Category Archives: Humor

Dear Fairy CarMother

Dear Car Fairy – What do I have to do to get a visit from you? Last night, I put my rusted-out fuel line under my pillow, hoping that you would come and put a brand new car in its place. And did you? No. The only things I woke up with were a headache and a rust covered pillowcase. Don’t let anyone tell you that fuel lines are easy to sleep on. Soft from rust is a myth! I must admit that the new shade of hair color is kind of exciting. I always wanted to be a red head, although I’m not sure if Head and Shoulders will wash away the rust colored dandruff flakes. It’s okay though. It’s part of the allure of being ginger.
Now, Fairy CarMother, let’s talk about my royally ticked-off significant otter. I believed in you. After my significant otter went to bed, I snuck that fuel line into the bedroom, hoping to surprise him in the morning. Who doesn’t want to wake up next to a super-charged Jaguar in bed? Or as they say in the commercial, “Jag-you-our.” Frankly, if you had delivered a Jaguar under my pillow, it would have been a “Jag-me-mine.”


I would have settled for a BMW or a Lexus (which, of course, would have been a Lexme).
At any rate, this morning, S.O. was dragging. He didn’t even notice my new hair color. It’s pretty much your fault, Car Fairy, because he said he dreamt of racing in the Indianapolis 500 all night long, lap after lap after lap. Must have been the gas fumes, don’t you think? (They knocked me out. Slept like a log. Dead to the world. Didn’t want to wake up.) But now, he has to go to work and drag all day long. And I don’t mean drag racing. He’s had enough of that.
And thus, it is with great disappointment that I say to you, Car Fairy, that you lack commitment to your job. I don’t understand why you didn’t take my rusted fuel lines and replace them with a brand spanking new car. Your cousin, the Tooth Fairy, does a much better job. A tooth gets you a dollar, or in my day, a quarter. Tit for tat, you know? Fuel line for a new car. Maybe you should take lessons.
But I’m willing to give you a second chance, Fairy CarMother. Tonight, I’ll put my rusted-out engine cradle under my pillow, and we’ll see if you can rock that one out, okay? And, fair warning, I’d better not wake up to a Nissan Cube. 2010_nissan_cube.jdm17

Even a bus pass would be better than that!


Call Me … Maybe

Our landline phone system died on Monday. Now, before you tell this homebody that you gave up landlines years ago and use your cell phones for any and all phone calls, let me tell you that most of the time, my cell phone is dead. Yes, dead. Battery depleted, zombie-ized, dead, buried, never to see the end of a charger again … or at least, not for a very long time. Should lightning strike twice and poltergeists happen to plug in my cell phone to charge it, then it will usually remain on the charger for several days. Why? A) I don’t get out much. B) Because my memory has holes in it larger than my worst pair of underpants. (Forget I said that. I do not – I repeat, do not – have holes in my underwear.)

But, wouldn’t it be nice if someone invented a super-charged cell phone just for me? Maybe one with a reserve charge on an extra battery, like an extra fuel tank? I’d even be okay with a solar panel so that as my phone is lying out on the counter, being blithely ignored by me, it can charge itself from the overhead lights. However, since it’s usually in the bottom of my purse, I suppose I would need the antithesis of a solar battery: one that runs on spare change, Tic Tacs, and tissue lint. The point is, I need a land line.

And our eight-year old landline phones died on Monday.

Our landline phone system came as a set with a base station, chargers and three portable handsets. One was for the kitchen, one was for the basement family room, and the other was for our bedroom and was basically useless since the charger had croaked long ago. Besides those two and our cell phones, our other phone was in the dining room and was an off-system, oddball, landline phone with caller ID that didn’t see much use.

Not the Princess phone I remember.

Not the Princess phone I remember.

On Monday morning, the kitchen phone rang.

Ring. Ring.

Hmm, no caller ID. “Hello?”

Silence. I hung up.

Ring. Ring.

Hmm, no caller ID again. “Hello?”

