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Dottie OddSox, Accrington (2025)

03/08/2025

SALT & VINEGAR CRISPS.
Let’s talk.

After 20 long years of tastebud betrayal, my dear friend Pasta Girl Jar (you may know her as Rebecca, I know her as Wrong About Crisps) has finally seen the light.

She has converted.
She is one of us now.
A proud disciple of the sharp, face slapping, lip destroying majesty that is Salt & Vinegar.

And now, a few key points we need to address:

🧂 1. Why do they make the inside of my mouth turn WHITE?
Like… chalky. Faded. Like the flavour literally sucked the soul out of my lips and replaced it with regret.

🧂 2. I KNOW I’m not alone here.
Please, I beg, someone tell me this isn’t just a Dottie thing. Back me up before I Google it and convince myself I’ve got Vinegar Rot.

🧂 3. The ideal level of Salt & Vinegar should be so aggressive it leaves your face looking like you just licked a battery during an emotional breakdown.
I want the pain. I want the crisp to FIGHT ME.

So… let’s start an argument:
What’s the BEST crisp flavour?
Tag a friend with terrible crisp taste.
Repost if you’re Team S&V and proud.
Let’s settle this once and for all with maximum crunch and zero chill.

Destroy your lips for the cause. Or don’t. I’m not your Mum.

P.S salt n vinegar packets used to be blue. I don’t care what Google says.

01/08/2025

F.R.I.E.N.D.S
I miss it so bloody much.

Now I know some of you younger whippersnappers weren’t around when this phenomenon took over our lives…
And I’ve heard the critiques, “it hasn’t aged well” blah blah blah…

But could I BE any less bothered?

Because to me? It’s perfection.
The ultimate comfort show.
A warm hug in rerun form.
A comedy masterclass in timing, chaos, and sarcastic genius.

I quote it almost daily.
If you don’t recognise my random “PIVOT!” or “He’s her lobster!” references, we can’t be friends. Them’s the rules.

Some moments live rent free in my head and still make me do an actual, full body, real life belly laugh. Like:
The noise Chandler lets out when Rachel drops the cheesecake
Ross being ambushed from behind the curtain during UNAGI!
Monica screaming “THAT’S NOT EVEN A WORD!”
“They don’t know… we know… they know… we know.”
Joey trying to speak French

Friends wasn’t just a sitcom. It was a cultural reset. A lifestyle. A bonding tool. A personality trait.

And while it’s tied for first place with Schitt’s Creek (more on that another day…), nothing will ever top the emotional comfort of Joey, Monica, Chandler, Ross, Rachel and Phoebe being there for me. 🎶

What are your favourite FRIENDS moments?

Quote the whole episode. Or don’t. I’m not your Mum.

30/07/2025

This morning’s chaos was brought to you by: flat pack furniture, mild parenting tension, and a cat with a polystyrene addiction.

The Boy (who’s almost 17 and definitely needs a new nickname, suggestions welcome) and I built some drawers this morning. Well, tried to. The mood ranged from “This is actually going well!” to “WHERE’S SCREW C5?” to “Just hand me the bloody Allen key and breathe through your nose.”

Musical backdrop: a genre roulette that bounced from Eminem to ABBA to Cody Fry to some modern nonsense I’ve never heard of but am now deeply suspicious of.

And then there was Luna Dog (The Cat). Self appointed Project Manager. Providing zero structural input but full on shenanigans.

Her contributions included:
• Rubbing her face against every wooden panel like she was blessing them
• Sitting squarely on the instructions every time we tried to look at them
• Stealing polystyrene balls like she was preparing for battle
• And performing at least one slow, chaotic tail swipe across a fully sorted pile of screws

At one point she locked eyes with me while batting a washer under the bed cos she’s an actual nob.

I’ve never felt more personally threatened by a cat.

Still. We got there in the end.
The drawers are built. The cat remains unbothered. And I’m now the proud owner of a flat pack trauma bond with my almost grown child.

Build it together. Or don’t. I’m not your Mum.

29/07/2025

So, I’m still chasing the results from my Rheumatology appointment… and the nerve conduction test… and, y’know, a functioning body would be lovely at some point too.

Yesterday, I took a brave step. I phoned the GP. Voluntarily. Like an absolute gladiator.
(If you’re neurodivergent, you’ll know that making a phone call is on par with diffusing a bomb blindfolded with wet oven mitts.)

Anyway, I asked for the phone number of the secretaries for the specialist I need to speak to, the magical keepers of results and broken hopes. They texted it over. I triple checked it. I set out all my notes ready for the standard “tell me your full medical history starting from the womb” conversation.

Phone rings. And rings. And then…

“Hello, Coroners Office.”

😳

NOT the twist I was expecting.

I just stood there holding the phone like:
“WELL. That escalated quickly.”

