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.