Wednesday, July 24, 2013

Ancient Hillbilly Secret, Eh?

Don't hate me because I'm beautiful. Hate me because I've been keeping a laundry-day secret from you.

Oh, who are we kidding here? It's summer vacation. There is no such thing as laundry day around the Mansion. I usually throw in a load around 3:00 a.m. as I go to bed, and shove it in the dryer around 8:00 when I get up. Today I did two loads, starting at 7:30. Wouldn't you know it! After the second one was in the dryer, I spied a single sock. A renegade. A crafty black crew member, indulging in an impromptu separation from his mate.

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom does not cotton to single socks. Like old maids at the bottom of the microwave popcorn bag, single socks inflict a stab of disappointment upon the finder. The sooner one staunches the flow of regret, the better off we all will be. However...Mrs. Hillbilly Mom does not wash single socks. Nor does she want an unbalanced number of hoof-covers cavorting in the clean laundry basket. And she most certainly does not wish to add to the community of orphans looked upon as the dregs of the hosiery wardrobe, bottom-feeding in their oval wicker playground.

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is a freakin' evil genius, filled with the most scathingly brilliant ideas. She tossed that wayward woven seamless-toed puppeteer-tool into the hot dryer with a load of bleached whites and a Tropical Fiesta Great Value Dryer Sheet. He'll come out smellin' like a rose. Or at least not like Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's foot. I dare you to tell the difference in a blind smell test.

So many titles, so few title lines. Alternate: "Black Sock Down."


Sioux said...

It sounds like that sock was trying to make a break for it. And you thwarted its efforts. That poor sock had probably been devising its scheme and setting up all the necessary arrangements for days, and now--foiled!

I wonder where that sock was headed? Or what horrors was it trying to avoid by escaping?

Hillbilly Mom said...

I'm sure he was packing his tiny hobo bandana on a stick to seek his fortune. Perhaps meet up with that hot little stomach from the Heartburn Hotel. Pitch his lint tent and inhale the real Clean Breeze, not just the Tide version.

He was running away in an effort to be a sole survivor. Refusing to let anyone grind him under their heel any more. To escape the endless trips to market, roast-beef eating, and sounds of "WEE WEE WEE" for the rest of his natural-fiber life.

Yes, Madam, THAT was the escape plan that I thwarted.