Tag 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!

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.

Chicago Spring Sing-a-Long

Spring? What’s that? One day it’s in the 60’s; the next, it’s back down in the 20’s. Sometimes, a woman’s just got to take a Chicago song and twist it around into a parody to fit her mood. Sing along.


Waiting for this spring to break,
Searching for crocus to wake.
Flashing wings against the sky;
Are those robins I do spy?
Grabbed a coat, went out the door –
25 or 64?

Wearing loafers on my feet,
Getting stuck in snow drifts deep;
Wanting just to wear my shorts;
Winter has me out of sorts.
Should I try to wear capris
When it’s 25 degrees?

Looking at this winter scene,
Hardly any sign of green,
Searching for a get-away,
Somewhere warm and faraway.
25 or 64,
Florida or Jersey Shore?

When Men Wore Hats

Hubs and I were sitting in Arby’s today, eating our Sunday lunch and talking about today’s church service. It’s our usual routine. Church, lunch, chat. A little people-watching always goes along with that, as we share communion of Arby’s sandwiches with our fellow man … and woman. I love to observe people. I don’t do it to judge; I do it because they interest me. Today, I watched a larger, middle-aged woman in stretch capris and a pink hoodie order food with a small man in green shorts over black sweat pants and orange socks. A man dressed all in tattered black proved that he could indeed mix colors by showing me his upper butt crack. Pasty white on black – the “in” colors of 2014. (Okay, butt crack always makes me judge a little.) A tidy older woman with coifed hair and blue jeans came in, followed by a family with four children who hadn’t visited a bathtub in a week. We see all kinds during our Sunday ritual.

On this particular Sunday, Hubs had performed double duty for choir. He had sung with his all men’s singing group for our first service. When they perform, they wear suits and matching ties. Men looking dapper – mmm, gotta love it. So, when the full chancel choir entered the sanctuary for the second service, a number of the men who sang at the first service were also present in the full choir for the second service. As I sat in the back pew (where every good Christian sits) and watched the choir enter, I was impressed by how classy and well-groomed they looked. In our laid-back church, people wear whatever they want. Most of the time, it’s dressy casual, but there’s always a mix of blue jeans and suits. To see that many suits all at once in the choir loft was a real treat.

At lunch, after the obligatory, covert people-watching, Hubs and I discussed the morning’s service. I mentioned how well-groomed the men in the choir had looked. Hubs agreed. I was about to remark about how slovenly society in general had become when I happened to glance around the restaurant. I saw the lady in pink and her companion on one side of us and the family with the kids on the other. If I had said that remark, even though it was a general one, I would have insulted most of the people in the restaurant, so I shut my trap.

Perhaps it’s me. I’ve been told that I’m too prissy for my own good, but to me, it just means that I hold myself to a standard of appearance that makes me comfortable. But I have to wonder when society began to believe that all forms of dress are appropriate at all times. Frankly, I blame the leisure suit.

I grew up in a time where a person wore his or her Sunday best to church. We dressed, and we dressed well. I remember playing with the fox stole of the prim, elderly woman who sat in front of us. The mouth clipped onto the tail, and the young me, maybe 6 or 7, would stroke the fox, petting it. When was the last time you saw a fox stole in church?


The ladies wore hats and never removed them. The men wore hats and always removed them. Suits and ties were de rigueur. My dad shined his shoes with tins of Kiwi polish every Saturday night. Dressed to the nines, we worshipped God in style.

Where has that mentality gone? I remember the first time a woman dared to wear dress slacks to church in the ‘70s. Titters and gasps rippled through the congregation as she walked down the center aisle to her pew. You’d have thought she was wearing slacks designed by Satan himself. The first time I wore dress slacks to church, I felt like I was sinning, so ingrained was the idea of wearing dresses for worship. Nowadays, I’ll admit to wearing jeans too, but they’re nice jeans. You know, the ones that aren’t ripped and still bleed dye in the wash. I can’t even tell you the last time I wore a dress. Or a hat and fox stole.

Today at church, it was refreshing to see that many men in suits and ties. I think it’s only right that if we are going to give God our best, then we should dress in our best. But then, does He really care what we wear when we’re doing His work? After all, John 3:16 does not say, “For God so loved the world of fashion, that He gave His only Son a Rolex, and whosoever believeth in His dress code shall have eternal good taste.” I still love to see a well-dressed person, so maybe a dress code for life wouldn’t be a bad idea, but it would certainly make people-watching at Arby’s a lot less interesting.

Confessions of a Jewelry Junkie

I’m a jewelry junkie. There. I said it! I confess that when it comes to jewelry, I’m a total taker. I lurves me my jewelry, and I proved it last Wednesday night by single-handedly enabling my jewelry consultant to trade up to a mid-sized sedan. Yes, I have a jewelry consultant of my very own. I’m so much of a jewelry junkie that my consultant has me on speed dial. We’ve discussed adding her name to my bank account. I’m in her will as the beneficiary of all her jewelry. You see, I go to parties and order jewelry from a catalog. It’s a sickness. I need my fix. If I can’t attend a jewelry party, I order it over the phone. Like pizza. I can’t help myself. I’m sick, I tell you! I’m sick! I’m also very happy with this jewelry disease that I’ve caught.

All I have to do is go to a party, try on pretty necklaces and earrings, the likes of which I would have never thought to buy for myself without that little extra “Oooo, that looks so good on you” from other ladies, who are also enjoying the approval of other women at the same time that I am. Then I fork over more money than I should, making the hostess and consultant very happy people, all the while fulfilling my need to please people and decorate my décolletage. Finally, a week later, when the jewelry arrives and I’ve gotten my fix, another invitation comes in the mail, and the cycle of jewelry junkie starts all over again. I’m hooked harder than it is to use an eternity clasp on a three strand necklace. (It’s a jewelry joke from a party. I guess you had to be there.)

Not only have I bought a ton of jewelry for myself and my daughter, but I also bought $400 worth for family Christmas presents, and do you know how happy it made me to give jewelry? It made me very happy! It made my consultant even happier. She’s half-way to her goal of a luxury sedan, thanks to me.

But it also made me a little sad because I didn’t own some of the pieces that I gave away. Boo hoo hoo. So bittersweet to have to wrap up the jewelry joy and send it on its way. Ah, that I could have kept them all. My precious! Are you being appreciated? Are you being worn? Do you lovingly caress the neck of the woman who wears you? Or are you just sitting in a jewelry box, languishing for lack of matching outfit?

There was a jewelry party last night, but I couldn’t go. I don’t understand why people can’t plan these around my schedule. Thursday nights are out, people! But I placed my in absentia order on Wednesday night so the hostess could get some credit for it, so all I can do now is wait. Hopefully, my jewelry will not take long to get here. I ordered a fabulous rose gold and silver necklace out of the catalog that I’m dying to try on. It’s true. I’m an insatiable jewelry junkie. Feel free to send me your unwanted silver or gold lovelies. I’ll take good care of them because I can stop anytime I want. Really, I can! Bwa ah ah! Jewelry!!! Mine. All MIIIIIINE!

Ahem. The first step to getting better is admitting that there’s a problem. So, once I receive my new necklace, I should probably think about attending Jewelry Lovers Anonymous to fight this addiction. But not until I order the darling matching earrings.


Similar To Being Christian?


After I ‘liked’ a post today, these are the things that FaceBook suggested as being “Similar to being Christian.” Really? MSN?