Silence. I hung up again.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat. You get the picture. I hate crank calls, and this was becoming annoying. After the fourth time, determined to solve this puzzle, I grabbed the oddball phone in the dining room, checked its call log, and discovered that, indeed, the phone phantoms were actually flesh and blood people trying to get ahold of me. Our old phone system had gone to the Great Call Waiting queue in the sky.

I called Hubs in the afternoon on this same off-system, oddball phone – being different can be a good thing – and we agreed to meet at the electronics store that I will call “Perfect Purchase” on his way home from work.

We often go there to browse on Sundays after church. Some people like sports bars and outdoor activities. We like electronic stores and book stores and enjoying our purchases together quietly at home. And that’s why we were voted “The Couple Most Likely to Hear at a Party, ‘Oh, When Did You Get Here?’” Anyway, we hadn’t gone this past Sunday because of the snowy weather, so going in the middle of the week was like a treat. (I told you I don’t get out much.)

We met up at Perfect Purchase and half an hour later, we were walking out of the store with our new phone system. It had to have been one of the quickest decisions we’ve ever made about anything. Usually, we research and review the best system, the best prices, the best place to buy it, the best alternative uses for it should it not be exactly what we were looking for…

“Well, it’s a four slice toaster and we really only need a two slicer. I bet we could funnel the heat from the other two slots into a hood that we can place over our bacons and eggs to keep them warm until the toast is done.” … Something like that … or not. And then we research again, just to make sure we haven’t overlooked anything.

But not this time. Half an hour tops. In, out, flip it about, and boom. We now have a new phone system with four handsets and a base with Blue Tooth, which I had always thought referred to the movies with a blue band at the top. I don’t think we can watch movies on the phone system, so there must be another use for it. I suppose if I read the instructions, I would know, although I’m pretty sure we can’t use it with bacon and eggs.

As for the oddball phone, it’s been retired with honors and replaced with one of the new in-system phones. It remains to be seen if that’s a good idea or not. So far, I don’t regret this spur of the moment decision, although I do miss Doug, the voice from the old answering machine. He is now a Donna, and she will inform me in a pleasant voice that so-and-so is calling. It’s kind of nice to hear another voice when I’m home alone. On the other hand, I can’t exactly engage her in conversation. I really do need to get out more … although I should probably have my cell phone with me. Anyone seen my charger? Or my cell phone?

Optic vs. Otic: Lesson Learned

Well, I did it. I put EAR drops in my EYE today. I know. Join the club, right? Who hasn’t done that at some point in his or her life? Ear drops in the eye. HA! Silly me. What do you mean you read the labels?

I read labels too, but I missed the letter P. Otic. Optic. One little letter can make the difference between relief from scratchy eyes and a whole lot of pain!

First off, let me explain that I keep a bottle of eye drops along with a few other medicines, in the kitchen for convenience. Because my eyes are dry, I never know when I’m going to need to put drops in. This afternoon, they were not only dry, but scratchy too, particularly my left one. Thinking that perhaps I was getting the start of a stye, I picked up a bottle, squinted at it, nodded approval and squeezed a drop into the problematic eye. If I thought I was in discomfort from the stye, let me tell you that I flew from the kitchen, through the living room and into the bathroom faster than if I were being chased by the four horsemen of the Apocalypse on speed, with my eye screaming at me, “I’M ON FIRE!”

I’ll take the stye any day.

The pain of it literally – yes, I mean literally, not figuratively – took my breath away. As I stood in front of the bathroom sink, splashing water into my eye, I couldn’t breathe. Panic attacks tend to do that to a person.

Splash. Splash. Splash. Am I blind? My biggest fear is coming true! And I did it to myself! Don’t let me be blind.

Splash. Splash. Splash. Oh, thank God, my high blood pressure pills are working or I’d be lying here dead on the floor of a stroke or a heart attack.

Splash. Splash. Splash. Water’s running down my sleeve and my neck. I hate that!

