Wow. Yall have blown me away with the whole sock thing. I never would have guessed that I would be shot down so unanimously sock wear would elicit such enthusiastic responses.
It’s clearly the issue of our times.
In fact, I fully expect President Obama to address it in tomorrow’s State of the Union Address. And certainly, it goes without saying, one should never wear business socks with holes. Quelle Horreur! (I do have some standards you know.)
And to flog a horse, that if not dead, is at this point in mortal danger of expiring (name that movie!), part of my sock frustration stems from the fact that – for reasons that defy the laws of physics – Somanna wears out socks far more rapidly than what I suspect is normal. I rarely require new threads (and not because I keep holey ones. I checked after the last post, lest you judge, and only 3 out of 15 pairs of socks had holes in them. So Ha!)
Alas, my beloved goes through socks a lot faster than he does women (fortunately), which means a sock has a shelf life of a few months, tops. So it feels like we’re constantly turning around and replacing the replacement socks.
But I suppose somewhere in the fine print of the marriage contract is a stipulation about accepting the responsibility for your partner’s soles’ well-being. I thought it was a typo, ha HA – sorry. So yada, yada, yada, we buy new socks, roll our eyes and we move on.
(Although, I really could go on about this subject, mostly because I’m intrigued. How does one dust with a sock? I’m more of a square rag girl myself. Do you wear it like a mitten? On one or both hands? If it has holes how do you keep the cleaning product from getting on your skin? These questions – and the stupid f*&#$ing cats – have kept me up at night. Please illuminate me.)
But alas, I suspect that’s not why you dropped by today Dear Reader, now is it? Nay, you have undoubtedly stopped by to hear (read?) the latest tale of innate moronic-ness displayed by your ever lovable heroine, Peaches.
I shall no doubt deliver. This one is so good, I’m writing it down for all of posterity. And to also cement in my memory the experience so that I WILL NEVER TO DO THIS AGAIN!
Recently, I stopped to fill up the car with gas following a friend-date viewing of Black Swan – which OMG by the way is so *crazy* good. Emphasis on good. And kkk-Razy!
Anyhoos, while gabbing away on the cell phone like Cher in Clueless, I attempted to operate the gas pump. It only took three card swipes this time, before realizing that the card needs to face the other way in order to appease the gas pump gods’ card reader. I turned the card around, swipededy swipe,Voila! We’re in business. Now I just need to select the gas grade of my choice – have I over explained this process enough? Thought so.
I think it goes without saying that I elected for regular as I have fully demonstrated on this blog with extensive evidence that we are
cheap punks, ahem frugal folk.
I pressed the regular button. Then I pressed it again. And again, only this time pausing to hold down the button a little longer. Then I really pressed it and performed a much-needed calf stretch while counting to twenty.
It no work.
Then I pressed all up and down the little strip of regular and still:
It no work.
Aggravated that I now have to walk six feet into the actual store and speak to an actual person, I head inside to request the clerk’s assistance. The clerk follows me back to the pump, where he assesses the situation in his official capacity.
He lifts the handle ……… and puts the gas pump into the gas tank.
Then, he chooses “regular.” Ding!
It now work.
That’s not so bad, I hear you chuckling. We all have frazzled moments like that where we’re trying to multitask too much and we feel a bit on edge thanks to psychotic ballerinas and freaky black swans (possibly) lurking in the shadows of sketchy gas stations.
I appreciate your reassurance. I do. Really, it’s very sweet.
I counter it with this:
That’s the second time I’ve done that.
(This is where you laugh and I go to my bedroom and cry.)