Monkey See, Mommy Doesn't

Cuffing socks is a challenging job. Finding two that match in the mass of writhing cotton strips is not always easy. There’s always the possibility that the one you’re looking for is lost in the lint trap. Or under someone’s bed. Or on one of my feet spending the day with a mismatched partner.

I’m not sure who got sock duty this week. I’m sure it was someone who complained that they were bored and had nothing to do. Or someone who was taunting his brother. Or someone who was displaying violent behavioral turbulence when confronted with a video game he could not beat.

Not long ago we went to the county fair. There we met a little monkey, all dressed up in a fancy suit and a little hat with an elastic band that went under his chin. If you presented the monkey with a quarter, he was trained to tip his little hat and shake your hand with his tiny fingers.

I suspect that little monkey cuffed our socks this week. The little monkey had a fine suit of clothes, but, as a mother, I noticed he had no shoes. Possibly his little monkey feet were cold and he followed us home. There he found a whole room full of socks to keep his little monkey feet warm. It was like sock heaven for him and he began to cuff socks.

But there are some rules to this little game that the monkey probably doesn’t know.

Things like:

Size matters. Girls socks and boys socks are not designed to fit the same size feet. Also, boys are sometimes noticeably stressed when their friends are the first to note that they are wearing socks with Disney princesses embroidered on the side.

Color also matters. Captain Spiffy has quite the sense of humor, but even he is somewhat chagrined to find himself in a meeting with the snappily dressed people representing different departments of the largest defense contractor in the world and notice that they are peering over the company logo printed in three color art on their ceramic coffee cups at his socks, revealed when he crosses one knee over the other.

One sock is green and sports a cuddly Care Bear. The other bears a pink pony and sparkles. If we have swapped merchandise, then undoubtedly my my niece’s kids, who spent the weekend not long ago, are the hit of daycare in black nylon stretch socks.

As I sit here at my desk contemplating my one midnight blue sock and a slightly faded brown one, something is stirring in the recesses of my brain. I recall an evening spent cuffing socks behind the louvered doors of the laundry room. Who needs lights? I thought. Who needs glasses? I thought.

The monkey might not. But I do.

The O's Have It

The New Yorker recently got in big fat trouble for splashing a picture on the magazine's cover displaying a dashing Barack Obama decked out in the loose robes of an Arab, rapping knuckles with tough-love-Barbie Mrs. Obama who’s rocking haute terrorist couture.

Now I don’t keep up with the goings on of men generally, since I have basically no interest in how many channels I can watch simultaneously on television, but if dressing my husband in matching hat and gown will get me a tank of gas I can afford, I’ll be fighting the crowds in the Stout Ladies Department at Wal-Mart to find Bill Dear a suitable outfit.

Other than that, I’m not going to comment on B-Ob’s little ensemble, because my attention is on his Rambo-ready wife. As far as I’m concerned Michelle Obama is the one to watch. Anybody who has a child that's thrown a DEFCON 3 rated temper tantrum in the cereal aisle at the grocery store because you won't buy the Twinkly Sugar Bombs with the free Hannah Montanna microphone inside knows that Mrs. O has got the go-ahead gear for the modern Mom.

As a mother of teenagers, I know there’s not a day goes by that couldn’t be improved by a round of ammo unloaded in the PlayStation and the business end of my AK47 leveled low and steady at anybody hanging on the refrigerator door asking me what’s for supper. Fire off a warning round, and I might even get somebody to start at their bedroom door and shovel a path to freedom, or failing that the closet, through the piles of dirty laundry and borrowed electronics that presently restrict room to room travel. But that’s probably pushing my luck.

The next time I have enough teenaged boys hanging on the furniture in my living room to start my own alternative school, I’m going to break out the camo pants, sling on the Sure Shot and growl, “Somebody take out the Hefty Bag or your little electronic army men are gonna be missing some pixels.”

Of course, the only weapons allowed in the house are some foam rubber swords from the circus and an aging Super Soaker, which was an awesome example of water firepower before it sprang a determined leak in the back. These days, anybody that tries to take out a crowd of defenders either looks like the last place finisher in a wet T-Shirt contest or a likely candidate for a Depends commercial. Either way, I’m going to get the guys attention long enough to ask them to take the trash out.

So go ahead. Make my day.

True Colors

My Mom never had The Talk with me. I had to find out by trial and error and I almost lost my socks. All in all, the first time I tried it, the results weren’t pretty.

I don’t know if it was the toddler size sweater I wore fresh from the dryer, or the “Just My Size” underwear clinging statically to my back as I strolled down the hall, but as people turned to stare and gawk, I felt like everybody knew that I’d tried it for the first time.

Dirty laundry. It’s a tough lesson to have to learn on your own.

A true friend would have told me about fabric softener. A few tips on Use and Care Instructions as a second language wouldn’t hurt either.

These days I’ve been doing laundry long enough to know how to handle my delicates, but I still have questions.

Exactly how do you wash a shirt that’s both red and white? If it says, “Wash in like colors” do you put it in with the reds or the whites? I’ve tried it both ways. Luckily pink is my favorite color, but now my husband won’t get undressed at the gym.

Deep down I understand why Mom never talked to me about natural fibers and the danger of shrinkage. But why didn’t she tell me that too much bleach would rot out the seat of your underwear like month-after-Christmas fruit? Was she afraid to tell me about laundry? Afraid that hot for whites would be too much for my tender psyche?

Not on your stain stick.

She didn’t raise four kids without honing her survival skills. The odds were good with four kids running around, that if she brought out the laundry products, somebody would be likely to try to remove the spots from the cat.

So she kept her pre-soak hidden on a high shelf and her spray starch tucked away behind the family Bible and never worried that we’d find it.

I shudder to think what would have happened to the cat if we’d found that starch.

Also, the old woman was shrewd. Except for choosing in favor of dessert and against doing dishes, I was never a decisive child. She knew that if it came to sorting cotton blends from washable wool, I’d just give up and stay home and she’d be stuck when me forever.

Why not let dirty clothes be a little secret lurking just around the coin-operated laundry?

And drycleaning just a mess that you clean up without a mop.

Smart woman.