Wearing Socks in Heaven

Reading “My Boobs Are Full of Surprises by Outmanned Mom reminded Stick Chick about her theory on missing socks.

Socks have a tendency to disappear one at a time rather than conveniently by the pair. Most get lost in the laundry. Two in, only one out.  Sometimes they hide in the corner of a fitted sheet,  reappearing the next time the beds are freshly made. Failure to use dryer sheets may leave a single sock clinging to the inside of a shirt sleeve or pants leg. Usually they disappear forever.

Once upon a laundry basket, in an effort to save money, Stick Chick bought a used washing machine for $250. Shortly thereafter, it seized mid-cycle with a full tub of water and dirty laundry which indicated a blockage in the drain line. Finding nothing obvious she summoned Repair Man who, at a cost of $200, determined the culprit: a toddler’s nylon dress sock.

Like a pronouncement from the great and powerful Oz, he said, “Nylon floats.”

Rather than becoming soaking wet when laundered as one might reasonably expect, nylon resists water. Thus it floated over the top of the basket, caught in the drain pipe and blocked the exiting water during the spin cycle.

“Just hand wash them,” was his advice, which as any young working mother will attest, she had plenty of time to do.

Stick Chick made mental notes:

“Check sock labels for 100% cotton.”

“Place all socks in lingerie laundry bag to avoid future repair calls.”

It occurred to her that the multitude of missing single socks probably suffered a similar fate but had managed to make their way through the drain without blocking it, solidifying their place in an alternate universe.

Three weeks later, the washing machine seized mid-cycle with a full tub of water and dirty laundry. Better prepared this time, she emptied the washer using a pitcher, bucket, mop, and laundry basket to save on labor fees knowing she would need to call Repair Man again. She hand-wrung each item, cursing her decision to save energy by washing in cold water, and lugged buckets of water outside.

Repair Man found the culprit: sock number two (which had evidently attached itself to another piece of clothing.) Stick Chick had no idea that it was even in the load. This one ruined the motor. What she had saved in labor fees, she spent in parts totaling $200. Another $50 and she could have purchased a new washer and possibly never had the problem.

Stick Chick sock angel

Laundering is hell.

And hell, we all know is hot.

Logically then, those single socks must go to One Sock Heaven where just beyond the pearly gates, angel toes stay toasty with mismatched socks.

 

 

 

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