I Have a Serious Issue with Putting Socks in the Dryer

As part of a full load, I can put into the washer 6 complete pairs of in-tact, women’s socks. 

By the time I pull them from the dryer I have 4 socks that match based on color only, 3 socks that could match based on size (depending on how far you stretch them), 2 socks with holes in the toe and 1 with a hole in the heel, 1 men’s sock, 2 pairs that could go together, if you don’t mind stripes vs. plaid.......and 3 bobby pins. 

Don’t get me wrong, I love surprises; but I prefer my surprises to come in the form of a sudden drop in gas prices, an unexpected visit from an old friend or a $5 bill found in the pocket of a winter jacket. 

This experience is more like one of those games at a county fair midway where you pay to play the game, hoping for a signed 8x10 glossy of Lori Morgan and you walk away with a knock-off nightlight with a unicorn on it - one that will likely burn your house down if you give it the opportunity. 

Terribly mismatched socks or a unicorn nightlight fire hazard......No one wants that, even for their worst enemy.

Property Value

I’m proud of where I come from. Granted, I grew up about three miles south of Greens Fork and spent very little time in this town of 363 folks. The town has two claims to fame: Firstly, childhood home of outlaw Johnny Ringo and secondly, home to the largest drug bust in the state...until meth came along and took that title away from us. We generally stick with only telling people about Ringo; the second claim just doesn’t have much “substance” anymore. But even though I’m a proud resident, I surprised even myself when I moved back - in to the town - of Greens Fork after leaving Washington DC. This tiny burg is full of “characters”, many of which you’ll meet along my journey, and recently I had an interesting conversation with yet another...

I was walking to my mailbox to get my mail when I heard a neighbor yell my name. 

Right out of his garage walks Pete, my harmless, very helpful handy-man neighbor.  Pete knew the ins and outs of my property before I bought it - the year it got new windows, the reason the flag pole leans and the exact acreage of the yard. After about 30 seconds of small talk, Pete begins walking across my yard to the area where (I’ve noticed) it dips a bit. 

“You know this house used to utilize this dry well we’re standing on right now.” 

Dry well? Not only did I not remember reading about this in my real estate contract, I had no idea the function of a dry well. I was quickly informed. 

“Oh yeah, they quit using it years ago, probably around ‘85. But they still dumped every one of their damn cats and dogs in that well when they expired over the years. Has to be at least 11 carcasses down there, I'd say probably 4 dogs and probably 6 cats (you do the math) - not to mention all of their tacky chew toys and yarn balls.”

Back the Fork up - there are dead pets buried in my yard? 
Obviously a little freaked out, Pete just throws his head back and laughs, and tells me he’s very serious....just before he crosses back into his own yard, still laughing. 

I just stood there with my Real Simple magazine in hand. In shock. Not only had I bought a cute, quaint house on the edge of town, I bought a turfed-over, covered-up, full-fledged, pet cemetery. One, that in my expert paranoid opinion, is caving in (I am the one who push-mows the yard in fear of twisting an ankle when I pass over the Tomb of the Unknown Rover).

Now, Dixie is extremely nervous.

I’d like to thank Pete for really freaking me out, helping me realize the true value of my property (who doesn’t want a little house with a large yard with room for your newly adopted 10-11 dead pets to play?) and enabling me to waste an entire evening leaving after-hours messages at concrete businesses. 

I don’t even like cats.