Pinky's Book Link

Friday, March 8, 2013

Pinky's Puzzling Questions (the first in the series)

I was watching my husband Scotto cleaning out his undie drawer the other day and I noticed he had laid out thirteen unmatched socks on the bed. 

Where are the missing socks? 

I know this is an age old quandary so one day after a few wines I came up with an ingenious idea. Why don’t sock manufacturers include little Velcro dots somewhere on each sock so you could stick them together before you put them in the washing machine. 
Inspired by the thought of instant wealth and motivated by dry, crisp chardonnay I banged off an email to a sock manufacturer. 

They replied to my innovative idea with an email that basically said 
‘Get stuffed, we have our own marketing department who have marketing degrees (la di da da da) thank you’. 

But seriously, where do those missing socks go? 
Why do our men get addicted to the Bureau of Meteorology (B.O.M.)? Scotto has formed an unhealthy relationship with the B.O.M. I will be standing observing the cloudless, blue sky out of the window in the morning while Scotto reads out the weather forecast from the website. 

“It’s going to be a fine day, no rain.” he declares. 

You think? 
When they forecast rain or storms and they don’t materialise, Scotto (who comes from Melbourne and hates our dry climate) becomes incensed; swearing at his computer and upsetting the dog. 

“Where’s the bloody rain?” he will rage. “They said there was a ninety per cent chance of a storm. Bloody liars!”

What are they putting in sunscreen these days? Taking my class to swimming lessons on the school bus last week the bus driver made the kids sit on their towels. Apparently the sunscreen saps the colour out of the bus seats. What is it doing to a ten year old’s skin then? This puzzling question reminds me of the other night when I accidentally used a Pine o Clean wipe on my face instead of a Dove towelette. It did a good exfoliation job but it stung a bit.

Why do men need so many condiments? When Scotto tags along on shopping expeditions he throws in every sauce imaginable. Tomato Ketchup, Barbeque, Smoked Barbeque, Cajun Seasoning, Chicken Salt, Thousand Island dressing, Peri Peri sauce, you name it. 
Is my cooking really that bad?

Why are teenagers so forgetful? It’s almost as if the fifteen to nineteen year olds are sleepwalking their way through life. Eighteen year old Padraic will climb into my car on the way to football training and listen to his iPod the entire twenty minute journey not saying a word to me. When we arrive he’ll look confused as to how he arrived at this point, turn to me and say, “I forgot my footy boots.” Where did he think he was going?