Socks cause all sorts of problems, don't they? Or is it just in our house? Can't be, because Rich Hall had a sniglet for socks:
Hozone: (hō'zōn') noun, That mysterious place where one sock always seems to end up after doing laundry.
Remember sniglets? The 1980s seriously rocked.
But back to socks. I have accummulated a pile of 18 individual socks whose mates are on vacation in the Hozone.
Socks don't just get lost; they get dirty, worn out, mismatched, holey, and eaten. Yes, eaten. Daisy suffers from sockphagia, or an uncontrollable desire to shred and consume socks until the loony sufferer is taken to the veterinarian to have an upper-GI charcoal enema that costs hundreds of dollars.
Perhaps those 18 missing socks aren't in the Hozone after all.
The sock is such a simple thing, woven threads with a toe and a turned heel, easily and cheaply mass produced by oppressed people in China. Yet a lack of socks almost caused my 12-year-old to miss the bus this morning, with all the attendant drama only a sleep-deprived 12-year-old can generate.
You should know that two days ago, I handed him a brand new bag containing six pairs of ankle socks I found when unpacking a box of clothes. He put the whole bag either in the Hozone or the dog's food dish. Whatever. It's gone now, and he had to wear a pair of my Lady Hanes ankle socks with the pink toe.
This weekend, we're buying the boy some flip flops for those Hozone emergencies. Thank goodness for global warming.
What thing can you, your spouse, or your children never find when it's needed?