8packmom

WHERE DO THE SOCKS GO?

In Daily life on July 10, 2010 at 3:50 am

I have never had what you would call a good relationship with my washing machines.  They hate me.  They either develop disgusting mold in their rims, froth at the lid, or jerk across the laundry room.  But mostly they have a sock deficiency that defies all reason.

            Men do not understand this.  They are too rational.  My husband leads the list.

            “If the socks are not coming out in pairs my dear, then that’s because you didn’t put them in.” He says flatly.

            I look at him closely and give him the evil mommy look.

            “I know I put them in smart ass.  I took the Pokemon socks of Joshua’s feet while he was sleeping, Sebastian handed me two pairs of soccer socks, I found a black pair of Ryleys sock’s stuffed in the air conditioning vent, and Arielle’s Pink with purple polka dots ones were in her school bag.” 

            I could tell that Paul thought I was seriously losing it.

            “As you can see,” I continued. “I now have only five socks because their partners are missing!”

            “Well I see a pair of green ones that match.” He replied smugly.

            “Of course you see a pair of green ones that match because those are the ugly socks that nobody wants!”

            Sometimes I wonder why I married him.

            “Are you sure you aren’t drinking too many wildberry’s while I am away?” he asked.

            Ignoring him I decided to let him on my theory.

            “I think there is some secret trap door in that damn washer that sucks in one sock from each pair and holds it hostage. Somewhere in that evil machine is a treasure of mismatched socks I’m telling you.”

            “A couple of wildberry’s to get you through Zachary’s freakish meltdowns?  I can understand…..”

            “If we could just find this little trap door in there I would be a hero to all mothers out there…”

            Exasperated Paul stuck his head into the washing machine and started banging, pulling, cursing, then gave a big sigh.

            “Look there is nothing in here.  Why don’t you try putting the socks in a little laundry bag -”

            I really wanted to punch his face.

            “I have put them in a little bag by two’s, as pairs, and you know what? When the laundry is finished I take out the little bag and it’s intact.  But there is still one pair from every sock missing!  I tell you it’s driving me crazy…. do you realize I have a bin upstairs full of about fifty mismatched socks who are all missing their partner?” 

            Paul looked at me with what I swear was a glimmer in his eye.

            “Maybe they just all wanted a divorce.”  He said smirking.

            “What the hell?  How can you make jokes about this?  Seriously?  Do you not care that your children look like little orphans with mismatched socks every morning?  What am I going to do?”

            “Well for starters maybe you should cut out the afternoon wildberry’s and try to forget about the whole secret trap door thing.”

            Forget?  Cut out the afternoon wildberry’s?  I told you men just don’t get it.  Maybe I should let the secret trap door suck me up so my husband would lose his partner.

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