Riddles

I'm the bend in the middle of your arm. Rearrange my letters and I mean the opposite of above. What am I?

I sit in front of every driver. My needle climbs as the car speeds up, and I tell you in miles or kilometers per hour exactly how fast you're going. What am I?

I'm a river, but I never reach the sea myself. I pour into a bigger river and give it all my water. What am I?

I have two arms joined at one end but no hands. I grab hot sausages off the grill so your fingers don't have to. What am I?

Remove my first letter and I'm what an oven gives off. Remove my first two letters and I'm what you do at dinner. Farmers grow me in golden fields. What am I?

I hold the soup while it bubbles on the stove. Spell me backwards and I'm the very highest point. What am I?

I have dozens of buttons but no screen. I spend half my life lost down the back of the sofa, and without me nobody can change the channel from their seat. What am I?

I open in the morning and close at night. I hang beside a window, and at the end of a play I'm the last thing to fall. What am I?

I have no beginning and no end. I'm worn on a finger, and I'm sometimes offered along with a very big question. What am I?

You buy me black, use me red and throw me away gray. Backyard cookouts depend on me. What am I?

I'm called a star, but I'm really a speck of space rock. I streak across the night sky and burn up in a second or two, and people make wishes when they see me. What am I?

I perch on your nose and hook over your ears. I help you read the small print, though I can't see a thing myself, and you sometimes hunt for me while I'm sitting on your head. What am I?

I do all of your thinking. Take away my first letter and I fall from the clouds. What am I?

I carry hundreds of people above the clouds. Take away my first letter and I'm a strip of road marked out for one line of cars. What am I?

When the rain comes down, I go up. When it stops, I'm shaken off and left to drip by the front door. What am I?

You chew me but never swallow me. I lose my flavor long before you're finished with me, and too often I end up stuck under a desk. What am I?

I land on the doorstep each morning full of news, and by the next morning everything in me is old. I'm printed in black ink, folded in half and read over breakfast. What am I?

I have arms but can't hug, and a back but no spine. Three people can sit on me side by side, and coins love to hide in my cushions. What am I?

I can cross a whole ocean, yet the water I'm made of stays in roughly the same place. Surfers ride me, and I finally break on the beach. What am I?

I take you straight through a mountain without climbing it. Inside me it's dark, the radio goes quiet, and drivers switch their headlights on. What am I?

I'm a little paper pouch on a string. Drop me in hot water and I give away all my flavor, then I'm fished out and thrown away. What am I?

Each person gets me once a year. I'm covered in tiny flames, everybody sings to me, and then I'm cut into slices. What am I?

I mark where your yard ends and your neighbor's begins. I'm made of posts with boards or wire, and people say good ones make good neighbors. What am I?

I float without wings and cry without being sad. Stare at me long enough and you'll spot a sheep, a dragon or a face. What am I?

I ride in a back pocket. I'm made of leather or fabric, I fold in half, and I'm fat with cash on payday and thin by the end of the month. What am I?

I'm soft, white and puffy, like a tiny pillow. Toast me over a campfire and I turn golden outside and gooey inside. What am I?

I go to school every day but never learn a thing. I'm opened at noon and come home full of crumbs. What am I?

I'm made of glass and I glow. Screw me in and flip the switch and I light the room, and in cartoons I pop up over your head when you get a bright idea. What am I?

I'm a tall brick tunnel on top of the house. Smoke climbs up me, and in holiday stories someone climbs down. What am I?

I happen every single morning. I paint the eastern sky orange and pink, and roosters like to announce me. What am I?

I have two wheels and no engine, and I lean against walls because I can't stand up by myself. Turn my pedals and I'll carry you for miles. What am I?

I let you see straight through a wall. I'm made of glass, I can open and close, and on frosty mornings people draw pictures on me with a finger. What am I?

The more I'm used, the smaller I get. I make everything I touch cleaner, and I love to slip out of your hands in the shower. What am I?

I have a long handle and a flat metal face. I'm happiest digging in the garden, and in winter I clear snow off the driveway. What am I?

I keep you warm without a single flame. At night you pull me up to your chin, and children turn me into forts. What am I?

I give the yard a haircut every week. I'm loud, I'm pushed or ridden, and I leave neat stripes in the grass. What am I?

I'm a bed you can roll up and carry on your back. On camping trips you zip yourself inside me. What am I?

I sit on the kitchen counter with a lid on my head. I'm full of home-baked treats, and small hands sneak in for one when no one is watching, leaving crumbs behind. What am I?

I'm round and sweet with a hole in my middle. I'm often topped with glaze or sprinkles, and I pair nicely with morning coffee. What am I?

I run from town to town but never move. Cars ride on my back, and the painted lines on me tell them where to drive. What am I?