I find socks in the bathroom. In shoes. On the kitchen counter (ew). On the coffee table. Under the sofa. On the sofa. Between the sofa cushions. In the kitchen. Beside the computer. On window ledges. In the hallway. On the stairs. Socks, socks, socks! And where do they all end up? In the dog’s mouth. Because she’s clever enough to understand her job. She brings me the socks, draped artistically out the side of her moist mouth, and I pay her with a treat. With the way the kids are going, she’s going to have a full-time job fairly soon.
I’m pondering the creation of sock jail. All socks found on non-foot surfaces will be sent to sock jail and a bail of a dime will be charged to release them back into the law-abiding population. (A quarter if it’s handknit.)
Oh, it won’t seem important when I announce it. But give them a week and they’ll be staggered.
If I do it. But even if I don’t, the words “Sock Jail” make me giggle just a little each time I think them.