decided to make our way back for a late dinner and perhaps a game of Parcheesi or something.

After making our dining choices, I called the operator to order:

DA: “Hi, this is The Dead Acorn in room 301, and we’d like to order some room service, please.”

Operator: “I’m sorry, the restaurant is closed."

*stunned silence for about thirty seconds*

DA: “But … but … the sign we saw earlier and the menu I’m holding both say it’s open until 10:00. It’s only 9:30.”

Operator: “Yes, but they’re closed.”

DA: “But the sign … the menu …”

Operator: “I know, but they closed early.”

DA: “But … but …”

Operator: “There’s an Applebee’s across the street.”

So off we sauntered again, having changed clothes so that Dava The Nice Bartender wouldn’t recognize us (she wasn’t fooled, even though we sat on the other side of the bar). Despite all of the setbacks and diversions from our original plan, we had a pretty dang good time, and I can highly recommend trying a staycation yourself from time to time.

Some other minor highlights from the experience:

We got to chat with a couple of bands who were on a North American tour, and said that they did "an inspirational mix of hip-hop and rock & roll":

Above: No. Never.

We were also introduced to perhaps the most disturbing corporate ... spokesthing, I guess ... ever:

Above: No more sleep 'til the end of days.

You can play with your Legos® in your Spiderman® costume any time.

Hello?

Is thing on?

Putting A Good Spin On Things

I’ve had a bit of a scary stretch at home over the last few days.  All was well in my world on Sunday afternoon, and I was spending it as I often do spring Sundays, relaxing after a day’s work around the house, doing the weekly laundry, and questioning the wisdom of a number of decisions made in my late teens.  And then …

Silence.

Well, not complete silence as in “I’m in a really weird science fiction book and time has stopped progressing and birds are suspended mid-flight and nary a sound exists,” but silence as in that pathetic dialogue sequence used in about every 3rd M*A*S*H episode:

(shelling sounds in background)

Hawkeye (after about a second without an explosion):  Listen!

Nurse:  I don’t hear anything …

Hawkeye: That’s just it! The shelling stopped!

The “shelling,” in my case, was emanating from the washing machine, and more specifically, the spin cycle, during which the metal sides flap violently back and forth, making far more noise than any wartime battle, the entire machine begins to meander about the laundry room like the players in the classic electric football game, and, when the imbalance in the drum is such that the vibration matches the resonate frequency of the house itself, floorboards begin to loose themselves from their binds to the subflooring, and indeed, the entire structure threatens to separate from its foundation.

As I’ve had this particular washing machine for nearly a score, and considering my steadfast insistence on laundering clothing at least a few times a year, I’ve become quite familiar with the various details of its processes, so when the spin cycle ended prematurely on Sunday, I spun abruptly and remarked to the dog “Alas, Indy, my concern is great, for though my knowledge of the details of this unexpected cessation is limited, I cannot foresee any outcome other than one overwhelmingly negative.”  She bit me in an empathetic show of understanding, and we set off to investigate.

After draining the vat of the water that remained (a three step process, involving 1) using a bowl to scoop out about five gallons, 2) realizing that lowering the drain hose to below the height of the vat would cause it to drain naturally, and 3) lowering the drain hose to below the height of the vat so that it drained naturally), it was a fairly straightforward matter to determine that the little sensor thingy that tells the little guy inside the machine that the lid is closed had broken off.  (“Straightforward” in this case means “that was the only possible cause remaining after checking everything else, even though a moment’s consideration would have pointed to that in the first place”.)

The point of all of this (and really, Dead Acorn, 450+ words of irrelevant nonsense to get to the point?) is that upon reassembly of the machine (after bypassing the switch and duct-taping the leads together, ‘cause DUH), I took a few extra minutes to actually make sure that the steel sides were properly attached to the frame – all “Tabs A” were in “Slots B”, missing screws were replaced, and while perhaps not in showroom condition, the ole beast seemed a bit more solid than before.

Well, I popped up some popcorn for the test load, pulled the chaise lounge into the laundry room, and, after setting the dials for warm water and a small load, started up a regular cycle and waited with nearly-unbearable anticipation as the wash and rinse cycles completed.

Oh please oh please oh please oh please …

And it happened!  The tub began to spin, slowly at first, then more rapidly, flinging water outwardly, forcing it from the fabrics, faster, faster, ever faster … and all in stunning silence.

No earth-shaking vibrations.  No deafening din.  Nothing but a quiet spin and the subtle slurping of water through the waste hose.  The steel panels comprising the sides, being firmly and properly attached, no longer bellowed like the sound effects crew creating thunder at a high school play.  The washer seemed content to stay in its place, performing its task with a heretofore unknown calm.

The posts on this blog do not often have morals (much like their author!  Ha! Thank you!  Thank you!), and when they do, more often than not, it’s something akin to “don’t drink Ouzo when you’re working with electricity.”  But it occurred to me later that I had lived with something quite unpleasant for quite some time, when all along, a few minutes of dedicated attention could have provided a solution and changed my life for the better.  Just the slightest bit of effort on my part could have had such a positive impact on how things could have been, and yet I showed sloth and indifference …

Ok, not really – my actual thoughts were more along the lines of “well, shit, I hope my significant other doesn’t figure out how easy and pleasant it is to rid your life of things that annoy you, ‘cause I’ll be gone afore I can swat a fly!”

Baby steps toward life lessons, I guess.

Six Months, Half A Year ... Whatevs ...

“What are they gonna do, take away your birthday?”

It’s really one of the classic phrases of juvenile provocation, a statement meant to make the target feel as though he or she is perhaps behaving like a “sissy” or a “wuss” with regard to hesitation in performing a hypothetical act that could result in some form of punishment.  Its effectiveness lies in the psychological grouping of all consequences with one that could not possibly occur, thereby reducing the internally estimated probability that any repercussions will result from whatever idiotic thing the little dumbass is scheming up.

Or something like that.

The point for the present discussion is that one cannot have one’s birthday taken away, but boy-howdy, wouldn’t THAT suck?

Well, yes, one can, and yes, it does.

I’ve been employed in my current position for just a cat’s whisker over 3 months, and it would be difficult to overstate how much I have enjoyed it thus far.  My coworkers are intelligent, of good humor, well-shod, and relatively unannoying in voicing their poor taste in athletic teams for whom they cheer.  I was elated last week when I opened my electronic mailbox and found the following message:

“There is chocolate cake in the break room in celebration of the April birthdays of Genevieve and The Dead Acorn – please help yourselves!”

I was, to be honest, a bit confused initially (my psyche is a place where elation and confusion often coexist), as my birthday is in October, but then it struck me - this must be a work environment the inhabitants of which so enjoy life that an annual acknowledgement is simply not enough, and that a semiannual party is warranted!  I know parents who celebrate “6 month birthdays” for their children, and I have friends who extend their parties into a birthweek, or even a birthmonth, and I thought “well, if this place bounces that way, then coolo-boolo!  I’m tolly down with that!”

