It's The Little Socks That Spoil The Vine

All photos from Google Images

Socks. I hate them. Especially baby socks.

Yesterday it turned cool so I wore long slacks to work and socks with my clogs. Do you think I could find one matching pair of black socks anywhere in this house? I finally settled on a matching navy blue pair knowing that it is so dark in some of my clients homes...well...I can hardly find the client at times. At one house I stand perfectly still until they put on a light fearing that I will go head over heels over the sofa, baby, dog, whatever. Times are tough and many folk just do not use electricity for much of anything where I go.

Yesterday, however, there was enough light to illuminate the two holes in my glaringly navy socks against my black slacks. No surprise there.

It's a sock curse.

As you already know I did not use my IRS return for anything glamorous except the purple carpet and African braids for the Teenager. The rest went towards oil changes, paying off the car, stinking garbage disposals, bills and socks.

Boy Socks

Teenager Socks

Mom Socks

And those wretched, wretched baby socks.

For over one year I have had a wicker basket clogging up my living room full of socks. Dozens and dozens of socks. Socks with no matching sock because as we all know if we put 3 pairs of matching socks in our dryer only 3 un-matching socks come out. Desperate, single socks longing for their soul mate to come along. Wasn't it Erma Bombeck that told her children that the missing socks went to live with Jesus? This can't be right. I don't think Jesus even wore socks so why would He want them now?

Freud felt that "psychoanalysis is for hysterical pathological cases, not for silly rich women who should be learning how to darn socks." Being the unabashed cocaine proponent that he was I think he may have been too stoned to realize those hysterical, pathological cases were that way because they couldn't find their socks.

Once in a while you will find a mate stuck to the back of the sofa, in the Lego bin or static clinging to the giant dog butt as she goes galoomping along. Galoomping. Yes, it is a word because i just made it up. Mostly, however, socks just sit in the laundry basket destined to be single.

Last week I picked up the basket and turned it upside down over the garbage can and threw them all out. It is a very freeing thing to do. Has it helped?

No.

Because all of the mates have turned up over night.

Where did they go? Here's what I think:


I never saw the movie Poltergeist but I'm pretty sure it was about missing socks wasn't it?.