Because sometimes a status update just isn't enough.

Because sometimes a status update just isn't enough.

23 January 2012

When Socks Go Rogue

I hate doing laundry.  I hate it with the white hot intensity of a thousand angry suns.  The thought of spending the day doing countless loads of laundry makes me want to take to my bed with an attack of the vapors, like an overly dramatic Southern Belle.

I'm positive that Dante's 7th Circle of Hell is an endless pit of dirty socks, with a washer and dryer sitting over in the corner.  

"Where is my damn sock?"

And none of the socks in that pile match.

And in a parallel universe there's another Danielle folding laundry and holding up a stray sock, thinking, "What the fuck?"

In a galaxy far, far away....

There are countless things I'd rather do than laundry.  Remember when you were a kid and you and your morbid little friends would play, "How Would You Rather Die?"  And you'd get hideous choices, like "Would you rather fall off a cliff into a live volcano or jump off a high dive into a nest of pissed off water moccasins?"  

(You did play that, right?  It wasn't just me?)


Anyway, that's the game I play with myself when it comes to laundry.

"Would you rather do 5 loads of laundry or get a root canal?"

Answer:  Root canal.  Because there's always the possibility of good drugs.

"Would you rather do 5 loads of laundry or be locked in a room with a fruit bat?"

Answer:  Fruit bat, because I would die of fright within the first 5 seconds and at least it would be over.

"Would you rather do 5 loads of laundry or parachute into a swarm of angry weiner dogs?"

Answer:  Okay, that's a toughy.  I hate weiner dogs almost as much as I hate doing laundry, and laundry doesn't bite.  I'm gonna have to go with laundry on this one.

And so it goes.

Laundry or shave your head?

Shave head.

Laundry or walk through hot coals?

Hot coals.

A lot of my Laundry Issues have to do with Dan and his socks.

Dan has hundreds of pairs of socks, none of which match or aren't ripped at the heel.

Yes, that's what I said:  Ripped at the heel.

How do you rip a freaking sock at the heel??  

Dan has enormous feet with long, frightening tree-climbing toes.  It's hard to find socks that even fit him (which until I met him, I had no idea could even be a problem.  How can a sock not fit?  It's a sock, for Christ's sake!).  It actually takes him longer to put on one sock than it takes me to put on a pair of panty hose.  He grunts and groans like he's giving birth while struggling to yank a sock over his giant freaking foot.  And for some reason, that just irritates me to no end.

I have no idea why this annoys me so much, but there ya go.  I have to leave the room to stop myself from screaming, "IT'S A SOCK, FOR GOD'S SAKE!  A SOCK!  JUST PUT IT ON!!!"

Dan was here.

Very quickly his socks deteriorate and shred and collapse under the hugeness that are his feet, and one sock will be thrown away, as it's basically been reduced to nothing more than a few threads being held together by lint and dog hair.  

And even though he has 60 black socks, none of them match.  And even though he wears work boots and no one SEES his socks, he needs to go buy MORE socks, so that they match.  And I can't bring myself to throw away 60 black socks, just because they don't have the same color of stripe on the toe or the ribbing is slightly different than the other 59 socks, so into the sock drawer they go.  And somehow, even though he never wears them, they wind up back in the laundry hamper.  At the bottom.  Where they sit and mock me.  

Meanwhile, Dan opens his sock drawer at 7:15 in the morning and says, "How come I don't have any clean socks?"

Me:  "You tell me."

Dan:  *being an extreme smart ass, which is a dangerous game to play with me at 7:15 in the effing morning*  "Ummmm... because you need to do laundry?"

No, Dan.  NO.  That is NOT the reason. The reason is because I was cruel to a washer woman in a past life and this is my hell on earth.  

Screw you, Karma.  I know that somehow, in some way, this is your fault.



  1. HAHAHA! I never get on laundry and if I do it stays in the dryer when I am done. I totally don't mind throwing it in the washer, then to the dryer, but putting it away is the tough part.
    Luckily for me, I have WAY TO MUCH clothes, and I can go forever with out washing. My husband on the other hand.... not so much. I really need to work on this wife skill.

    1. Phoebe, you kill me! You did laundry in a bikini. I'm pretty sure that's the ONLY wife skill you need. //heart

  2. I'll take the fruit bat. I once saved a baby bat from a cave when I was a child and somehow I feel a connection to them forever.

    Unless one gets caught in my hair and then it's go time.

    1. Bats are the one thing that scares me more than weiner dogs and endless laundry. "Would you rather fall into the mouth of a fiery volcano or be locked in a room with a fruit bat?" Answer: Fiery volcano.

      I almost beat myself to death last summer when a leaf landed on my head because I thought it was a bat.

    2. I read that post. I just about shat myself from laughing so hard.

    3. You and Dan's entire freaking family. I will never... NEVER live that down.

  3. That sounds like HELL. Honestly, I don't mind doing my OWN laundry. Other people's? No thank you.

    1. Same here. I taught my boys to do their own laundry when they were very, very small. I bought them each their own laundry basket and taught them how to work the washer and the dryer, after I found their clean, folded clothes put BACK in the dirty clothes hamper because after I washed, dried and folded them, they didn't feel like putting them away. I'm evil. But dammit, they do their own laundry.

  4. I feel your pain. Don't even get me started on spouse socks. I had an argument with my husband last week over that. Stupid effin socks.

    1. Socks are THE DEVIL. Especially Spousal Socks. My next husband will either have no feet, wear no socks, or do his own damn laundry. Word.

  5.'s not you. Ken wears the heels out of his socks before EVERY OTHER DAMN PART. And then he'll mate them out of the dryer and keep wearing them until the day I go Incredible Hulk on them. Then he gets all butt hurt that I destroyed his already ruined socks.

    Also, I have to do laundry tonight because I'm out of socks and I hate that fact. I would probably hate laundry less if it were mandatory to do it with a friend while drinking good wine.

    1. That is so freaking WEIRD. How do you rip out the heel or a sock??? Toes, I get... I've had my big toe poke through my socks. But the HEEL???
      I believe all household chores should be done with good friends and wine. It is spoken.

  6. But I don't think weiner dogs can jump as high as a pile of laundry in terms of the suffocation risks. Maybe some knee biting, but no taller...

    1. Weiner dogs are sent from the bowels of hell to torture me. I love all dogs... except the dreaded weiner.
      They scare the bejeezus out of me.

      They ain't right.

  7. Socks are the devil! My husband's socks are fucking everywhere. He has more socks than days of the year to wear them in. Although laundry isn't my problem . . . . It's dishes that I hate. I can't stand washing them or emptying the dishwasher. I will do laundry every day if I never have to wash another dish!

    1. I will come do your dishes if you handle my laundry.

      Wait, what the hell am I saying? Both of those things are Ken's chores. :)

    2. I will trade you dishes for laundry... even Steven. But Dan goes with the laundry. Just so you know.

    3. Uh, I think I'll pass. Although the picture of marital bliss you paint in your descriptions of Dan are joyful (ahem), I already have one stinky messy man, I don't need another.

      And like Mandi, the hubs does the dishes, so I am all set! :D


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