As I suspect you already know, it was not the case.  I stopped in Guinevere’s office to offer best wishes and to comment on my enthusiasm for the practice:

Dead Acorn:  “Hey, Josephine – Happy Birthday!  Kinda cool that we do the 6-month celebration as well!”

 JeVassia:  “What the #$!@& are you talking about?”

 DA:  “That email from Hannah.  My birthday’s in October, so I just assumed that the office does something twice a year.  You know, morale, good times, all that stuff.”

 J’Anistia:  “Umm, no.  If it’s not your birthday, there’s an error in your file.  This isn’t Candyland, dumbass.  Jesus.”

 DA (skulking back to office before tears become visible):  “umm … oh … okay.  Sorry.”

So yes … sometimes, they ARE going to take away your birthday.  And it hurts.  I didn’t have any cake that day, and I’m not sure I’ll have any on my real birthday, either.  If I even still have one at that point.

Let's Just Set A Spell ...

The world of Sports & Leisure Viewership can be a wonderful place.  There’s just something special about throwing back a lager or two, watching your preferred player or team do battle against the day’s enemy, engaging in a little light banter with the supporters thereof, some verbal sparring, if you will, letting loose vocabularic venom, perhaps indulging in a bit of speculation as to the interspecies sexual exploits of their maternal lineage, even, on occasion, dabbling in a bit of physical joshery, a brief interlude into playful fisticuffs … it’s truly magical.

While I, to a large degree, am not prone to engage in overly emotional interactions in such settings, preferring instead to keep things at the level of anatomically improbable suggestions toward those rooting for teams opposed to those that curry my favor, and nothing more, I read an article yesterday concerning a rule change to one of the most beloved events our culture knows that simply made my blood boil.

Disirregardless of your particular favorite team or competitor, there is almost universal agreement in attitudes toward certain endgame processes in a number of events, including American Football, football, and ice hockey.  In each of these, if the teams remain tied for some specified duration after the end of the scheduled event, the winner is decided by a bizarrely construed tie-breaker only passingly similar to the original game.  Sudden Death, penalty shots/kicks … whatever the specifics, the issue is the same:  the outcome of the game is to be decided via a process decidedly different than the game itself.  (This is, of course, a matter of degrees, and American Football differs more in the criticality of scoring immediately, as opposed to football and hockey, which employ scenarios far removed from standard play.)

As I said wrote, attitudes toward such situations are almost universally  agreed to be bad; the exception, of course, being the Olympic penalty kick triumph of Brandi Chastain.

The rule change that has me so incensed is an odd twist on this; odd in that the conclusion of the competition will remain the same, but the rules for advancing to the final rounds are to be changed.

Whisky.  Tango.  Foxtrot.

I refer, of course, to the Scripps National Spelling Bee, and their decision to add an element of vocabulary to their annual event.  Yeah, you read that right.  Rounds up to and including the semi-finals will now include some sort of hare-brained attempt at determining whether or not the student knows what a word means, as if that’s important in the real world.  Those in charge and who made this decision bombilate with rhytiscopia and galeanthropy and leave me with extreme gamomania.  You want a vocabulary test?  Fine.  ESPN4 is always looking for things to air.  But don’t try to dilute the purity of the spelling competition, where a word’s meaning is a clue to overcoming the challenge, and not the challenge itself.  Personally, I suspect an anti-savant agenda being funded, no doubt, by the lily-livered context-dependent self-proclaimed “linguists” over at MeaningMatters.

I’ll be writing a sternly worded letter, of course, expressing my displeasure, and I invite you to join me.  Scripps has stepped out onto a slippery slope, and the inclusion of vocabulary will inevitably lead to disqualifications based on intonation and inflection, and then … I shudder to imagine.  Please help me right this wrong.

Do it for this guy:

"Can you give me the definition?" - with some effort, we can keep this hallowed question from going the way of the dodo.  I can’t spell it out any more clearly.

Not Completely Rad, Just Sort Of ... You Know ...

I recently read a commentary on the googly-tubez about chasing your dreams and passionately pursuing the things that you know in your heart of hearts you were put on this earth to do blah blah blah …

That’s all well and good for those who have dreams and aspirations and that sort of thing, but is somewhat irrelevant for those of us who are just fine being average middle-of-the-pack type of folk.  I guess I assume that had I been put on this earth for some great purpose, I would have discovered it by now.  That’s not to say that had I discovered such a purpose, I would have pursued it; on the contrary, in all likelihood, such a realization would have been responded to with a non-committal shrug and a gradual return to the Gilligan’s Island marathon I was halfheartedly attending to.  I am happy not being driven to excel (I’m fairly certain that I would not enjoy being driven to excel, as I would almost certainly fail at that goal, which, I would guess, would be somewhat unpleasant).  I think I long ago once won a bicycle road race, but it was the “B” category, and I seem to recall thinking “you know, this doing okay at a level that doesn’t require total devotion and, at the same time, doesn’t really put me in a circumstance wherein I truly risk discovering my limitations is something I could agree to.  I’m tolly down with mediocrity!”

Luke Wilson’s character in the movie “Idiocracy” voiced this attitude quite well:

Pvt. Joe Bowers: Why me? Every time Metsler says, "Lead, follow, or get out of the way," I get out of the way.

Sgt. Keller: Yeah, when he says that, you're not supposed to choose "get out of the way." It's supposed to embarrass you into leading - or at least following.

Pvt. Joe Bowers: That doesn't embarrass me.

Well, such was my thinking until very recently.

I think, though I can’t be sure, having never actually had one before, that I may, at long last, have a goal.  I’m not sure if I’m supposed to feel giddy or giggly or anything like that, but I’m not going to compare my “first goal” to the over-hyped goal fantasies of the sort you read about in trashy magazines while standing in the checkout line at the grocery store.  Who knows?  Maybe it is just a simple yearning … a slight urge … a trivial fancy that I’m temporarily taken with.  Whatevs … all I know is that I want to be …

The Radish King.

I’m not really sure what happened.  I was progressing normally along a project completion arc, this one being that of “grow a garden,” and had gotten to the step in which I place the seeds that I have bought into the ground (this is approximately year four of this particular project; last year I completed the “buy seeds” step, and this year I’ve incorporated “planting them”).  I had been told that radishes, in addition to being delicious, are fairly hardy and can withstand some frosty nights and are generally difficult to screw up.  (It did need to be explained to me that simply because the package said “plant ¼” for smaller radishes, and 1” for slightly larger radishes,” I couldn’t extrapolate to burying them a foot under and expect pumpkin-sized results.)

My original plan was to plant radishes, along with some peppers, cucumbers, lettuce, and maybe even some corn.  I got a little confused, however, at the corner Liquor’N’Seed, because they had several different types of radish, which threw me for something of a loop, to say the least.  “I just want the round red ones,” I said.  “Well, congratulations,” the seed girl said with dripping sarcasm.  “You’ve just narrowed it down to three hundred.”

