Sometime in November, while folding and putting away my laundry, I found a lone sock in the pile. This is not an unusual experience for my athletic or older socks, but this was part of a new set of work socks, one of only three pairs. I knew I hadn’t lost its mate and that it would eventually show up in the wash, so I added to lone sock to the singles pile and waited for the other one to catch up. A month later and the lone sock still sat atop the pile, collecting dust.
Instead of just waiting for the situation to rectify itself, I went on a sock hunt. I thought it might have fallen behind a piece of furniture or been tossed under my bed, but I discovered it in the bottom of the laundry bin. I don’t know how it escaped detection for so long, but I pulled it out and stuck it on top of the washing machine so it would fall into the next rotation. The battle of the sock was over. Final score: Grant – 1, Sock – 0.
Or so I thought.
I assumed the sock battle had been won in December, but yesterday while folding and storing the latest clean clothes I stumbled across the renegade sock in the laundered clothes basket. Oh, well. Better late than never, I thought. I took the errant sock to its lonely mate only to discover it had escaped. A quick search of the apartment including the laundry hamper and washing machine and dryer revealed nothing. I assumed I must have somehow washed the lonely sock, which was just as well as it was probably growing cobwebs or housing spiders, and I added it back to the lost pile.
Sometime later I picked up my gym bag and discovered that the escaped sock had slithered under the bag and had hidden from me in plain view. As soon as I saw it, I said
Warning to kiddies – serious profanity follows. Cover your ears.
“Jesus goddamned Christ mother fucker sons of bitches!”
Okay, that’s past. You can uncover your ears now.
Apparently I had reunited the socks during the last rotation only to have worn them once and have them go rogue on me again. I’m naming the pair Steve and McQueen. Steve has been washed and dried and is back in the socky stockade. McQueen (featured below) is awaiting the
McQueen, the culprit: evil outcast unclean
I’m not planning to wash the dark colors again until Tuesday night, at which time S and M will be reunited and locked away in the closet. Note: S&M – I didn’t plan that. This whole situation is becoming more ominous by the minute. It really puts those wussy Stephen King stories into perspective. This isn’t Cujo, Christine, or that fecking clown from It. This is:
I just checked on McQueen and found he had slid over from the washer to the dryer, partially hidden beneath the bag of dust rags. Very clever. I’m going to have to sleep with one eye open, all the while knowing he could burrow under the door, climb upon the bed, stuff himself into my mouth and suffocate me at night. Oh sure, laugh, but don’t forget that when he’s done with me he’ll be free to come after you. He might be in your house already. He could be slithering under your bedroom door, creeping up behind your chair, biding his time until OMFG LOOK OUT BEHIND YOU!
Okay, false alarm that time, but just you wait. The sock is out there, and it won’t rest until it has destroyed us all. It’s spent its life so far wrapped around my feet. What kind of mood do you think it’ll be in?
This year is already off to a bad start. Maybe I should just write it off and wait for 2007. Save some room for me in bottom of the whiskey bottle, Annush.