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?)

*pause*

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.

GIVE ME BACK MY SOCK!!!