They all had a good laugh at my ignorance, and it must have kind of hit a sore spot, because I did a little research on the googly-tubez that night along with my regular web-perusing activities.  I was overwhelmed, to say the least.  There are black radishes, white radishes, mild radishes, hot radishes, radishes that grow in winter, radishes that dress up like watermelons …

I will grow them all.  Peppers, corn, and squash?  I’ll leave those to lesser gardeners to cultivate.  I will focus with laser-like intensity on my beloved radishes, and vendors at the local Farmer’s Market will avert their eyes as I pass, rightfully ashamed at the embarrassing radishional offerings they tender.  Rebecca Loudon will file a lawsuit citing copyright infringement, but will drop it upon full realization of my Radish Kingosity.  Letti will battle over which is best suited to serve as a vehicle for the yield I shall reap!

Odd … psychotic delusions of grandeur with regard to the scope and importance of my projects don’t usually occur until around year six.

Hittin' The Sauce ... Hittin' It HARD ...

They’re working me.  Working me hard.

The WINCO, I mean.

I really like that place – just about everything about it.  I like that it’s employee owned, I like the no-frills atmosphere, the dual-customer checkout lines, that they don’t take credit cards in order to keep prices low, the sense of community and the relationships you form, however fleeting, as you wind your way through the aisles, encountering the same fellow shoppers time and again.

The prices, of course, are simply unchallenged in the valley, generally speaking.  And while this may sound somewhat nonsensical, sometimes … sometimes they’re too low.  I’m talking writing about things like $0.39 for a can of pickled artichoke hearts or $0.99 for the new Lays Festering Flesh^® flavored potato chips.  Stuff they know I detest, but that I just might buy if the price is right.

I know it’s just a little game to them, seeing what item that I absolutely loathe they can get me to buy, and I don’t begrudge them their fun.  Heck, I even have a little admiration for them, and I occasionally get a chuckle upon seeing the case of Bar-B-Q Diet African Hedgehog Tongue gathering dust in the pantry.

I’m a bit concerned about what they’re up to with the newest twist to their tomfoolery, however.  They seem to have grown tired of inducing me to buy small quantities of obscure and never-to-be-used products, and have pivoted to efforts of making me stock myself out of my own home.

I first noticed the sale display a few months ago.  “Tomato Sauce, 8 oz. cans, $0.18,” read the hand-written sign.  It was low-key and non-aggressive, but something about it caught my eye as I was rounding the condiment aisle.  “My god …” I muttered, as I slowed to a stop, staring in disbelief.  “Get your fat ass to one side or the other!” yelled an elderly shopper from behind me, jamming her cane into my ribs.

I knew that such a sale wouldn’t last long, and, in fact, I fell into a bit of a panic as I saw an employee walking toward me, carrying a sign.  Luckily, she didn’t seem to be seriously injured as I helped her up, though she seemed to regard my denial of tripping her on purpose with skepticism as she explained that she was heading to the produce aisle.

Anyway, the 8 oz. can of sauce is just about perfect for someone in my position.  It can be used to make a single pizza, or to pour onto a single piece of lasagna, or to make a single serving of garlic cheese bread … oh jeez, this is getting depressing.  Let’s just say it’s a versatile product for one who lives as one.  The Winco pranksters had obviously done some reconnaissance work in preparation for this.

I purchased a flat (24 cans) that day, and was floored a week later when I returned to find the price still in effect!  I marveled at my good fortune as I stacked up another flat, looking forward to being rich in sauce for months to come.  And then … the same thing happened the next week, and the next, and the next.

They’re working me.  Working me hard.

As of this writing, I’ve got what I conservatively estimate at 800-1,000 cans of tomato sauce.  As I try to rationalize this  internally, I find that I’m persuading myself to explore new uses for it.  It’s been 2 weeks since I’ve brushed with actual toothpaste, and the engine in the Zuke Of Earle seems to have developed an odd knocking since I made the observation that it had a consistency similar to 10w-40 motor oil.  It hasn’t done a damn thing for my split ends, that’s for sure.

I hope I can find some control soon.  The kitchen is nearly stacked full, and I’m having some trouble navigating the dining room.  I don’t hold any animosity toward the rascals down at the store … I’m sure they meant no harm; it’s just that sometimes a little fun can get out of hand, and that’s okay.

God forbid they lower the price of Spam.

Thinking Inside The Box

I have yet another addition to my ever-growing list of Loftily-Envisioned-Yet-Bound-To-Become-Barely-Functional-And-Nothing-More projects, a sub-category of the Do-It-Yourself genre in which I was recently awarded a Lifetime Achievement award.  (The award is widely considered as an apology for the travesty of justice incurred when my now-legendary 1983 “Homemade Cycling Wind Trainers” effort was snubbed.)

My current work is in preparation for an anticipated greater commitment to and reliance upon my bicycle(s) for excursions on which I would normally convince myself to drive with little, if any, resistance from any internal agonist advocating health or environmental benefits.

I’m serious this time, dang it!  Quit giggling!

I have had, for several years, one of those child-carrier trailer thingies that attaches to the rear axle.  The Live Acorn, of course, is well past the age of wanting to be seen with her dad needing such transport, and my original plan of using it to garner the sympathy of comely lasses at the park by borrowing a friend’s baby and explaining that the mother had died during childbirth never really came to fruition, and so it’s mainly been employed to haul beer and peanuts home from the store.

But no more!  “It’s time to get serious!” I said to myself in a stern, lecturing tone, and then chuckled, because I always try, unsuccessfully, to raise one eyebrow when I speak in a stern, lecturing tone, and I find my persistence at this task amusing.  But apparently I was stern and lecturing enough, because I set about ripping all of the nylon fabric that comprised the child carrier off of the trailer frame in a chaotic fit, my thought (or whatever it is that passes for thought in the midst of a chaotic fit) being that if I destroyed any transportational capability that existed, I would be forced to replace it with something.

And sure enough, it worked seems to be working:

Above:  I really hope that neither Ernesto Colnago nor Eddy Merckx reads this … it’s enough that I lose sleep knowing that I’m using one of the great classic Italian road frames as a utilitarian grocery hauler.  I don’t need either of those two showing up and kicking my ass.

I write “seems to be working” as technically, I have not reached the “Barely-Functional” part of the project yet, though all it really needs is to be connected to the frame.  In my younger days, I would have opted for a duct tape-based approach to minimize effort and time, but alas, I am not the impatient flibbertigibbet I once was, and am committed to a hardware based solution involving bolts and lockwashers and other hardware-y types of things.  I also plan on painting flames on the side, and perhaps Thomas The Train on the front.

I showed this picture to several people, and there seemed to be a common reaction of “umm … it’s quite … large, isn’t it?  Are you opening a catering service?  You ARE joking when you occasionally mention getting rid of dead hookers, aren’t you?”  And yes, while it may seem a bit excessive, I’m simply erring on the side of caution.  Plus, the lid is going to comprise two pieces that slide together with a hole for Indy’s neck, akin to the tables used to serve the eastern delicacy “brains of live monkeys” (that would be the east side of Dead Falls, North Dakota – I’m pretty sure outside of there, that’s just a rumor).  She loves it already:

Above:  She’s now part boxer.