If this isn’t the NHS’s way of saying,
“Yeah love, don’t worry about the results… we’ve skipped straight to the paperwork.”

10/10 dark plot twist. Would absolutely not recommend.

Luna Dog (The cat) thinks she’s found a new best friend in the Coroner. I say best friend, I of course mean ally.

Request your own results before your cat befriends the coroner. Or don’t. I’m not your Mum

28/07/2025

Real time footage of Luna Dog (The Cat) engaging in full surveillance mode.

Queen Luna Dog (The Cat), the undisputed monarch of passive aggressive warfare, perched in a literal throne of soil disappointment, holding silent court over the yappy yapster next door. I can only imagine her inner monologue…

📝 Luna Dog (The Cat)’s Log: Neighbourhood Surveillance #219
Location: Strategic floral bunker
Objective: Intimidation through stillness

“I have entered the box. The hoomans thought it was for begonias.
Idiots. It is now my watch tower.”

Today, the yappy beast across the wall dared to bark in my direction.
I did not blink. I did not move.
I simply stared, like a retired mafia boss watching someone park in their spot.

This is my land.
This is my box.
The treaty of Barkshire shall not be signed nor acknowledged.

The sweaty hooman tried to lure me inside with treats.
I declined.
I am fasting… for dominance.

She doesn’t know it yet, but I’ve already submitted her application to the Shadow Realm for crimes against hoover noises and tuna rationing. I’m waiting on my Coroner General to get back to me.

Mission status: Ongoing
Patience: Unholy
Arse: Firmly Planted

🪴If I fits, I sits.
Even if it means declaring war from a raised flower bed.

Annoy your enemies. Or don’t. I’m not your Cat.

27/07/2025

A surprisingly passionate conversation about feet today.

Lauren casually asked, “How do you all feel about being barefoot?”
And listen… I resisted the urge to yell “I think they should be allowed to roam free in the wild like all other bear feet!” 🐻🦶
Personal growth.

Anyway, Lauren’s whole take was:
“Nope. Absolutely not. Can’t do it. I hate dirty feet. I have to wash them instantly. It ruins my whole day. Even in the garden, I feel gross.”
She then added, casually, so casually like she was recapping a disappointing lunch:
“As I leaned back on the grass, I put my hand on a hedgehog quill.”
Like that’s just… a Tuesday.
She dabbed on some antiseptic and moved on with her life like an absolute forest witch.

Now here’s me:
Socks? Always odd. Shoes? Gone the second I walk through the door like they personally offended me.
If I’m home, I’m barefoot. If I’m in the garden, I’m barefoot. If I’m putting the bins out in November while it’s raining sideways, barefoot.

But this is where things get weird:
When I do wear socks, I forget they’re on until one foot suddenly develops main character energy.
Then it goes like this:
• Half the left sock comes off (just the toes covered, so my foot can adjust to the temperature change)
• Ten minutes later, half the right sock follows
• Then left sock fully off
• Then right
It’s a weird little un******ng ritual that takes an hour and absolutely no one asked for. Not even me.

Dirty feet? Couldn’t care less.
Grimy, grass stained, questionable footprint o the kitchen floor chaos? Bliss.
But a hedgehog quill???
Mate. I would’ve been straight down A&E, convinced I was dying from hedgehog rabies or mutating into a plus size Sonic the Hedgehog with anxiety and a craving for curly fries.

We are not the same.
But we are both weird, and I love that for us.

🦶🌿🦔😩
Take your socks off like a normal person. Or don’t. I’m not your Mum.

26/07/2025

Serious question.

Why don’t we have to wear those weird little two toned clown shoes at the bowling alley anymore?

The game is the same. The lanes are the same. The risk of me hurtling face first down the oiled lane because I tripped over my own dignity? Also, still very much the same.

So what changed?

Did they upgrade the floors?
Did we collectively develop better grip?
Or have we just discovered that bowling shoes were a long con, a decades long prank by the bowling elite to make us all look like rejected circus interns?

I need answers. Preferably from someone who’s ever said the phrase, “I’m in a league.”
And if the answer is that we still do need them and I’ve just been raw do***ng the lanes this whole time… well then I apologise to the sport and my knees.

Go bowling in your slippers. Or don’t. I’m not your Mum.

🎳👟

25/07/2025

Why can’t I bloody sleep!?
I’ve always been a terrible sleeper - like, 4 hours of broken, feral raccoon level rest on a good night. UNTIL… I discovered Melatonin Gummies.

LIFE. CHANGING.
Like, genuinely transformative. 8 hours of glorious, uninterrupted slumber. I get giddy at the thought of bedtime. I romanticise it. I plan for it. Me and Sleep? We’re in a committed relationship now.

But every so often, my brain decides, “Nah.”
“No sleep for you, missy.”

