Why do people bring home and stash stuff that they really don’t need? My ex-sister-in-law once accused me of having a hoarding disorder because I wouldn’t throw out my old National Geographics. Jeez! Virtually holy items! Good thing she never had a chance to have a look inside my sewing room….
Once that same former sister-in-law, and her dotty old Mum as well, came by to see me just as I was going through my annual Mating of the Socks event. I have always like nice socks, cotton with plenty of stretch in them, and now soft and comfy bamboo socks. In the full insanity of the bedding plant season, I have even been known to just grab a couple of six packs (sockspacks?) JUST IN CASE I might need clean socks when I might have no time to launder.
So…. I have a lot of socks. Winter and summer, spring and fall, hand knit or plain cotton, stretch top diabetic socks even though I am not fully qualified to purchase them . I think there were two full laundry baskets of socks when the outrage in question took place – my girls were still in high school at the time so the socks weren’t even all mine.
First, I sort by color. Black, navy, tan, gray. white, cream, pink, red, blue, green, patterns…. Then, I sort them thick and thin. There are always about as many black and white as all the other colors put together, although I buy colored socks whenever possible, and would rather DIE than knit socks with plain yarn.
There I was, happily building my little edifice of socks when Michelle and Charlotte showed up unannounced. They had wine, we poured wine. I was living in the house on Lois Street then, the old pinkhouse at the greenhouse, and everything there happened in the kitchen. I tried to steer my guests into the living room, but it was not to be.
They descended on the table of neatly arrayed socks like barn owls on mice. Oblivious to my system of organization, they matched and snatched until every match was made and the disappointed remainders, often shabby and worn, were left in a motley heap on the floor under the table.
They were late! They had to meet someone in Beaverton and were gone before I knew it. Their paper box of chardonnay in the fridge was all that was left. Years later, the stored body trauma remains. My third-most personal possessions, dear little socks, ravaged and handled by strangers.
Hmmmmm…. I’ll have to think about whether books and fine scissors rank ahead of bras and panties in the hierarchy of personal belongings to be protected.
Incidentally, I bought two new packets of pastels today, blended greens and warm grays. It’s fall, need to think around rainy landscapes……