Well, crap ... it just occurred to me that I didn’t measure the front door …

Pasta Point Of No Return

As her boldness grows, so does my fear.  Never did I dream I would long for the days of her waiting for me to succumb to slumber before she executed her ravenous raids; yet what I would give now to go back to that time, when I could lay at least part of the blame on myself for nodding off with some (or all, in certain cases) of my meal sitting seductively at the exact level of her mouth, as if I’d intentionally left it there for her to consume.  I couldn't really fault her, much less ascribe malicious intentions on her part.  The food wasn't technically being guarded, after all.

Those days are gone.

(NOTE:  This is yet another hell-hound based post, as my existence in and of itself remains bereft of sufficient goings-on to merit putting to pixels, and generally serves best as a non-pharmaceutical alternative to Halcion.)

As some of you may know, my lifestyle is one that lends itself to making large batches of various foods and storing them in an appropriate fashion such that individual portions may be prepared with little effort and time, and without regard to the societal and somewhat arbitrary norms of when meals should be taken.

That is to say, I live alone, and make giant pots of spaghetti sauce, freeze individual servings, and eat at midnight in my jammies.  It’s quite pathetic, in all honesty.

Nevertheless, it is as such.  While I do have certain “go-to” menu items, such as the aforementioned spaghetti sauce, and chicken breasts (which can be used in a nearly infinite number of dishes, of which I cook exactly three), it occurred to me the other day that I had not made lasagna* in quite some time.

“O widest of noodles commonly found in grocery stores, how I have forsaken thee!” I cried upon my realization.  “Your ruffled edges so lovely; ‘tis shame ‘pon me that I have forgot, but I will boil you on the night next, so that right will be made, and you shall be layered twixt cheeses of four and the thickest of sauces!”

The next day, I ventured off to the store, and got all the fixin’s: various tomato sauces and pastes, some Italian sausage, peppers, onions, tequila numerous cheeses, and a couple of boxes of noodles.  I was set!  Never had I been so prepared for a culinary endeavor.

Well, as is my norm in such projects, I made entirely too much sauce (I really should write down a recipe and actually use it), but fortunately, I had bought two packages of noodles.  “Not to worry!” I told myself.  “You can just make two batches, and maybe share with friends, who will then pass on an act of kindness to others, and world peace will be achieved and it will have originated in your very kitchen!”

As it happens, there are 18 noodles in the boxes of the brand that I purchase (homepage:  www.cheapestthingicanfind.com), and I use 16 per pan of lasagna.  This is perfect, as there are a couple of spares for the inevitable torn-beyond-use-even-in-the-middle-layers noodles, and I cooked up a box, rinsed them, and laid them out on some towels to dry off a bit.  The whole operation was proceeding swimmingly.

Alas, my elation was short-lived.  I had turned away from the noodle-bearing counter to momentarily give attention to the Sudoku puzzle that appears in the local newspaper, for the day was Sunday, and only it remained to be completed for me to notch the rare Sunday Trifecta of crossword, Jumble, and Sudoku.  Such was my rapt focus that the slurping and chewing had grown quite loud and had apparently gone on for quite some time without my noting, for when I finally turned, there remained only 9 noodles, with Indy giving a strong effort toward reducing the count even further.

“#~!!@*&%$,” I screamed, as that is the normal protocol for alerting her that she has done something objectionable and that she should retreat to beneath the bed for several hours.  This time, however, proved to be shockingly different.  She turned, front paws still on the counter, and seemed to contemplate the situation, as if mulling over some difficult decision.  “#~!!@*&%$,” I said again, though with nowhere near the authority as I had just moments before.  “#~!!@*&%$?”  She stared for a moment longer, then dropped to the ground and walked off slowly toward the backyard, glancing back one last time with a menacing sneer before exiting through the doggie-door.

And so it is a new world for me.  The delicate balance we had crafted seems to have been shattered, and she appears to have moved from the planning stage to active implementation in whatever hostile takeover scheme she has concocted  Worst of all, I had to boil another pot of water to cook enough noodles from the other box to finish the lasagna, and those noodles seemed to be defective and didn’t reach the entire length of the pan, but I didn’t realize that until I had poured out the water, so I had to boil water a third time just to cook half a noodle to patch up the bare spot in the corner.  And now I have ¾ of a box of noodles, and I’ll never get back on a proper noodle schedule, always having a partial box sitting on the shelf as a reminder.  And I messed up the Sudoku.

I hate Italian dogs.

* Is it "lasagna" or "a lasagna"?  I really don't know.  I imagine the battle will continue to  rage long after I have expired.

I'm Fit To Be Tied

I recently underwent a major life-changing event of such magnitude that I find myself questioning such things as the very nature of my existence and the assertion that a balanced Major League Baseball schedule is impossible without daily interleague play now that Houston is in the American League.

Actually, it’s nothing very earth-shattering at all; simply that I am now employed with a different state governmental agency than I was previously.  In fact, the only substantial change (other than the job itself) is that the dress code is that of Business Professional, rather than Business Casual, meaning that I had to learn how to tie a tie (my appearances during the first week, wearing, on consecutive days, an ascot, a cravat, and a bolo were met with disapproval.  I would have gotten away with the clip-on were it not for the fact that it was a remnant from my pre-teen parochial school days and only reaches to mid-chest now).  Even complying with the explicit direction that the tie be one conforming in length, width, and pattern to the prevailing societal norms, my experimentation with various types of knots has resulted in the policy manual being updated to require a Half-Windsor.

I walked across the street yesterday after work to say hi to a friend*, and we had this exchange:

Friend To Whom I Was Saying Hi (walking down the stairs and before even so much as a “howdy!”):  “Wow, you look like a cartoon character.”

Dead Acorn:  “Umm … nice to see you too.  Why do you say that?”

FTWIWSH:  “Well, you have your nice jacket and tie, and your nice long dress coat, and then your goofy looking ski hat and gloves, and you’re riding a wooden bicycle through the snow.”

DA:  “That’s stupid.  No one would watch a cartoon like that.”

FTWIWSH:  “I didn’t say you looked like a popular, critically acclaimed, and much-watched cartoon character.”

DA:  “Ouch.”

One disheartening aspect of having to get all dolled up is the realization that people really do treat others differently based on subtle variances in appearance.  It would be nice if we were able to avoid making assumptions about our fellow (wo)man based on our initial encounters, but such is the nature of our species (based on the evolutionarily advantageous categorization of novel stimuli into “types” based on neural “hard-wiring” and one’s personal experiences; while this attribute can have negative consequences, such as various types of prejudice, it still helps, survival-wise, that we don’t have to individually assess every charging tiger as to its intent).

On the plus side, I’m getting a lot more winks and ass-grabs from Marlene down at the Gas’N’Go (she’s surprisingly fiesty for a nonagenarian) … maybe Ossie Davis’s character in the movie “Joe Versus The Volcano” was right, and clothes DO make the man.

Or maybe she just likes cartoons.

* No, I don't think it's weird or creepy at all that this friend, with whom I spend quite a bit of time, as we seem to enjoy each other's company to some extent, was the one who alerted me to the open position, which happens to be located right across the street from where she works.

I Haven't Had A Toddy This Morning, But ...

