almost everyone who has ever worn them has asked this question at one time or another

Have you ever wondered what happened to all the mates to those single socks in your sock drawer?

Mankind has been pondering this mystery for...well, for as long as we've been wearing socks.

Aside from the fact that pairs or sets of objects automatically have a higher probability of being broken up simply due to the law of averages (or maybe it's Murphy's Law - I can never remember), single socks seem to disappear at a much higher rate than say, shoes or chopsticks. Everyone I know who has ever worn socks has eventually had one sock in a pair go missing, and usually they are never to be seen again. So where do they all go? And why socks? We've all seen the occasional single shoe on the freeway entrance ramp and wondered how it got there, but given the sheer number of missing socks people deal with in everyday life, the entrance ramps should be knee deep in them, right? Yet they're not in evidence anywhere.

(photo borrowed from here)

This conundrum has been puzzling me for some time now, so I've done what every other self-respecting person in the 21st century would do: I googled "missing socks".

It's a marvelous tool, Google. Back in the middle of the last century, my father was an editor and my mother was a teacher, and I grew up in a family where everyone was well-versed in the art of research. By around the age of six, all the Russell kids were expected to be able to look up words in the dictionary, and by the age of nine, capable of going to the library and conducting more in-depth research as needed. Fact checking is second nature to us Russells. Yet, Google did not exist back then, and Dad would have scoffed at the very notion of being able to type in a question and access more answers than you could imagine, but that is a story for another time...

So back to pondering the mystery of the missing socks.

What I found in my googling research is that there exists a wide variety of theories; some are totally out there and wild, but some sound so scientifically plausible and matter of fact that any normal person wouldn't even think to question them.  (Any regular readers of this blog have by now come to realize that normal does not apply here)

Here's what I found:
First up, the standard let's be serious and grounded about this: socks do not just "disappear" theories.

So why is this guy so bored?

• Scientific theory #1: Socks do not get lost in the dryer. The culprit is the washing machine. Supposedly, washing machine repairmen are always being called out to disentangle single socks from washing machine agitators. The recommendation is to put the socks at the very top of the load in the machine so they won't be pushed down to the bottom and tangled under the agitator. Personally, I've never found a missing sock under the agitator and nobody I know has either. And this theory doesn't explain the continuing loss of single socks in the age of front-loaders, which have no agitators at all.
• Scientific theory #2: Again, the washing machine is named as the culprit. If the socks are placed on top of the load, and the washer is overfilled, the socks (and sometimes even underwear) can float over the top of the washer tub when the machine is agitating and get sucked into the pump or get tangled in the motor. Other times they find their way into the drain. Or they can permanently reside  between the washer's basket and the machine housing. This still does not explain why socks go missing in houses with front loaders.
• Scientific theory #3: If you were to go right now and dismantle your dryer, you may find a few single socks, along with some underwear lying in a pile of lint under the dryer's tumbler. The theory is that small items like socks and bikini underpants make their way out of the dryer basket and into the blower housing via an open or loose lint screen. I'm not about to dismantle my dryer to disprove this one, but given the number of socks we've lost over the years, the blower housing would be so full of socks the dryer couldn't possibly work at all.

Now on to the less scientific, more commonly held beliefs:

• Unscientific theory #1: Inside your dryer vent lurks a worm hole, where individual socks are sucked in and spit out on the beach of the Island of Lost Socks. I like to think all my lost socks have been paired up in mixed marriages on a lovely beach somewhere, living happily ever after.
• Unscientific theory #2: Dryers can not only rearrange matter, they are also capable of short-range teleportation; single socks are transformed into coins and end up as spare change under your sofa cushions. Conversely, your lost car keys? They are now dryer lint. I'm not so sure about this one. If this theory were true, we would end up with random single socks we've never seen before.
• Unscientific theory #3: Weekly sacrifices must be made to the Laundry Gods.  This theory states that in order to keep things on an even keel, we must make sacrifices to the angry laundry gods, kind of like the sacrificial virgin being offered up to the angry volcano. Otherwise, by saving the socks by clipping them together or cleverly washing pairs in a mesh laundry bag in the effort to thwart the gods, you may end up inadvertently suffering their wrath. It could be a red t-shirt in a load of whites, or something worse. The laundry gods' wrath is not to be underestimated. What are a few missing socks compared to that?
• Unscientific theory #4: Tiny Ninjas come to steal your socks in the middle of the night. Here's a video explaining it all:

Personally, I have three cats, and I'm still missing socks.

• Unscientific theory #5: Evil Sock Monkeys are stealing socks to create a Sock Monkey Army hell bent on taking over the world. If you don't believe me, check out this photo:

(photo borrowed from this site)

In my research, I've also uncovered some historical evidence covered up for over 70 years, which seems to support this theory:

And I'm not the only one intrigued by this mystery. The Bureau of Missing Socks  is an organization solely devoted to unraveling the mystery of the single disappearing sock (no pun intended).

