Sock Blocker

There's a mystery afoot. Or rather, off my foot. No matter how I rack my brain I just can't seem to figure out where all my socks are running off to. Not just one sock, or even a few, but lots and lots of socks.

I've looked under beds, in sofas, behind the dryer, and in the refrigerator (Yes, I've been known to toss strange things in the fridge when my mind is distracted). Nothing. I've even put up posters around the neighborhood with the caption Have You Seen This Sock? This only netted me
snickering comments from area children and a few propositions from a local foot fetishist.

It's a sad plight and my husband seems to be taking this the hardest.

"Not Bob," he says, tossing it's limp helpless mate into the ever growing pile on the guestroom bed. "He left without saying goodbye."

"Maybe it was suicide. We should look for a note."

We search for a post-it note that would read something like: What is the point? Stuck in the same dead-end drawer day after day. Partner ogling odor-absorbing sock at the gym. I'm launching myself down the nearest drain. Goodbye cruel world.

But either socks don't write or Bob didn't care enough to explain why he had to leave so suddenly.

"What do we do with the spares?" my husband asks. Neither of us can stand to toss them out. That would mean that we have given up all hope.

I scratch my head. "Send them to a home for unmatched socks?"

"This isn't the fifties," he reminds me. "Let's let them go with some dignity."

I agree. "Maybe donate them to charity?"

"No one wants to wear one tube sock and one ankle sock in varying degrees of off-white as a pair. Not even the homeless."

"Oh," I sigh, feeling the weight of our problem. "Then I guess your daughter is getting sock puppets for her birthday. And Christmas. And maybe even in her Easter basket."

"That seems the most humane option."

My husband and I sit on the bed, hand in hand. We discuss our dream. The same dream we've always had, once we get the money.

"We are going to throw out all of our socks," he says excitedly.

"Every last one of them!" I add enthusiastically.

"And then..."

"And then..."

We look at each other, our eyes sparkling like they had when we had first met.

"And then," we say together, "we go into the Nike store and buy five new packages each, all the exact same color!"

A smile warms our faces. It's a genius plan. Every sock looks exactly like the other socks in our Utopian dream world. There may be an occasional odd man out, but there will never be a mismatched sock again.

We slump over collectively and sigh, the daydream over. When we win the lottery that's what we will do. Until then, the hunt is on.

"Did you check the towel closet?" he asks, standing to resume his task.

"I'm on it," I say. "In the meantime, you check the freezer."




"

 

Followbooks Book Review

I'm honored to be the featured author on Followbooks.com for the next two weeks for my book The Witches of Dark Root. Here is a little bit of the review they gave the book...

...The setting is perfect and the character building is flawless, the book actually came to an end before I was ready for it to...

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I Want Mermaid Abs

I've been getting back into Magic the Gathering lately. Yes, that Magic from the 1990s. I got hooked back in by playing X-box Magic 2014. It was fun and so I bought a deck. And another. And another.

I can talk a lot about Magic, and I probably will at some point. But I just had the most interesting epiphany while playing so I had to share. There was a creature in the game that was a human female from the neck down, and a feline from the neck up. A cat woman I guess.

Of course, the cat woman had nice boobs and killer abs and wore a sexy dress. It made me stop and think. Why would a woman that was cursed to have an oversized cat's head bother to work out and then go shopping for the perfect outfit? If it were me, I'd sequester myself in the house with a bag of Cheetos and probably never step foot outside again. But then again, I don't have cat woman's self confidence. She knows how to work it.

But while I'm on the subject, why is it that every half animal/half human fantasy creature is always in good shape? I've never seen a Mermaid with a muffin top or a Centaur with a beer gut. When was the last time anyone saw a Minotaur with a set of love handles skulking about? It just doesn't happen.

I was on my rant, pointing out the blatant sexism within the artistry, when my husband reminded me of harpies. Those old, ugly birds who sit around squawking and complaining.

I'm not sure why he brought this up but I guess he's right. Although...something feels wrong.

I will have to think about this and come back to it later.

The Suggestion Box Suggestion

I have informed my husband that from now on ALL suggestions AND complaints are to be put into a suggestion box. At the end of the day I will review them and act accordingly. If something isn't in the suggestion box (such as how to properly clean the dishcloths or the best temperature to keep the thermostat on) then I will assume all is well and everyone is happy. I will ONLY be taking action from comments that have been put into the suggestion box.

His response: "That sounds like a great idea."

I thought so too, and I tell him. "We can keep the suggestion box affixed to our headboard. I will read all your suggestions at the end of the night."

His eyes lit up. "Can I suggest other things?"

"Of course," I tell him.

"Like sexy things?"

"Whatever you want."

"Good. I've got lots of suggestions."

"I'm sure you do."

"Just to be sure, I can write anything I want? And you won't get upset?"

"Yes, just keep in mind that I will be reading all the daily suggestions at once, at the end of the day, before we have..."

"Oh." He thinks for a second. "How about we put up two suggestions boxes? One for the house stuff and one for the bed."

"No. One suggestions box for EVERYTHING. But keep in mind that I will be reading ALL of the suggestions, your helpful house ones and the bed ones at the end of the day, before we have..."

"Hmmm. Guess I need to word things carefully."

"I guess you do."

"Or not put any bad ones in."

"That's an idea. Just remember though. If it's not in the suggestion box it will not be addressed. I will assume everything is fine and you are not allowed to complain about it."

"Hmmm. Okay."

"I can put a suggestion box up for you too, so you can tell me if there's anything you want more of or I'm not doing right."

I thought about all the laundry that wouldn't fold itself, how he drove faster than the speed limit, and his love of reality cop show TVs. Yes, I had a few suggestions of my own.

"Great idea, honey. I've got lots of suggestions."

"Oh, wait," he tried to stop me. "I meant..."

But it was too late. He had already opened that box.