I got tolly lit up over the holidays.

Literally.

I was inexplicably invited, once again, to the EMDAMOTLA’s* Annual Open House Extravaganza/Illegal Fireworks Display a couple of weekends ago.  I suspect that it has something to do with providing evidence as to how one can make monumental mistakes in life and still recover and move on.  In any case, I always consider it a kind gesture and a great honor.  The crowd invariably comprises various dignitaries, politicians, heads-of-state, and other members of social strata that I do not generally encounter in my otherwise low-brow life.

On occasions such as the AOHE/IFD, I make every effort to appear a civilized and well-bred individual, feigning erudition and taking great care to ensure that my shirt buttons are aligned properly.  In other words, something other than my everyday self.  One would think that going to such lengths would preclude me being set ablaze by the hostess.  One would be wrong.

There remains, as I write, a debate as to whether she was actually trying to murder me or just burn my clothes (a third explanation, that it was an accident, is simply laughable and need not be further discussed).  I suppose there is a foundation for the latter argument, as evidenced by this transcript from the courtroom during our divorce proceedings:

Judge:  “What reasons can you give, MDAMOTLA, for wanting to end this sacred union?”  (This was, of course, prior to the addition of the “E” at the front of her acronym.)

MDAMOTLA:  “umm … Your Honor, have you even looked at him?”

Judge (to me):  “What … what … what the hell are you wearing?  Is that a robe?”

Dead Acorn:  “Why, yes it is, your eminence.  I see that you’re wearing one as well.  They’re quite comfortable, aren’t they?”

Judge:  “First, this is MY COURTROOM, and my robe is a centuries-old tradition befitting my noble calling.  Second, mine is NOT pink terry-cloth with Hello Kitty patches sewn all over it.”

DA:  “Well, I can’t help it if your boring tastes lead you to wear such uninteresting crap.”

Judge:  “THIRTY DAYS!  Bailiff, escort this man to jail.”

On the other hand, I distinctly recall her threats during the birth of The Live Acorn:  “YOU!  YOU DID THIS TO ME!  I WILL KILL YOU!”  I did not take that as an idle threat then, nor do I today.

Anyway, I was standing in the dining area with The Person With Whom I Was Attending (And Likely The Real Reason I Was Invited), leaning against a table, when I detected a foul odor, as if someone wearing a loose knit sweater had backed into a votive candle and had caught fire.  “Sugar pie babykins,” I said to TPWWIWA(ALTRRIWI), “do you detect a foul odor, as if someone wearing a loose knit sweater has backed into a votive candle and has caught fire?”

It took a few minutes of discussion concerning whether the smell was more likely due to the burning of wool or of a synthetic fiber, and what color of dye was used that would result in the particular scent, as we were trying to deduce who would be stupid enough to back into a votive candle, before TPWWIWA(ALTRRIWI) noticed the flames climbing up my back, lapping at the ceiling, threatening to ignite the entire house, and which would have undoubtedly eventually left the entire city in a pile of smoldering rubble:

Above:  A little duct tape, and it’ll be good as new.  And yes, those ARE delicious homemade popcorn balls!

There was precious little actual concern among the partygoers after she bravely risked her own life to pat it out; on the contrary, there was mostly coughing and laughter, with perhaps the loudest laughs coming from the city Fire Chief**.  I’m glad I could be of some amusement.

I suppose it was a productive evening … The Live Acorn got another “yeah, that’s my dad …” moment, the EMDAMOTLA got rid of a 15-year-old sweater, and I am virtually guaranteed an invitation for next year’s AOHE/IFD, as the rest of her societal guests will certainly ask if she’s going to have the clown show up again.

There’s got to be an asbestos-lined ugly Santa sweater on the internet somewhere.

* Ex Mrs. Dead Acorn, Mother Of The Live Acorn
** Not true.  He was there, but he only chuckled mildly.

G ... G ... Giving Th .. Th ... Thanks ...

I don’t travel much, and don’t read much about the goings-on of the world outside of my house, so I’m not sure if other areas have a holiday known as “Thanksgiving.”  For those readers whose cultures don’t participate in the celebration, it’s a day of “Giving” of  “Thanks” for the things one is blessed with (or has earned through hard work and hard work alone, thankyewverymuch, depending on your religious/political views) in life.  The “Giving” of “Thanks” generally takes the form of stuffing one’s face with food from the moment of waking and watching three games of American Football, before rushing to Walmart for the holiday sales.

I spent a few days with friends a bit north of home, which was delightful.  Our gracious host had created an announcement/invitation for the event on a social networking site, which allowed updates and comments and general discussion to take place.  As I was unaware of the competitive nature of participation, I was a bit taken aback when he posted this graph a week or so prior to the big day, tallying attendees’ “Spirit” and “Traditionality”:

Above:  I can only assume that offering to bring corned beef and Li’l Smokies fell outside of the operational definition of “traditional.”  Also, I’m pretty sure that this was the host’s first attempt at using bar charts in MS Excel.

I eventually finished with positive points by offering to bring six folding chairs, but still in last place, which, unbeknownst to me (else I would have made a greater effort), carried no small consequence.

The host’s house, while quite comfortable, is not palatial in terms of sleeping area, and the number of people requiring bed space exceeded the capacity of his home, necessitating that I, as the low point scorer, and the unfortunate soul with whom I was attending, sleep in the overflow quarters:

Above:  I believe that by spending the night here, I can now increase my percentage of Native American lineage from 1/1024 to 1/512.

The tepee did have a small wood stove, which, while offering little in the form of actual heat, at least introduced the possibility of death by asphyxiation, which would presumably solve the problem of being cold once and for all.  (A particularly humorous event was the lighting of the stove, which was done by a guest who was a firefighter, who insisted upon performing the task, and who was extremely intoxicated, and who proved far less adept at starting fires than at extinguishing them.  At one point, I thought "well, it's going to be spring soon, and we'll warm up then.")

After a long day of revelry, we finally felt bombed out of our gourds enough to pass out it was time to retire, and crawled under our stack of 30 or so blankets and nodded off.  I must say that I was far more comfortable than I had expected to be, despite being woken several times by the unfortunate soul with whom I was attending; once to take her shivering dog inside, once to retrieve her barking dog from the house, and finally, as she was attempting to re-light the fire, which had apparently gone out.  As I recall, we had a conversation along these lines:

Dead Acorn:  “Sugarplum snookums, what are you doing?”

Unfortunate Soul With Whom I Was Attending: “Tr … tr ... trying to st … st … start the fire …”

DA:  “Gee, you look really cold!  I’ll keep the bed really warm so that when you get it going, it’ll be all cozy!  I know if we both do our parts, we can get through this night!”

USWWIWA:  “I fu … fu … fucking hate you.”

Anyway, we made it through relatively unharmed (and the dog was fine, so don’t go all SPCA on me), and were even promoted to the house the next night.

The entire trip was pretty dang fantastic … the Thanksgiving crowd for the meal comprised an eclectic mix of city folk, hill people, between 5-8 dogs (ranging from an 8 lb. Chihuahua to a monster golden Labrador) and an extremely vocal cat, with plenty of champagne, beer, rum, whisky, and who knows what else for the bipeds (and one of the dogs).