Of course, there is also some evidence that a new trend could be developing that could combat this age-old single sock problem:

Once celebrities get on the bandwagon, it could no longer be a sign of absent-mindedness or a disorganized household...it's now a Fashion Statement!

I think I'll go and take apart my dryer now.

11111

(photo borrowed from this site)

All Saints Day is a holy day in many Christian religions, commemorating all saints, both known and unknown.
I was raised a Catholic, though as an adult I've adopted a veritable potpourri of spiritual and philosophical beliefs gathered from the tenets of Buddhism, Christianity, Judaism, Hinduism, Islam and Science Fiction. I guess you could consider me a kind of "spiritual freethinker."

I still like the saints, though. My favorite is probably St. Francis of Assisi, the patron saint of both animals and nature. He took a vow of extreme poverty after being raised in relative affluence and tried for the rest of his life to walk in the footsteps of Jesus, promoting peace and love in his every encounter. Francis loved all creatures of the earth and took it upon himself to take care of those less fortunate than himself.  He was known to have preached to hundreds of birds to be thankful to God for their wonderful clothes, for their independence, and for God's care.
He was also a pacifist. During the Fifth Crusade, Francis decided to go to Syria to try and convert the Moslems himself. In the middle of a battle, he decided the simplest thing to do would be to go directly to the sultan to make peace and argue his case. After an apparently persuasive conversation, the sultan told him, "I would convert to your religion--which is a beautiful one--but we would both be murdered." 

I think St. Francis was the original hippie. Maybe that's why I feel so drawn to him.

The Catholic church recognizes many other patron saints-- individuals who are assigned as special protectors or advocates for occupations, situations, or places.  I kind of like the idea that there's a special saint you can ask for help with specific problems...I remember reciting this prayer to St. Anthony of Padua (Patron of Lost Items) when I'd misplaced something as a kid:
"Tony, Tony, please look around; {something} is lost and must be found!"
Invariably, after repeating this prayer over and over, the item would miraculously turn up.

So in the spirit of All Saints Day, and the Catholic tradition, here is a short list of Patron Saints for your edification:
Saint Anxieté  Patron of Impossible Deadlines & Foamy Coffee
Saint Bernardine     Patron of Advertising
Saint Concepta     Patron of Brainstorming and Procrastination
Saint Jude     Patron of Lost Causes and Desperate Situations
Saint Martin de Porres Patron of Hairdressers & Social Justice
Saint Clare of Assisi      Patron of Television
Saint Rita        Patron of the Impossible
Saint Honoré  Patron of Bakers, Florists & Pastry Chefs

Click here for more fascinating information on cool patron saints.

beagle in the house!

 

 Our little Beagle friend Arrow has made himself at home

 for another two week visit.

Wish us luck. I think we'll need it.

w.w.l.d.?*

photo borrowed from this site

Did you know that Judgement Day is scheduled for May 21, 2011?   On that date, it is believed by many that those who are True Believers will be physically transported to Heaven in the Rapture to be judged by God for their Good Deeds. The rest of us have already been deemed incorrigible and will be left behind to experience The End Of The World As We Know It. 

photo borrowed from these folks

This all sounds fine to me. However, I do have a few questions, like:

• What time will the Rapture occur?   I'd really rather not be out on the road when all those True Believers are transported out of their cars to rise up to Heaven. 
• Will dead people really rise from their graves first?   This could make one heckuva mess. 
• When the Last Trumpet sounds to call all the faithful, what happens to the faithful who are deaf?   Maybe the Lord will have hand signals or flashing lights or something. 
• What will happen to all the pets?

The last question really is valid. What will happen to all the poor pets who have no souls? Is there a doggie heaven? Could the faithful really leave their pets to perish in all good conscience?

*What Would Lassie Do?

These questions have been nagging at me, so I've looked into this matter, and I've found that there is actually an organization devoted solely to the care of pets left behind in the Rapture. It seems a group of dedicated animal lovers, who also happen to be confirmed card-carrying atheists, are offering to adopt (for a small fee, of course) the pets of Christians expected to be transported to Heaven.

Eternal Earth Bound Pets are currently active in 26 states, now including even Illinois and Iowa. Unfortunately, they are not equipped to to accommodate all species and limit their services to dogs, cats, birds, rabbits and small caged mammals. (Sorry, no reptiles!) If you live in NH, VT, ID or MT, they can now also offer rescue services for horses, camels, llamas and donkeys.

They do have a few conditions, such as:

•  If  subscriber loses his/her faith and/or the Rapture occurs and subscriber is not Raptured (aka  is "left behind") EE-BP disclaims any liability; no refund will be tendered. 
• Should a relative residing within the rescue location not be Raptured and opts to retain the pet(s), EE-BP will not take possession of the pet(s).  No refund will be tendered. 

So, now our Christian friends can be swept up in the Rapture with a clear conscience, knowing their beloved pets will be cared for... 