Splash. Splash. Splash. I need to call my husband. No, maybe I should go to the emergency room. I can’t drive myself to the emergency room if I’m blind. Blind people can’t drive! What’s that blurry thing over there? Oh, Thank God, I’m not blind. Hubby, I did something really stupid. Splash.

I’ve had more fun during a colonoscopy, but at least my inner Drama Queen had a party.

So all evening, I’ve been nursing my left eye. Right now, I can see just fine, even though my eye is very tired. (As I typed that, I realized that my vision was blurry, so I cleaned my glasses. It’s all good now.)

My eye has gone from flaming red with veins that I could feel against my eyelid to pale flamingo pink and mild discomfort. After flushing it all evening, I think I’ll survive, and so will my vision.

Optic versus otic. Darn that missing P. I won’t make that mistake again. On the plus side, I can’t feel the stye anymore.

Archaic Anna



Anna stopped writing her log,
Deciding to type up a blog;

How did she know
That her fingers would go?

They’re digital, not Anna-log.

Gosh Darn It and Drat

“Come, follow me,” said the blind man to his friend,

Who let himself be led, until the very end.

I don’t have much of a following for “Thoughts, Socks and Jots.” I love it when people do follow me, like a post or let me know that they have read my ramblings, but that doesn’t happen very often. It made me wonder why that is, so I began to think about what makes a blog or a website popular. Not good, mind you, just popular.

Barring the obvious thoughts that I might be a horrible, inconsistent or boring writer, my conclusion (the one I’d rather accept) is that I’m just not hip enough, foul or potty mouthed enough or controversial enough to make a run at serious readership numbers. So, in order to increase my readership, I’m trying something new. I’m going to fill my content with obscenity laden pejoratives, dog gone it. I saw a FaceBook page called, “I f***ing love science.” Well, shoot and poop (hee hee! I just giggled.), that’s a sure winner there. If it has profanity in the title, you know the owner must be someone pretty cool. Science must be awesome for someone to love it enough to use foul language over it, and this person must be awesome too, to be able to use that word in the name of the blog without fear of repercussions from old biddies like me. Drat! I’m just not comfortable enough to use that kind of language. Gosh, darn it all anyway!

I suppose I could get controversial in my posts. I’ve seen sites where the author tells people to go “love themselves some science” if they don’t like his website. That’s so cool! I wish I had the courage to be so controversial. The closest I’ve come to controversy was when I voiced my opinion that the Packers did the right thing by letting Brett Favre go. And I might have something to say if Maks and Meryl don’t win “Dancing With the Stars” tomorrow night. I’ll take a wait and see ‘tude on that one. So, as you can tell, I’m not controversial. Nor am I foul mouthed, dad gum it. I’m just so not cool. Neither is my blog.

I’m BORING, People. I’M JUST PLAIN BORING! I suppose I could spice things up and write about sex, but that’s not going to happen. Nothing boring there (wink wink); I’m just not going to write about it.

So then, what do I want to do with this gosh darned blog? I want to intercourse me some science too. I want to be opinionated and not care what other people think. I want to scream profanities into the internet and have someone scream them back at me, just like the cool kids do. But I’m not cool. I’m a dadburn old lady stuck in her dadburn old ways. No profanity from me, no controversy, no drunk Tweeting or blogging, not even any sexual innuendo unless you count “intercourse me some science.”

I’m not all the things that make a person cool these days. I’m not young. I’m not gay. I’m not atheist. I don’t rap. I’m out of touch with the lingo of kids these days. I’ll never have a viral video. I don’t think this blog will ever be popular, but if you’re looking for a safe place, where a little bit of humor or inspiration goes a long way, you might have found it. Let me know if you have, okay? I’ll be over here in the corner washing my mouth out with a double chocolate chip cookie.

Honesty – The Mayo Effect


What do we gain from being honest? When is it okay to be honest and when is it not? If you are honest once, do you have to be honest all the time? And what does that have to do with mayonnaise?