By the way, the corned beef was devoured, and is, I would argue, well established as a tradition, so I have high hopes of at least getting to sleep in the garage next year.

Time To Vase Reality

I recently celebrated lamented noted, with existential neutrality, the occurrence of the sun making another orbit around me (in the spirit of those who deny that climate change is occurring, I likewise maintain that there is insufficient evidence on the relative movements of celestial bodies to draw a conclusion one way or another, at this point.  Suck it, Galileo).

As is the custom around the North End of Boise, Idaho, I spent a good portion of the day with friends in a locale that offered spirits (well, beer, at least), with the group growing louder and more boisterous as the evening progressed.  (To those of you outside the area who may find this a tad foreign, just try it … there are no hard-and-fast rules, and you may soon find it a practice that need not be limited to the anniversary of your birth, nor to that of your friends.  Go on - try it!)

There was even (at my advanced years!) a bit of the traditional “gift-giving,” and this year, I was especially touched at the thought behind a particular bouquet that a couple of very good friends presented to me.  One’s first reaction might well be “isn’t it a bit odd for a man to receive flowers?” and if so, one would properly be chastised for maintaining outdated and sexist stereotypes.  Why do you hate progress in the realm of social equality?

Anyway, this was no ordinary bouquet, as you can see:

Above: Spatules magnifique, non? Très touchant …

For those who are unfamiliar with the fact that I reside with a demon dog: I reside with a demon dog.  One of her demonic characteristics is an unbridled lust for spatulas, and the transport outside thereof, and I awake each morn and immediately concern myself with whether I will have a spatula with which to stir my daily hash browns or not.  “Has she made off with yet another in the dead of night?” I ask aloud.  “I heard not the tell-tale tapping of toenails, yet her secretive stealth should not surprise …”

And so you see the reason for my somewhat emotional reaction to the gift.  No longer was I to be a victim of her ravenous habit.  Let her steal a spatula!  I would care not, for I now possessed a plethora of these magnificent utensils!  It … it … it was the gift of rest, of serenity, of mornings of awakening to calmness, free of trepidation.  (Also, the Necco wafers as baby's breath?  Brilliant!)

At least for a week or two.

[UPDATE:]  Oh sweet jeebus … I was looking at some of the other photos I had taken of the bouquet, and saw this:

Above:  Nothing different, except it’s lacking the tasteful arrangem OHMYGOD!OHMYGOD!OHMYGOD! …

Here’s an enlarged version of the section at the top, above and to the right of the black spatula:

Above:  Well, there goes my peaceful sleep.

The absence of a camera to my eye discounts the explanation of it simply being my reflection in the plate glass window.  No, the only possibility is that I’ve caught the very image of whatever minion of C’thulu is possessing poor Indy.  O sweet puppy, I shall try to understand your torment and swear to rid you of it …

I’ve yet to hear back from St. Mary’s on scheduling a priest.

Ahoy, Polloi ...

I hob-nobbed with the 1% a bit a couple of weeks back (technically, I AM part of a 1%; just not the 1% ... probably somewhere around the 30th percentile or so).  It was an interesting experience, to say the least.

A friend of mine was getting married (and since has, costing me $20 in my ill-advised wager overestimating the persuasive skills of the lovely and seductive Bambi, who was “catering” a pre-nuptial "luncheon"*), and I was invited to participate in a round of golf at a local private country club in advance of the big day.  Boy howdy, I was as excited as cousin’ Hoss before the pie-eatin’ contest down to the county fair!

I was heading out with another friend of mine, whom I believe has more experience in interacting with that stratum of society, and I have to say write that I was a bit insulted by the fact that he felt it necessary to send me a few orders suggestions via text message concerning the afternoon:

Friend With Whom I Was Heading Out:  “So, umm … it’s sort of required that you wear a shirt …”

Dead Acorn:  “Well, duh … I’m not completely white trash.”

FWWIWHO:  “Let me finish, please.  You need to wear a shirt with a collar.”

DA:  “No problem!  In fact, I don’t even HAVE a collar-less Hawaiian shirt.”

FWWIWHO:  “*sigh*.  Ok, I guess.  And you can’t bring a case of Schlitz hidden in your bag like you usually do, as the club pro is playing with us, and we, you know, might want to show just a BIT of respect and gratitude for them providing this opportunity.”

DA:  “This is a fucking joke, right?  RIGHT?”

As it turns out, it wasn’t a joke, but I supposed that I could suspend my fiscally responsible approach to golf course hydration for just that one day.

So we pulled into the parking lot, and removed our golf bags from the back of the car.  To my astonishment, it was no more than a minute before two young hooligans, obviously gangsta ruffians, judging from the fact that they wore similar colors, approached us, and attempted to steal our clubs!  Their cocky nonchalance was unsettling, as they aggressively said “Good afternoon, gentlemen!” and began to walk off with our property.  They may as well have said “it’s OUR shit now, right?  You got something to say, old man?  Yeah, didn’t think so.”

Luckily, my friend is quite a large fellow, and has obviously dealt with this type of situation before, because, sensing my befuddlement and anger at such an outrageous act, he said (with well directed intent toward the thieves) “Hold on, there, Dead Acorn.  These young men are just carrying our clubs up to our cart.  Isn’t that right right, gentlemen?”  They both nodded nervously, and sure enough, I watched them load our bags onto a golf cart near the clubhouse.  Having a large friend can be handy.  (The young thugs were obviously impressed with me as well, as I could see them looking at the various clubs in my bag in awe – they almost seemed to giggle uncontrollably in their amazement with regard to my eclectic assemblage of hardware.)

On the other hand, I can’t say he’s absolutely virtuous, because we walked in to sign up, and he grabbed a handful of tees and a divot-fixer-thingy from the counter and walked off without paying!  His explanation of "no, dude, it's free.  Trust me on this." did little to assuage my associative guilt.  I know that it doesn't sound exactly like a Brinks robbery, but I still felt a little uneasy.  My guilt was only compounded by the fact that we drove over to the driving range and he seemed to have no issue with hitting a bag of balls that someone else had obviously paid for and had left on the range while running off to the loo or the snack bar.  I’m still struggling with my mixed feelings concerning his behavior.

Criminal acts aside, the afternoon went very well, and the repressive elite overlords that ran the club pulled off their required act of appearing to be extremely nice and accommodating to the commoners with admirable skill. The next time I storm a palace in an attempt to reinstate fairness and justice for the bottom 99% of the population who actually do the things that make the world work, I will do so with fond remembrance of that day.

The golfers among them shall die the quickest.

* Tolly not true.

Just Another Day In The Life ...

There have been some strange goings on lately around Casa de Acorn.  I walked out of the house the other morning to find this li’l speedster on my driveway:

Above:  Behold the mighty THUNDER!

He was over a foot across, and he certainly had some attitude about him, as you can see from his expression.  My first thought was that I was suspected of being a replicant and that this was one of the tests:

Dead Acorn: "I've never seen a turtle... But I understand what you mean."

