Whacked

When we lived in Oregon our neighborhood was near some major shopping/eating areas and we often walked to the store or to a restaurant for lunch or dinner. On one walk we decided to stop in to a new A&W Root Beer place to get a root beer float - something neither of us had tried in years. Unfortunately, when we got in to the store, the two earring-ed and tatooed teens working there were unable to get us what we wanted. "The machine is whacked," they explained.

"Whacked?"

That simple explanation seemed to cover it all. Sort of a "Beavis and Butthead" kind of thing. They didn't know what was wrong, had no hope of changing anything, probably didn't really care, were unlikely to have reported it to anyone who DID care. Nothing they could do about it. Too bad. It's whacked.

For us - unhandy that we are at gadget repair and general fix-it stuff - that has become our mantra for the unworkable and inexplicable in our lives. If we both have something and one is not working: "Mine's whacked." If I make a desperate cry for help when a shelf falls down, for example, Mark will come running, stop short to apraise the situation and simply declare "It's whacked."

So - and I do have a point here - remember that I have a spider in my window that is like the spider in Mark's window? We noticed yesterday that she is missing one back leg. Well, I looked at her this morning and she's just hanging in a rather scrunched position, in her web. Mark came in to look too.

"She's whacked."