Here’s what got me thinking about this. I went through the drive-through at a fast food place the other night. My bill came to 22 dollars and some odd cents, so I pulled out a twenty and a five and handed them over to the drive-through window guy. Now, I’m not unfamiliar with drive-throughs. Cooking is really not my thing anymore and it shows on my waistline. Healthy food versus convenience. I’m afraid convenience has beaten down healthy foods with a pointy stick.

There are several reasons for this, the biggest being that my Significant Otter has a very limited diet. I fondly remember the days when I liked to cook. I remember the creativity that I used to use to expand recipes into near culinary masterpieces, or at least a perfectly edible meal. I remember the spices and aromatics wistfully. I remember the tomato products that simmered on the stove. I remember the dairy, the eggs, the mayonnaise, gone but not forgotten. I remember all of these, until the memories of a sick Otter rear their ugly heads. These days, a little mayo will KO him faster than a prize fighter.

So, I’ve retired my “Joy of Cooking” cookbook and will often schlepp to the fast food places that seem to bother his system less than my cooking does. Oh, the guilt! I can hear the judge now. “You’re on trial for assaulting your Significant Otter. How do you plead?” “I’m innocent, Your Honor. It wasn’t salt. It was cinnamon.”

Long story short (Oops. Too late for that.), I went through a drive-through the other night, handed the worker $25 for a $22 order and got $18 back in change. That was just wrong.

I’ve dealt with this cashier in the past and he’s very proficient at his job, despite the fact that I always check my order before I leave. That’s the line cook’s fault. What’s so hard to remember about no mayo? But that’s another rant. Anyways … I looked at the change in my hand and asked, “What did I hand you?”

I was pretty sure it was $25, but he replied, “$40.”

Shaking my head, I said, “No, I’m pretty sure it was a twenty and a five.”

He opened his drawer, picked up two bills from the tray, and lo and behold, under the top twenty was a five dollar bill. Of course, I gave him the change back, and he gave the correct change. That just felt right.

He handed out my order which consisted of one small bag, one large bag with three smaller bags in it, plus an additional small bag. It seemed like a lot at the time, but I didn’t think much of it.

As I usually do, I got my order and pulled into a parking stall to check to make sure that no dastardly mayo had snuck into my S.O.’s sandwich. Finding his sandwich meant looking through all five bags. As I peered into the fifth bag, I realized that it didn’t belong to us. It was someone else’s order. Hmmm….

I was already kind of tired from the change snafu. I was hungry. Late afternoon and early evening are my low energy times, so I just wanted to go home and eat. And I was tired of having to have this particular place remake my Otter’s sandwich more times than I can count. (My, what a sad commentary on how much we eat their food. But again, that’s a whole other rant.)

Really and truly, as I sat in the car, contemplating this extra bounty that had come our way, I just wanted to drive off. After all, they had messed up my change, and I had been honest about it, right? Didn’t they owe me this extra meal in some entitled kind of way? Obviously, they would never miss it, and ultimately, they would have to throw it out even if I did return it. Right? Right?? So I should just go home and split the extra goodies with my family. It sounded like a good plan to my tired self, until …

… Until I began to reflect on what had just transpired at the drive-through window. I asked myself a simple question. Did I really feel that I could pick and choose when to be honest and do the right thing? How could I justify being honest with my change one moment and then drive off with food that I hadn’t ordered in the next. And what did that say about me if I did?

For a lot of people, honesty might have flown out the window when they were handed $15 more change than they were entitled to. For others, they might have returned the change and driven off with the extra meals. And every one of them would have justified their actions with the “big corporation versus little people” mentality or the “I deserve this” mentality or the “If God didn’t want me have this, He wouldn’t have put it in my hands” mentality. Yeah, not me. Dummy. I even argued with myself that the food was going to be tossed in the trash anyway, so why let it go to waste? But I couldn’t get past the fact that I hadn’t paid for it. Nor could I forget that I had just been extremely honest not five minutes before with that extra money. Was I going to be honest only when it was convenient for me to be? Hmmm…

That would have been like giving my Significant Otter a sandwich without mayonnaise at one meal, and then giving him a sandwich with mayonnaise for the next meal. His entire system would have been thrown out of whack. He needs consistency in his diet, much like I need to be consistent in my honesty in order to keep my moral system from getting out of whack. The Mayo Effect.

