I remember once we were all out at the mall, she was trying to find darning cotton black darning cotton, so she could fix some of my dad’s socks and nowhere had it. Not even Woolworth’s, which normally seemed to have such things. My dad quipped: “Twenty years ago, when you got a hole in socks, you said, ‘Darn these socks’ and put them in the mending basket. Now, I guess, when you get a hole in socks, you say ‘Damn these socks!’ and throw them away.”
The best I can hope for, usually, is for the bad ones to disappear from the laundry and re-emerge somewhere in the dreaded Hozone, though I must here admit that I haven’t had a sock develop a hole in several weeks. I blame neutrinos.