WordPress (and my own humble brain memory neuron things) tells me that I’ve been plunking away at this blog for a trifle over two years now. Two years! Are you proud of me now, parental units?
I think we’re slowly figuring each other out,you and I, and I’m even learning from my mistakes (huge thanks to Victoria Elizabeth Barnes for having the courage to admit to what she got wrong in the early stages, so that I could spend most of one perfectly good spring weekend frantically reworking or re-evaluating absolutely everything I’d done up to that point, and please don’t blame her for the bits I’m still doing wrong) but it’s a process, and I’m liking the process.
That’s not what I came here today to talk about, of course. No, we need to talk about socks.
Let’s start with fuzzy socks, because they’re the best thing in the whole wide world and I’m really mad that I’m missing half of a bright pink pair because the Little Man has a thing for feets and won’t tell me where he hid my fuzzy sock.
The fuzzy sock thing is important, because it’s all cold and damp here and I, as I believe we’ve discussed, am cold-blooded. My body is room-temperature on a good day, but when it gets like this, my hands and feet will quickly convince even medical professionals that I’m dead. (This is not colorful exaggeration – I’ve got a couple of stories of times I got a li’l shocky and freaked them out with my talking corpse routine – no discernible pulse or pressure… yeah.) So you see, I need more socks, not fewer. And that fat bastard keeps stealing them, which means that, at night, I have to warm my feet on Husband, who is less than cooperative.
ME: My feet are cold!
ME: So I’m just gonna… warm them… over… here… (squirming) let you warm them with your feets…
ME: Hey! Why are your feets wrapped up???
HIM: So they don’t get cold!
HIM: There’s a lesson for you in this.
ME: (grumbling and squirming)
HIM: (laughing) But I love you!
ME: Then warm. My. Feet! They’re cold!
HIM: (yelps) Yes, they are!
ME: (giggles) The other one’s even colder.
Yes, I could just buy more fuzzy socks. Stop trying to solve my problems and listen to this next gripe.
Cold + damp = fog, which means it’s humid but with bright, diffuse light: basically perfect migraine weather. Bonus points for stress heaping on top of all that, so my neck is one giant knot. And Husband, once again, is the opposite of helpful.
ME: My neck is killing meeeee.
HIM: I’m sorry.
ME: I need one of those hot rice things. You know.
HIM: I… think so?
ME: The things. With the rice. You put rice in and you microwave it, and then it’s hot rice and you put it on your neck.
ME: Go fill a sock with rice or something.
HIM: I could do that, but then it’d just smell like hot rice and feet.
ME: Then don’t use a dirty sock! Asshole.
So now I’m seriously considering either doing his laundry every day (I don’t do it at all normally – he can wash his own damned socks) or just throwing out his dirty socks as soon as he takes them off and buying new ones every week. Because now I can’t trust him not to get all crafty with his dirty socks, right? But that’s bullshit, because if anyone’s getting more socks, it’s going to be me and I’m getting some of these.