When people tell you who they are, believe them. 

The PedEgg, part mini cheese grater, part plastic easter egg, promises to grind your callous feet out of their disgrace and into the green pastures of feminine beauty. It's on sale at CVS and I might buy it. But I'm afraid I would try to use it for other things, like grating nutmeg. And then I wouldn't be able to remember what I used it for last and before you know it I have flesh and raisin muffins. It's a slippery slope. 

I have trouble with the whole pedicure-at-home idea. Pedicures only work when all the elements are together-- broken vinyl La-Z-Boy, weird knee massage, chemical headache. If you do it at home, it's just painting your nails. Real pedicures live in strip malls and give you cancer. And we love them for that. 

In a related story, I have it from a good source that as recently as the 1950's, the fishermen in the Chagos Archipelago would cultivate massive callouses on their feet and saw them off ad hoc to use as fish bait. 

Do you see where I'm going with this? If you go hiking, and find yourself stranded in the wilderness, and need to eat, and come across a freshwater lake, you might be glad you left your feet alone. ​

As I was driving home yesterday, I thought I heard the ominous shooka shooka of a  rattlesnake in the backseat.  But it was worse:  The cheap tinfoil on my party leftovers was jangling at a fever pitch, threatening to break loose and unleash neon cake frosting and double garlic pesto sauce onto the upholstery.  In those moments, no matter the crisis in the back seat, the driver cannot abandon post.  You don't want to spook the other cars so you bear down, keep your hands on the steering wheel, put on your game face and soldier forward in spite of the completely disastrous situation unfolding right behind you.  The show must go on. 

A few weeks ago I saw a belly dance performance.  As the beaming sorceress shimmied and sashayed, clacked her finger bells and whipped her hair into a trance, the live snake which was wrapped around her chest flicked his tongue, winked, and made a beeline for her backside.  Listen:  His head disappeared completely behind her.  It happened fast, and it was not subtle.  I saw it.  

But this gritty goddess, ever the professional, grinned even harder, took a deep dark breath, and continued to dance for us with a renewed fervor, her tattered, barely-there tribal skirt snaking and rattling in an unholy rhythm around her trembling hips.  As the music ground to a halt, her arms swooped into the air as if to cast one last spell, and I could have sworn that she locked her glowing fire eyes with mine, as if to say, "Girlfriend, we got this."  

It takes more than a snake in the backseat to bring us down.  

​Downtown San Diego for "bush in a box"!

10. Proves that they are pure socks, nothing added. Just whole sock, straight from the sock tree, the way Mother Nature intended it. 

9. Delays inevitable death and decay.

8. In case you don't want to wear the whole seven-pair package at once, the rest can be stored in the freezer for up to two months. Wear as desired. Garnish with shoes. 

7. If you live on a houseboat and accidentally drop the package overboard while trying to load your on-deck dresser, the socks will not get wet.

6. Just add a handle and you have a little sock purse that goes wherever you go-- gym, restaurant, bank. Can also be engineered as a fanny pack for a trip to Disneyland. Anyone want a churro? Anyone want a pair of fresh socks?

5. Deters roommates and family members from stealing your socks by forcing them to grapple with tricky ziplock mechanism.

4. When all socks have been worn, package can be reused to pack a sandwich for your favorite middle schooler. They'll love it when their friends ask about the lady on the front wearing ankle socks and an undershirt!

3. Keeps the inside air in and the outside air out. And all is right with the world. 

2. Ensures that the last sock worn is just as fresh as the first one. Every time. 


And the #1 reason my socks come in a resealable ziplock package.....................

Because Hanes truly cares about me. 
Which is more than I can say for General Mills.  

(Why isn't the bag inside the cereal box resealable?  Can I get an amen??)
​

​I'm not aimlessly swerving in and out of my lane like a drunk. I have changed my mind several times in the past few seconds based on new information that occurred to me or that I made up.

​Me to my hair: Whose team are you on? Are you on my team? Because you're not even trying. You need to wake up before noon on workdays or I'm bringing in a wig.

​[To be sung slowly, with feeling.] They can say anything they want to say. They can do anything they want to do. But I have secured an appointment with the Department of Motor Vehicles and they can't take that away from me. Because I printed the confirmation.

​My subconscious is mostly mattress ad jingles.

​I'm guessing if the man in front of me could take one item with him onto a desert island it would be his hairspray.