Holden: "You reach down and you flip the tortoise over on its back, Dead Acorn."

Dead Acorn: "Do you make up these questions, Mr. Holden? Or do they write 'em down for you?"

Holden: "The tortoise lays on its back, its belly baking in the hot sun, beating its legs trying to turn itself over, but it can't. Not without your help. But you're not helping."

Dead Acorn: [angry at the suggestion] "What do you mean, I'm not helping?"

Holden: "I mean: you're not helping! Why is that, Dead Acorn?"

Luckily, he had a dog turtle tag with a phone number on it, and his person only lived a few doors down (which means he must have been wandering for days), so I was able to convince myself that I'm not a manufactured worker-bot.

I’ve also been trying to get a little work done in the hellscape behind my house backyard.  It’s essentially hard-baked ground in which nothing can grow but the hardiest of weeds.  While I can respect them for their tenacity, it was time for them to go.  So I start to pull these out (remember the shed project?  As you can see, it’s coming along right on schedule for completion around 2014!) …

Above:  After the nukes fly, it’ll be just the cockroaches and my backyard foliage left.

… when I discover this:

Above:  Perhaps the toughest fruit/vegetable that’s ever grown.

I assume that the seeds blew over from the neighbor’s yard, because I’ve certainly made no efforts at active cultivation.  There’s just the one cherry tomato, about an inch in diameter, having grown with absolutely no water or care of any sort.  I’m not a fan of tomatoes, but I think I’ll squish it into ketchup.  The corn dog that has the honor of bearing it will be one proud Pronto Pup, I’m certain.

Lastly, I believe I’ve mentioned that The Live Acorn has secured gainful employment, which, as it turned out, was excellent in terms of timing, as she was able to use her first paycheck to pay a fine for her jaywalking ticket, which she received as she was trying to goad her friends into crossing against the light as well.  We had the following text message exchange:

Dead Acorn:  “Way to go, outlaw.”

Live Acorn:  “Yeah, I’m a badass.  How many times have you jaywalked?”

Dead Acorn:  “Jaywalked?  Thousands.  Ticketed?  Zero.  I generally try to not make a show of it.”

Live Acorn:  “Dad, it was a motorcycle cop!  I couldn’t even see him!”

Dead Acorn:  “You should tolly plead not guilty.  The judge will buy that, I’m sure.”

Live Acorn:  “Shut up.”

Other than things like this, life is normal.  Not sure if that’s good or bad.

We Tried So Hard To Raise Her Right ...

The Live Acorn spent last weekend in the rugged heart of Idaho, listening to a bunch of hippy-folk play some twangy-ass music volunteering at/attending the Sawtooth Music Festival, which is a “festival” with lots of “music” that takes place near the “Sawtooth” mountains, which are apparently appealing to some people:

Above: Meh. Whatever.

I’m led to believe that she thoroughly enjoyed herself, as evidenced by this text message exchange we had prior to meeting at Boise’s “Alive After Five” weekly musical extravaganza last evening:

Live Acorn: “Father, will you be attending tonight’s “Alive After Five” musical extravaganza? I do so look forward to seeing you.

Dead Acorn: “o hllz ya 4 shr. Blugrass band. C U l8r!”

(I love modern technology and how it affords us the ability to communicate meaningfully disirregardless of our differences in expressive style.)

Live Acorn: “O Father! I truly am excited, for bluegrass music has literally changed my life!”

Dead Acorn: “Do u have any clu wat “literally” means? Dnt thnk so.”

Live Acorn: “Of course I do, Father. I refer to an incident in which I was struck in the head by an errant banjo at the Sawtooth Music Festival, which rendered me left-handed and speaking with a Sudanese accent!”

Dead Acorn: “Mad propz 2 the Boise skool sys.”

Actually, she’s always had very good taste in music, even though she’s had her short spells of listening to horrific Top 40 (it never lasts long, thank jeebus). After her profession of love for the bluegrass genre, I posted something along these lines on teh Facebook:

My daughter came out and told me that she loves bluegrass music today. I told her that there’s nothing wrong with that, and that she was born that way, and that even though haters gonna hate, the only thing this changes is the radio station.

It’s really too bad that Earl Scruggs didn’t live to see full acceptance of the gut-bucket as an instrument equal to others, but someday, Live Acorn … someday.

As it turns out, she’s learning life’s hard lessons about discrimination in more ways than one. She had recently applied for employment at a downtown ice-cream parlor, only to be told that the purple streaks in her hair are at odds with the image the parlor is trying maintain. I’ve only been into the establishment a time or two, but it’s apparently a Barbie-Doll-Stepford-Wives-Chik-Fil-A-Only-With-Hair-Dye-Instead-Of-Gay-Marriage kind of place fostering purplephobia, and even if they had a liquor license and gave away free Ouzo, I wouldn’t set a foot ‘cross their threshold. (Sure, I might have someone sneak me out some, but you know what I mean.)

On a positive note, she did land a job at a ceramics/art place, which has far more social value than a bunch of look-a-like bimbettes-in-training schlepping overpriced “artisan” ice cream to the overstuffed Americans gorging …

Ok, you know what? This may have more to do with me projecting my own experience at being forced to take out my 4th earring back in my days as a line cook. I should address the inner demons of my past openly and honestly.

On the other hand, what else are kids for?

I Look In The Mirror, And It's Not Me Looking Back ...

While one might assume that given my astounding level of productivity, blogwise (almost 1 nonsensical string of unrelated words post a week!), that I must be at the keyboard every waking hour, breaking only for the shortest times for necessary sustenance and hygienic functions, that is not the case.  I have, on occasion, been known to take in a ballgame on the television at the local tavern, partaking in a beverage or three, whilst chatting with various acquaintances.  Further, even in the realm of the Googly-Tubez, my activities are not limited to this little web-log, but extend to an area of what are called “social networks.”

A current development on one called “Facebook” has got me a bit rattled. (For those unfamiliar with teh Facebook, one can sign up and become “Friends” with other people and inform them as to the contents of your latest meal, and post vague and angsty “status updates” upon the discontinuation of a romantic relationship.  One can also designate “Friends” as “Close Friends” by marking them with a star in order to more closely track their activities.  I would think that even the most cursory knowledge of WWII would have quashed this feature, but who am I to say?)

Anyway, for some reason or another, I became “Friends” with a bloke* in Jolly Olde England with the same name as mine (The Dead Acorn is my given legal name, but on Facebook, I’m known as Beauregard Wilthingham III).  The other Beauregard Wilthingham III seems like a very nice fellow – though eerily, he claims to enjoy beer and cheesy jokes, does woodworking/carpentry projects around the house, and has a shot of his dog as his profile picture (as do I).  Fortunately, I believe he actually finishes his projects; otherwise, that would just be freaky.