And me? Well, all I can say is, it's the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine.


Disclaimer: I'm pretty sure Eternal Earthbound Pets has never heard of me, and this is not an endorsement of their services.

word week, day three

The power of words, continued...

Would you buy a used car from this man?

clement clarke moore is rolling in his grave right about now...

'Twas two days after Christmas, and all 'round Camp Cactus

Not a creature was stirring...they were all out of practice;

The stockings were emptied, the presents unwrapped,

Just recycling the paper left our energy sapped.

Girl child and puppy cuddled snug in a chair,

Whilst commercials on TV continued to blare;

And Poppa in his rocker, a cat in his lap,

Had just settled down for a little nightcap,

When out on the porch there arose such a clatter,

Cat sprang from his perch, sending cocktail a-splatter.

Away to the basement he flew like a flash,

As the dogs began barking and got into the trash.

While he hid in the basement, an unearthly light

Lit up our street like Las Vegas at night,

Then, all of a sudden we heard a Bronx cheer,

As the neighbor's bright decor again did appear,
With rope lights and candy canes, and icicles galore,

They had no competition, that was for sure.

(photo borrowed from these guys)

More brilliant than searchlights, those ornaments were,

And they blinked and played music and caused quite a stir;

Blow up Snowman and Snoopy and reindeer aplenty,

And penguins, I swear there were as many as twenty!

Then the cars came! And vendors! And people on foot!

I found myself wishing Christmas would go kaput!

Our street filled with gawkers and kids by the dozens,

All with their cellphones, taking pictures of cousins.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard in the sky,

A TV news 'copter in a prime-time fly-by.

As I closed all the curtains and turned my head 'round,

Through the door a reporter burst in with a bound;

He was dressed in a parka, his news station's logo 

Emblazoned all over, from his head to his big toe;

A microphone clutched in his hand like a club,

The former top newsman was now a poor schlub; 

His eyes -- they looked haunted! his complexion, how scary!

His cheeks were all puffy, his nose like a cherry!

His mouth was a grimace, drawn up like a bow,

And his teeth, oh! his teeth, they were whiter than snow!

The poor man was a wreck, hadn't slept in a week;

And the stress, it showed up in his flabby physique.

He had a broad face and a big ol' round belly,

And his nerves made it shake like a bowl full of jelly.

He was chubby and bent, a right shaky old elf

And I gasped when I saw him, in spite of myself;  

A tick in his eye and a twist of his head,

Soon gave me to know he was just filled with dread;

He asked all his questions, finished his interview,

And fulfilled his damn duty to me and to you,

And laying his microphone down by the door,

He escaped out the back to be seen never more;

But I heard him exclaim, as he fled from the lights,

"Happy Christmas, my ass! This holiday bites!"

with apologies to Clement Clarke Moore

wink wink, nudge nudge...

I've been trying for weeks now to wrap my brain around the Sarah Palin nomination, but no matter how hard I try, gosh darn it, I just can't for the life of me figure out why John McCain would choose as his running mate a rookie governor with almost no real world experience outside of Alaska.

Is it possible that serving as mayor of a small town (pop. 9,000) and briefly as governor of a state whose entire population is smaller than Charlotte, NC gives her a unique perspective among politicians?

Perhaps being geographically situated next door to Canada gives her all the foreign policy experience required by an assistant Commander in Chief?

Or could it be that McCain is thinking a Vice President with good aim who can field dress a moose just might come in handy in case of trouble with the Democratic House and Senate?

It just doesn't make sense. Unless McCain has suddenly developed a case of dementia, I reckon it's all just a big mistake. So after consuming several glasses of wine and surfing the internet for hours, I've come to the conclusion that this must be what happened: Sometime in August after a very long day on the campaign trail, John McCain sits down in front of the TV to enjoy a large bowl of wife Cindy's famous Passion Fruit Mousse (an old McCain family recipe). With a mouth full of mousse, the maverick senator yells at his campaign manager to "Get me Palin!" His trusty campaign manager then kicks turns to a nearby aide and yells, "You heard him, he wants Palin!". The aide in turn, bitch slaps an unpaid intern mucking the horseshit out of McCain's closet, and tells him "The Senator's eating mousse. He wants Palin. Get him Palin!"

This particular intern, still smarting after an unfortunate incident involving recipe research, sees his chance to get back into McCain's good graces. He now understands the importance of fieldwork in politics, and is determined to complete this task with the utmost professionalism and meticulous attention to detail. Upon careful analysis of the aide's order, he googles "Palin, moose", and concludes that the senator wished to discuss the campaign ticket with Alaska's Governor Sarah Palin (moose hunter and hockey mom). He calls the press secretary, who leaks the news to the press, who then descend upon Wasilla in helicopters like bounty hunters going after wolves.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch...the maverick senator is still waiting for the Monty Python video he asked for.

Hmmmm.

And now for something completely different.