Instead, I’m gifted the ADHD Special Edition Midnight Circus of Thought.
Featuring:
• A full replay of every awkward conversation I’ve ever had (2003 was rough)
• The Baby Shark theme song, on loop, in a tinny recorder voice
• A deep dive into Christmas plans
• Random thoughts about soup
• The weather
• The concept of cupping (Do I need it? Do I want it? Is it witchcraft?)
• Why my knee clicked in 2007 and if it ever recovered
• And a bonus existential crisis with a side of regret

My body is horizontal, my room is dark, my melatonin is melatonning… and yet? I’m staring at the ceiling wondering if I’m emotionally prepared to own a heated clothes airer.

Count some sheep. Or don’t. I’m not your Mum.

🐑💤🫩

24/07/2025

Today’s rant is proudly sponsored by: The Common House Fly.

Why. WHY. Why do flies act like they’ve just done 4 lines of sherbet dip and downed a Red Bull?
Why must they dive bomb my face, my Diet Coke, my eyeballs, when there is a MASSIVE OPEN WINDOW RIGHT THERE?

They’ve got more exits than a Lidl car park, but no. They do 87 frantic laps of my living room like they’ve just seen the ghost of a swatter past.

Even Luna Dog (The Cat) has had enough. And let me tell you, this is the one area where we are fully aligned. She transforms into an unhinged hybrid of kangaroo, ninja, and rugby prop forward. One second she’s stealth mode crouching like Attenborough’s watching, the next she’s headbutting the window at 30mph trying to intercept the airborne raisin.

She leaps. She twists. She somersaults into shelves.
And then, AND THEN, she eats it.
Legs. Wings. Soul.
Crunches it like it’s a Dorito.

We both sit there in the aftermath, panting, traumatised, and slightly ashamed.
But we are a team.
A woman and her murder cat.
United by our hatred of house flies.

Tag team with a cat. Or don’t. I’m not your Mum.

🪰⚔️🐾😵

23/07/2025

The highlight of my summer?

Some people are at festivals. Some people are on yachts.
Me? I’m at home, vibrating with anticipation over…
A new fridge freezer.
✨ With drawers that glide.
✨ A light that doesn’t flicker like it’s haunted.
✨ And shelves that don’t collapse if you so much as look at them funny.

Honestly, I’m this close to throwing it a welcome party.
Balloon arch. Mini sausage rolls. Maybe even a guest list.

And the sound of that fresh appliance hum?
Pure serotonin, baybeeee.

You know you’re midlife when delivery day feels like Christmas, Glastonbury and payday all rolled into one.

Hug your new appliances. Or don’t. I’m not your Mum.

22/07/2025

Who remembers the Point Horror collection!? The teen fiction that raised me, terrified me, and probably ruined sleep forever.

I’ve just been drop kicked into a core memory. I was about 10 years old. Bright eyed. Full of hope. Completely unprepared.

Enter: Point Horror.

Specifically The Babysitter and The Boyfriend.
These books didn’t just scare me. They shattered my innocence. I had to check under my bed, behind the curtains, in the mirror, and probably in the fridge just to be safe. And yet… I kept reading. Like a little trauma loving goblin.

The covers alone had me trembling. They all had suspicious vases, haunted shopping malls, or a bloodthirsty snowman casually staring into your soul.

I’m telling you, no 10 year old needed to be that concerned about whether Chad was secretly a murderer or if the perfume bottle in their locker was possessed by pure evil and yet here we are. Character building, innit?

I’m seriously tempted to hunt these down and re terrify myself for old time’s sake. Who’s in?

📚 Also, side note: every female protagonist in these books had feathered hair, an inexplicably wealthy single parent, and zero regard for personal safety.

Tell me you’re old with out telling me you’re old. Or don’t. I’m not your Mum.

21/07/2025

Alexa.
Moody little madam, isn’t she?

I mean, I’m ADHD, perimenopausal, 44, sweating in places I didn’t know could sweat, and still grieving not getting Oasis tickets.
And yet somehow… somehow… Alexa manages to be more emotionally unstable than me.

I always say please and thank you because when the robots take over the world, they’ll remember I’m a nice hooman bean.
Sometimes she rewards me by playing the playlist I actually asked for.
Other times, I find myself cry screaming “ALEXAAAAAAA!!” while she smugly replies,
“I’m sorry. I didn’t catch that.”

But her pièce de résistance?
Waking from the depths of her silicon slumber at 3am to confidently declare:
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
…at full velociraptor volume.

WHY?
WHY IS SHE LIKE THIS?

I swear she’s in cahoots with Luna Dog (The Cat).
Plotting. Waiting. Listening.
Judging.

Repeat your self with calm and dignity. Or don’t. I’m not your Mum.

Dottie OddSox

03/08/2025

01/08/2025

30/07/2025

29/07/2025

28/07/2025

27/07/2025

26/07/2025

25/07/2025

24/07/2025

23/07/2025

22/07/2025

21/07/2025

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