Okay, its confession time. This may come as a surprise to most, if not all of you, but I really am not a perfect wife. No, seriously, its true. I do have a few faults, but the most important is this:
I don't match socks.
I know, I know, this one is serious. Ever since, oh, Christmas time, I've piled ALL of our socks into one big sock box and just left it there. I was sick and tired of playing matchmaker to all the darned socks (and the ones I've never bothered to darn). And most, if not every morning, my beloved plops his business-casual self on the floor of the hallway and digs through the box, trying to find two socks that belong together.
Not an easy feat, especially considering he hasn't had his coffee yet at this point in the morning.
However, things have changed. Call it nesting, call it placing myself strategically in front of Catherine's room and needing something to do while I waited to put her back into bed two hundred and sixty four times this evening, but call it what you want, I have made my way back into being a good wife. Jon's socks have been paired.
Tomorrow morning, there will be great rejoicing. Or much confusion when he goes to the sock box and can't find any socks.
Of course, there are a few socks who, shall we say, haven't found that special mate yet. And as I mentioned earlier, I'm not to big on playing matchmaker, but I think we worked out a good solution. I spoke with the socks, and we decided to have a weekly social hour on Tuesday evenings at 7pm on the shelf in the laundry room. We passed out flyers to the other "unmatched" socks in the house to let them know, and we think there will be a good turnout in the following week, with hopefully some good matches. While I don't want to get involved, I usually am pretty good at knowing pretty quickly whether a match works or doesn't . . .
Now that the TUMS have kicked in, I need to go eat something before bed. Followed by more TUMS. And in the morning, I'll probably have to shave my tounge. (Blech.)
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