The disconcerting part of the whole situation is that he’ll post something, and I’ll see it as something new from myself, and immediately panic over what I was thinking and assume I was on-line after the aforementioned “beer or three.”  My blood pumping, brow perspiring, hands a-tremble, I, without fail, go combing through my email outbox searching for ill-advised messages to ex-significant others and potentially obnoxious comments on the posts of others.  Last night, he apparently “Shared” a picture that another friend (who (whom?  whatever ... (but trebly-nested parentheses! Woo!)) I really know) had posted, so that it provided even stronger evidence that it was actually my action, not his.  Worse, the picture was an unflattering image of a woman wearing cutoff jean shorts that were likely not as well-fitting as they perhaps once were … that type of humor is not generally my cup of tea, and I wasn't particularly proud of myself for having “Shared” it. “That’s IT!” I said to the hound dog. “I’m off the hooch for good!”

Luckily, I discovered the truth in fairly short order (short enough that I hadn’t dumped all the hooch down the drain and taken an axe to my backyard still), and had a nervous chuckle over the whole incident.

As writer (and noted bedeviling scamp) David Thorne has noted, the internet is a playground.  And sweet jeebus, playgrounds can be confusing and traumatizing places.

* I hope that "bloke" isn't an insult in Jolly Olde England.  I'd hate to be responsible for some type of international incident yet again.

Zero Score And Four Years Ago ...

Happy Blogoversary to me!  Twenty-eight years ago today (the Hell Hound made me write that in dog years) was my very first post.  Woo!  Sure, the frequency of new posts has dwindled over time, but I assume my reader takes that as a good thing.  You're welcome.

I think I've only had to delete one post, and shut down comments on only one as well (probably because most of what I write is done at work, which is, as a general rule of thumb, my least intoxicated time of the day, and therefore least offensive).  Both of those factoids are on my résumé.

Thank you for reading.

It Was Not In Tents At All

One might conclude by the dearth of new posts that there’s nothing very exciting going on in my life as of late, and one would be correct.  Plus, the Ada County Jail doesn’t have wifi.

I did finally do a little camping a couple of weekends ago, which was quite lovely, despite the fact that the combined levels of ability-to-plan-and-communicate between me and the person with whom I was camping is somewhere around … umm … something that has very little ability to plan and communicate:

Dead Acorn: (unloading the stuff from the Zuke Of Earle) “Umm … where’s your tent?”

Person With Whom I Was Camping:  “In my storage area at home.  You were going to bring your tent.”

DA:  “Well, no … you said you were going to take care of all the bedding, Little Miss I-Have-A-4”-Air-Mattress.”

PWWIWC:  “And I did, dumbass.  A tent is not bedding.”

DA:  “One could make that argument, I suppose.”

So we slept out in front of god and everyone, which afforded us a beautiful view of the clear night sky (“my god, it’s full of stars …”).  Luckily, we had this ferocious guard dog to fend off wild animals:

Above:  “Oh gawd is that a squirrel?  I hate squirrels!  Where’s the tent?  I need to be in the tent! Ohgodohgodohgod …”

Indy didn’t make the trip, as she actively seeks out wolves and bears to invite back to camp.

Of course, sleeping outside greatly increased the importance of liberal use of mosquito repellant, which led to us having a conversation extraordinarily similar to the one about the tent, and eventually having to buy a can from our camp neighbors (they were extremely pleasant, and wanted to give us their extra can, but we insisted on giving them $5  (3.23 £), as if we could buy our way out of our shame and embarrassment.

It tolly worked.

The rest of the trip was calming and uneventful, as such trips should be (other than running out of vodka during breakfast, initiating yet another conversation about roles and responsibilities …).  Forest GOOD.

I did get something of a letdown on the drive home.  We stopped in Crouch, which is a westerny little town, with log buildings and hitching posts and all that kind of cowboy-ey stuff, and while I’m about as far from being an actual outdoorsy westerner as one could imagine, I still enjoy the good feel it has.  "Had," I guess I should write, because I discovered that it’s all just a façade:

Above:  an affront to all that is right and good.  And the name makes no sense (click to enlarge) … it’s all Greek to me.

I snapped that picture, then slowly trudged back across the street to The Dirty Shame, where I was consoled by the person with whom I  was camping and the ebullient breakfast bartender Mario.

Oh Crouch, I could never stay mad at you.

There's Something Fishy Going On Here ...

I don’t think it’s any big secret that I have, as a general policy, a goal of setting as low of expectations in other people as is humanly possible.  In a phenomenon known among psychologists as “Achievement Relativity,” this renders even the most mundane accomplishments on my part on a par with creating desktop fusion.  Some of my proudest moments come when I hear someone say something like “Hey, Dead Acorn!  You tied your shoe on the very first try!  Good job!” without the slightest hint of sarcasm.

I had a fairly good pay-off last night over dinner – one of the low expectations that I’ve set is that no one thinks I’ll ever try any food out of my normal (and limited) dietary standards.  And of relevance to the current tale, I wouldn’t say that I hate seafood, because technically, Skipper’s Fish & Chips fillets are seafood, but outside of those, I would absolutely say that I hate seafood.  And very high on the list of hated seafood lies raw seafood … it’s fair to say that I’m not a sushi fan.  (As far as meat goes, I mainly stick to chicken … not because I like chickens, however; on the contrary, I hate them.  A number of chickens were involved in one of the tragic failed romances of my youth, and I have sworn to devour them even unto my last breath.  Damn you, chickens!  Plus, chicken tacos …. mmmMMMmm … they’re delicious!)

Anyway, I got to have dinner with The Live Acorn last night, and I was suggesting various places we might go (“Chicken Shack?”  “No …” “The Rooster Dome?”  “No …” “Poultry-Geist?”  “Dad, NO!”).  I knew where this was headed, as she loves ... loves ... sushi.  Finally, I bite the bullet, and agree.  To be honest, I was certain that they’d have something that wouldn’t actually make me shudder just thinking about it.

Ummm … no.

Really, Fancy Schmancy Sushi Restaurant?  You can’t keep one goddamned chicken in the back for your wussier more discriminating patrons?  You can’t keep a corn-dog in the freezer in case of emergencies?  Well, add one more to the list of reasons I don’t go south of State Street, boy howdy!

So The Live Acorn, fighting back tears, quietly offered to eat somewhere else.  “It’s okay, dad …” she said, in between stifled sobs.  “The Wing Nut is just around the corner.”  She arose slowly, staring at the ground.

“Hey, Live Acorn?"  "Yeah, dad?"  "I’ll be fine.  This is just fine.”

I spoke the words with the tone of a true martyr, someone willing to make an heroic sacrifice for the sake of his beloved and only daughter.  She looked at me with eyes that said “All of the dads on this planet who drink out of coffee mugs that say ‘World’s Greatest Father’ are lying to themselves.  They’re all just playing for 2nd place.”

So yeah, I ordered whatever looked like it had the most spices, and was pleasantly surprised to discover that “wasabi” is Japanese for “horseradish.”  Between that and the numerous cans of Kinmugi, I could barely taste that squid, or carp, or whatever the hell they use.  And afterward, I got more high praise from The Live Acorn, a “Good job!” text from The EMDAMOTLA*, and general accolades from all those who heard about my selfless act of love and generosity.  Ah, the magic of low expectations.

Look up Achievement Relativity in the new DSM-V when it's published.  I'm the case study.

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