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.

A Dog's Life

“Mom! He’s poisoning the dog again.”

Son Two’s voice dripped with injustice.

It was one of those days. I dropped my belongings in a pile by the door and let the recliner draw me in like it had a La-Z-Boy certified tractor beam.

“He’s just licking my foot.” Son One grinned as Bo tickled his ivories.

“Last time he did that he was sick all over the living room. It looked like a CSI biology experiment.”

“If you ever uncovered your feet he might lick yours. You’ve had the same socks on since 1993. There's enough gunk on the bottom to make you two inches taller.”

“At least I wear socks. Your shoes squish when you walk like they belong to Spongebob.”

The big dog paused and looked around the room as if polling the audience. Sure, he lifts his midnight snacks from the litter box, but a face that sweet shouldn’t have to stoop to this level for friendship.

“Come here, Sweetheart.” I called the big Lab over to sit by me. Nothing makes a bad day better like a hug from somebody who doesn’t care if you’ve borrowed his razor.

With a regretful glance, Bo strolled over to my chair, heaved the remains of his day of foraging at my feet, then looked up expectantly, waiting for a treat.

Figures. Dog logic dictates that when the stomach empties, it's time to put more inside. Human logic states that when the chips are down and you think nothing else can go wrong, the dog will throw up.

I think I'll get a ferret.

Dream Big But Don't Bend Over

I posted a sign above my closet that reads: “Caution: Consult your doctor before any change of clothing.”

These days my favorite aerobic activity is standing up to put on my pants. Seems like the older I get, the faster I do that little hokey pokey dance of trying to stuff my foot into the leg hole while hopping in circles like a flamingo on a hot sidewalk. If both feet accidentally go in the same side, I’ll spend the entire day shuffling around like the third man in a chain gang before I’ll attempt the Herculean task of redirecting the errant leg. It’s just not worth the risk to my health insurance.

My idea of Xtreme Sports is putting on socks. In the old days pantyhose installation was the troublemaker, but the fashion gods took stock of the nation’s legs and decided it was a nifty idea for a nation of people whose lower limbs resemble the untamed face of Everest to forego hosiery. Free of the pantyhose peril among us, I’ve resorted to socks, which are not in any way attached to each other and which require someone with the dexterity of Jack LaLanne to put them on.

Scientific studies of adults over 50 in my house who are opposed to stretching or bending for reasons of health or other forms of neglect, show that people my age can suffer acid indigestion or premature death from this sort of sudden exercise onset. Last Tuesday I tried to put on a sports bra and almost cornrowed my hair. I did manage to perform an emergency facelift. My eyebrows are still missing, but the birthmark previously on my temple is now a butterfly tattoo at the base of my spine.

Not long ago I saw an advertisement for a scarf that could be tied in different ways to make 19 different outfits. Thinking I couldn’t go wrong with a one-piece wardrobe, I dug out the piece of plastic that lets me live life on borrowed dimes and bought one. Before I got it out of the package it worked itself into a sort of fabric Rubik’s cube. I wedged it over my head and squeezed my arms through. These days I have to flex my left shoulder to lift my right leg. I need two assistants and an Eagle Scout with a Swiss Army knife just to walk up the stairs to my front porch. Every time I try to take a step, the back hem shoots up my back like Levelor blinds.

I thought about trying yoga to improve my flexibility. I popped in an exercise video, but by the time I dropped into the downward dog position, I required the assistance of a veterinarian. I found it rather humiliating to wear the satellite dish collar, but it worked wonders to keep me from biting my stitches.

Then yesterday while surmising out how to safely remove a panty girdle without friction burns that took care of unwanted hair better than a series of laser treatments, I thought back to the popular movie, The Bucket List. Suddenly I realized that if I were to name the one thing I wanted to accomplish with my life before that final stroll through the Pearly Gates, it would be to dress myself without the need for a pictorial directory of the human anatomy, an emergency responder team, or the jaws of life on standby.

My half century of life has taught me an important lesson. When you dream, dream big. But don't bend over.