Daily Prompt: Game of Groans

Think about an object, an activity, or a cultural phenomenon you really don’t like. Now write a post (tongue in cheek or not — your call!) about why it’s the best thing ever.

At last I can groan about the Daily Prompt and the permanent repetitions without having a guilty complex that others might suffer. This prompt is an invitation to groan about what I want to groan about.. On the other hand I am permanently groaning about the daily prompt. It it boring, lifeless and it seems that the ideas have gone to the daily prompt happy hunting grounds. I was thinking about this yesterday and realised that the daily prompt is probably now running on a machine where actual humans are no longer involved.

We all have computers and if we want to used them we apply a switch somewhere, lights begin to flash, internal noises may occur (I have an Apple so no internal noises) and a fan might be involved somewhere to keep it cool. That is our part of the work. We choose a web site, which probably is already fitted into our tab system and we are ready to go. What are the people on the other side of this wonder work of cybernetic mystery doing? Nothing really, because we have pulled all the right stops. Daily Prompt probably has some sort of random choice programmed integrated in their masterful site. I don’t even think a human is involved. Same time, same place the grid appears showing todays choice of prompt. I am strongly of the opinion that not even the humans (if there are any in the WordPress organisation) know what today’s prompt will be. 

This is very clever. It means that wage bills are reduced to a non existing fact. You do not pay machines to choose the daily prompt as no humans are involved that have to pay taxes, use their brain to decided what to do next or even visit the canteen for the daily hamburger. It all runs on its own.

Somewhere in Silicon valley there is a building where machines are whirring, cogs are turning and various lights are flashing to show that the prompt is arriving. The Daily prompt is no longer a living thing, it is dead. The only living things dealing with the daily prompt are us, the writers. We, who are sweating blood to produce something of interest to show that we are still interested. Some of us even pay for this dead prompt strategy for the privilege of having a .com addition at the end of our website address. I am one of those humans that do this. Even this is automatically added to my credit card once a year. I receive a message that the cost of my .com will be charged to my account. If I no longer wish this to happen I put a cross in a box or something like that. This would mean that my web site would still exist, but without the .com bit at the end. Naturally when you have a .com, it would be a disappointment to lose this, and so like all other computer vegetables I allow this to happen. I am paying a machine to grant me a .com address. Even my felines meowed for a .com and so they have one as well on their own site. 

But I am still here, writing my daily blog. Actually today I have a purpose in my daily prompted life. I must come to a close as I will visit the local garden centre. It is the end of July and my garden needs two rudbeckia plants. I actually bought three this year. One is flowering nicely, the second is thinking about it and the third decided not to appear. I have an appointment with Mr. Swiss in half an hour to visit the neighbouring village of Zuchwill where the garden centre is. How exciting and romantic: holding hands and taking a walk through the garden centre. In the meanwhile to keep everyone happy and to prevent more groans, here is a photo of the rudbeckia plant, taken in the neighbouring bed in the grounds of our apartment. 

WordPress Daily Prompt: Game of Groans

Think about an object, an activity, or a cultural phenomenon you really don’t like. Now write a post (tongue in cheek or not — your call!) about why it’s the best thing ever.

How is it possible that you lose your socks, leave them lying on the stairwell, just forget them. They belong to the foot, not to be draped over a metal bar for all to see. Obviously the person that lost them was on the way from the washing room and they just fell on the wayside: how careless some people can be. I am very fussy about socks. They belong on the feet, in pairs usually. Someone has now only socks for three feet, as these are definitely not paired. It is a disgrace and I am sure we have no extra-terrestrials living in the house. It is a sad state of affairs because he is missing the three socks belonging to his other three feet.

Let me begin from the beginning. I live in a cold country in Winter. Switzerland is known for snow and ice and temperatures that decline below zero at this time. Warm clothing is necessary especially for the feet. Even in the hot summer days socks belong to the cover up of the feet. Some people do not have such pretty feet, so all the more important.

Even socks go through a season of fashion. There was a time when 90% of the men were wearing white socks. It looked quite good, especially with office uniform complete with a white shirt and tie. There was a time when the golf pattern was in, nice diamonds in various colours, ready to wear for putting on the course. They arrive in all sorts of shapes and sizes and colours. Over the years, with the trouser fashion for women, women also began to wear socks, the nylon stockings gradually becoming out of fashion, and they do increase the volume of sweat being synthetic.

So there I was mother of two sons, with a husband and discovered the sock even for myself. I was never a fan of nylons, a good pair of solid socks gave warmth, but there was a small problem. We were a clean family (as most of us are) and so after wearing a pair of socks for a day they were discarded, thrown into the washing bin and next morning your feet were clothed in clean socks. Some teenage sons even found that two pairs of clean socks were necessary per day. As I am woman, the washing chore was mine. I knew how the washing machine functioned, was able to sort the various items to fit the washing temperature and I was left with the responsibility. This was actually not a problem, when I think of grandmother with her bath full of soapy suds rubbing the wash on a washing board, rinsing them and afterwards pressing them between two rollers before hanging them to dry, so who am I to complain.

Although I was a little under pressure. I did a sock wash weekly. My male family had enough clean socks to wear for a week and I must admit, I was also now wearing socks but I recognised my own socks. Perhaps because they had nice little patterns with flowers, colourful stripes or just some letters like “Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday etc.” Yes we women are organised. The men are a different kettle of fish socks. They seemed to dress their feet in a monotonous way. There were weeks when only black socks were worn, weeks with only white socks, or perhaps the famous golf pattern. Sometimes there might be a mixture, but I am talking about one week, four pairs of feet (including me, and I knew my own socks), so work it out. 7 daysx2 feet x3 men=52 socks + mine which were clear. Problems arose when my man lost a sock and found it in the son’s pile. The son had socks in the drawer in the bedroom belong to his brother and the brother discovered that his father’s socks were too large for his feet. There was also a difficulty as they never discussed which colours to wear, and I might have a white sock week, black stock week etc. etc.

Are you with me, the complete responsibility weighed on my feet shoulders, I was dealing out the wrong socks and even more, I had paired a size large with a size medium, meaning that male member of the family had one foot either swimming in a sock too large or a foot slowly suffocating because the sock was too small. There was also the sock eating monster problem. There were times when the sock quantity was not divisible by two and either socks were missing or I had one too many according to how you look at it. Life could not go on in this way. Harsh words were spoken, or deathly silence reigned

I had to be angry with myself, this sock problem was no problem at all. The solution was at my finger-tips. You take a large table. When the socks are dry, clean and ready to be worn you throw them all on the table, just random. Then you call “come and get it!” It might be that your first call is ignored, but patience is a virtue. After ten years there is no longer a sock problem. First of all I take mine (the socks with the pretty patterns and colours) and then the men arrive. As one man has moved out in the meanwhile, the problem now belongs to his partner. I wish her the best of luck, but I think the youngsters now grow up with the sock problem in their blood and we women conquer all. There are now only two men left at home and as one is at work, so one man does it all. There are no longer sock problems, and it is now summer, so the sock amount dwindles in any case.

Who groans about socks? No problem, just a question of organisation.

Actually I was going to talk about the sweet little snails that have invaded my garden, munching happily on everything with a green colour, but decided this was not a problem that snail pellets cannot solve. They are now all literally slowly melting into the background.

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