I parked the car, grabbed the extra bag and marched into the restaurant. I handed the extra bag to the front counter cashier and explained that it wasn’t my order. Perhaps I could have been clearer with my explanation because she proceeded to ask me what it was that I had ordered. I had to explain three times that no, no, I have my completed order and it was good, but that this bag didn’t belong to me. I didn’t pay for it, therefore, I’m returning it to you. When it finally sunk in, her eyes widened and she looked at me like I had sprouted antlers and a big red nose. It’s true. Integrity changes a person.

Anyway, once she understood that I was returning food that wasn’t mine, she thanked me and beamed about what an honest person I was. I had restored her faith in the good of humanity. I smiled, ducked sideways through the door so as to not damage my antlers and brushed off my super-cape on the way to my car, content with my decisions. I could live with my conscience intact for a while longer.

Did I do the right thing? I think I did, but it certainly makes me think. Are we honest all the time, or do we tend to be honest only when it’s convenient? Or only when the possibility of being caught exists? I could have gotten away with $15 and a bag of free food, but knowing me, I would have guilt choked on the meal as I ate it. I’m not the world’s most honest person, but I try. Tonight, I think I ‘did good.’

And so did the fast food place: there was no mayo on my otter’s sandwich!

To Sleep; Perchance To Catch Some Zzzzzz


I think Shakespeare said it best when he said, “To hell with the Globe Theatre. Anne, warm up the second best bed and give thine husband snuggles.”*

Despite what I’m pretty sure is an almost direct quote from the great man himself, this post is not about Hamlet and Moor sleep. It about why I am wide awake at the crack of dawn.

For many of you, that’s the norm. For me, it is not. I’m a night owl. While all the other houses on our street are “lights out” at 10 or 11 o’clock, our lights are generally blazing into the night until 1 or 2 o’clock or later depending on when my daughter works. I think of our house as a deterrent to crime: “With lights a-blazin’, thieves won’t be brazen.” That’s from a nursery rhyme or maybe Dr. Seuss or Mr. Rodgers. I love to reference things. Sometimes, I’m even right.

Optimally, seven to seven and a half hours makes me a happy camper, but lately, I’ve been waking up early. Today, I beat all my records. Asleep at 1; awake at 5; up at 6, wide awake. This morning, as I lay in the dark, my mind churned with a list of all I want to accomplish today – chores, grocery shopping. In the words of Ben Franklin, Jr., “Late to bed, early to rise, makes a man jumpy, grumpy and approaching him unwise because he will take you down like a frog on flies.” His dad couldn’t have said it better.

The sun is up, I’m awake, breakfast has been eaten. I’m ready to start my day, but I’m not necessarily happy about it. On the plus side, I got to see my husband before he went to work. He’s used to getting up between 5 and 6, but my usual vision of him is through a gauzy filter of barely opened eyes as he rouses me from sleep to say good-bye.

Since it’s Good Friday, we have church this evening. I hope someone gives me a nudge if I fall asleep during the service. But it’s okay; I can sleep in tomorrow. I’ll have to double check my Bible, but I’m sure somewhere it says, “Blessed are the poor in sleep habits, for their alarm is at eleven.”

Happy and blessed Easter to you all.

*Shakespeare’s will indicates that his wife was to receive “my second best bed.” There are two schools of thought on this: 1.) that this was a slight to his older wife, Anne, indicating the rocky nature of their 30 year marriage, or 2.) this was an extremely intimate gesture on his part, since most wealthy people kept a guest bed which was rarely used unless they had company. The second best bed would have been the marital bed.