Monday, January 13, 2014

Sockes, ye bane of my existant

I don't know what it is. I really really don't know what it is about socks. I have the absolute worst time coping with socks. In The Land of the Last Marraige  where all occupants were mildly unhappy, my then congenial (at least as far as housework) ex husband did all of the laundry. I think that's why the marriage lasted so damn long despite all the things he did such as gamble mortgage payments, fraud on ebay,  16 jobs in 18 years, in several other infractions it here because yes we do not want this to be a bitter blog.  Who was perfect in that union, anyway?  Not me. 

Anyway he was terribly funny is he did all the laundry (all the laundry) and he did not understand why I had such a damn problem with socks.  I couldn't bring my ADHD self to go to the tedium of actually matching the damn things one to the other. In this vein, I also do not believe in folding pajamas.  Why would you fold pajamas? Who's going to see them?  No one's going to see them... you are going to get them out when you go to bed.

All the same, ex husband or no husband doing laundry, I find myself afronted with the problem of sockage.  If you haven't heard by now, about a year and a half ago let's say April of 2012, my ex-husband said he had the dream jobjob to end all jobs. We were moving to Richmond. 

Needless to say, job didn't work out, financing of said trip unacceptable, stuff put in storage as I left for my mother's with my children.  I had five laundry hampers, a stereo (daughter's), two pets and two kids. When I finally got my things from Richmond (a full year and a half later) I brought home all my clothes and then proceeded--with not a few tears--to put them away.  I was so damn grateful for my sock monkey pajamas and all sorts of things I'd been missing, including decent winter clothes which I had not been able to replace. 

The problem started when I got down to the socks.  See picture above.  I ignored them best I could for over two months, letting them nest and mock me from a corner of my bedroom in a large Sam's Club sack--the big 'uns you get two for $3.50 at the register in either tasteful black and white Damask or Zebra stripe.  Well, here's the existing sock drawer: 

Here's the secondary sock drawer, made for influx of Richmond Socks.  It is strictly Fuzzy Sock drawer, a necessity of living in Memphis with hardwood floors.  It is also evidence of way too many impulse sock buys at the ever-present Memphis Cadre of Walgreens.  Those two for seven buck socks add up. 

Now here's the sad bit.  There were so many socks that there is a third full drawer of them, mixed bag, mostly white.  I always bought white socks because I didn't want to match them.  The ex rightfully called them The Great White Horde, although he should have said The Great White Hoard, which would have also been accurate but indiscernible in pronunciation.  There are a pair of socks in there--the pink ones--that I wore in labor with Tucie which someone gave me when I was 21.  They have Holsteins on them. 

I mean, when we were coming back from Richmond, everything got rained on one night while we were staying at a Motel 6 somewhere in Georgia.  So my other mother Vickie had to wash all my stuff and dry it so it wouldn't mold when I got back home.  She said, "Susanne--there's bags of socks and panties!  Two!"  And I thought she was exaggerating. 

This qualifies as most embarrassing set of socks.  

And STILL I had to stop myself in Walgreens Saturday night from buying yet another pair of fuzzies.  

There is an inevitable weeding out on the way, I'm sure of it.  But when, I don't know.  I just can't cope with them right now. 

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