Perhaps it is the relative closeness to Halloween, but something is amiss in my house. I discovered yesterday that I have more dirty socks than I have purchased.
I only wear one kind of sock, (and before everyone writes in and asks if I have a foot fetish, the answer is no! a sock post and a blog about a toe do not a fetish equate!), which is kind of weird. But I know they only come in six packs and I buy a set about every three months.
There are too many socks in my house. And no matter the pace I just can’t get on the positive side of clean socks! My life is a Pandora’s box of complexity as it is, why can’t I just have socks go missing like a normal person. No. Mine breed like creatures of the night in my front load dryer which in and of itself is a contraption designed by a twenty first century Dr. Frankenstein.
My dryer sings. Or actually it belts out a little tune when the clothes is dry. And it refuses to toss the clothes one more time if it senses that the clothes have already reached a certain temperature that it sees fit to call 'finished'. Who the hell thought it was a good idea to let machines make decisions?
As I contemplated that question, I ran to my computer to update all of my friends on Facebook. That’s when I noticed that a slew of people who looked like porn stars were suddenly being suggested to me as friend candidates. The ‘People You May Know’ column was filled with shirtless and ab-stunning men.
Now, I know who I know and I don’t know any of these people. In fact, I don’t think that people with bodies that stunning actually exist. It’s part of some marketing ploy, an airbrushing of my sexual senses to trick me into clicking a link so I can buy something that is designed to halt a dysfunction or prevent more of my hair from falling out of the wrong places.
I know when I was younger people like that didn’t exist. Are these aliens who have landed and taken over the top tier of physical fitness on our planet?
Now, I don’t have any problem with people who work in porn. My goodness I actually did a couple of flicks myself and I actually managed a troop of go go boys back in the nineties. You know how people always say how hard it is to herd cats? Try keeping a dozen coked up strippers on top of a bar at a thousand person dance party.
So my life has devolved into what we called, back when I was dancing on a stool in a pleather thong, domestic bliss. Filled with mysterious socks that randomly appear, machines that have taken all the joy out of housework and social media that simply reminds me that the collection of ten minute ab cd’s I have collected over the years by clicking on links turned out to be as useless as a herd of coked up cats.