She Lives

Nightmare on My Street

While helping the girl child (16y/o) search for a missing t-shirt, I opened the boy child's (12y/o) toy box.

For the record, I haven't looked in the toy box since...a long time ago.  My father built it, so we'll always have it.  It does have toys in it that my son wants to save...forever or something, but he's way past GI Joes and Matchbox Cars, bless his stinkin' little pubescent heart.  He's more into Guitar Hero and Combat Arms now that he thinks he's going to grow into a man.  Alas.

Also for the record, missing clothing articles are a rarity at our house.  Except for wayward socks, of course.  We all know about the Sock Monster and his proclivity for eating exactly half of every pair of socks in my house, right?  Aside from that, our laundry system works well, so the girl's missing band t-shirt that she absolutely had to have today for the band competition for which she's headed to San Antonio as I type this is a true anomaly.  And her grade depends on it.

Moving on. . .

I opened the toy box just in case, you know, the t-shirt crawled in there of its own accord or something equally weird.  Well, it wasn't anywhere else we'd looked and, believe you me, we looked absolutely everywhere;  behind the washing machine, in the trunk of her dad's car, in her gig bag, in the cabinet under her bathroom sink, in all the empty luggage, everywhere, I tell you!  Everywhere!

So, I opened the toy box. 

Because my mom's family medical history lists each and every person over the age of 50 as having either died from or currently suffering from heart disease, I do try to take precautions for my own health's sake.  Like limiting my salt intake, getting some exercise, avoiding obesity, getting regular check-ups, eating baby aspirin, not going to haunted houses . . . you know - precautions.  Even though I'm not over 50, . . . yet. . .  I figure it's still good to reduce my risk factors as much as possible, right?

Opening my son's toy box is a high risk factor. Very, very high.  CDC should be informed of this.  Call the Surgeon General's office quick!  'Cause throwing open that lid caused my heart to stop beating for a full four minutes.  Or seconds.  And I just knew my time had come. 

What is it with boys?!?!?  Do you know what mine once told me?  "I didn't know I was supposed to wipe until it was clean."   What DID you think, man?   One swipe and you're good?  Your funk spot is not like a self-cleaning oven where you can push a button and walk off.  Toilet paper is anti-skidmark insurance, man.  Use it!  There's plenty!

How about this one:  "I thought deodorant was only for when you're going somewhere like a wedding or something."   Boy, there won't be any wedding for you.  Ever.  Unless you learn to use that pit juice after every shower.  ("Why do I have to take a shower every day?")  Gah!!!

"I think brushing my teeth twice a day is overkill," he once informed me.

"When was the last time you brushed?" I ask, looking at the crust covering what were once his teeth.

"I don't know.  When was the last time you told me to?"

I'm not even going to tell you about the time I asked him why, when he'd obviously missed the toilet during...you know..that standing business, there was evidence on the side of the bathtub.  Three feet away from the bowl.  I mean, you don't want to even hear that. 

I can't believe this kid is related to me.  If they told me there was an accidental switch at the nursery, I wouldn't even blink.  He has to be Ozzy Osbourne's kid.  Seriously.  That's the grossest dude I can think of right now.  Maybe there's someone even grosser than Ozzy and it's his kid.  Dunno.  I'm stumped.  If they want to do DNA testing, they're welcome to help themselves to the plethora of specimens readily available in his bathroom.

Or in his toy box.

When I say, "Clean out your hairbrush,"  I do not mean save all the hair in the toy box for posterity.  Your wife will not want to put that ball of fur in her scrapbook some day.

Nor will she want the dirty undergarments or stinky socks.  I mean, the Sock Monster won't even touch those nasty things!  They stand up on their own, man.  All stiff-like.  I think one moved.  Seriously.  I know I was busy doing CPR on myself, but I really saw it move.

And I know there is no water hooked up to that toy box, so those dishes that I've been missing for months now are NOT going to get clean in there.  Obviously.  Not sure what that is on those Corningware-gone-petri dishes, but there's more fuzz growing there than you'll ever have on your chin because you are not going to make it through puberty before the pathogens rapidly reproducing in this toy box kill you in your sleep, man.

And there is a fierce slice of petrified pizza sticking out of GI Joe's jeep, dude.  I have no clue how the colors managed to stay so nicely preserved, but we haven't ordered a combination pizza at this house since your last birthday.  Uh, your last birthday was in January.  And when I say it was your LAST birthday, I mean I hope it was a good one because, once I get my pulse back, I'm going to make sure you don't see your next one.

Soda cans, Valentine candy, empty chip bags, half full chip bags, muddy sneakers (the mud long since dried into giant dirt clods) half eaten something unidentifiable, something else that looks like something you forgot to wipe, something that looks like something you wiped and tossed in there, a can of. . . LYSOL SPRAY!?!?!  What the. . . !!!!!

Pack your crap, mister.  We are so moving to Nebraska! 

UPDATE:

 

I'm not sure this solves the hygeine issues, home boy.  Nice try, though.

Thursday 13 #83

This actually started out as a list of 13 People Who Made My Life More Difficult This Week and Left Me Certain Our Culture is Quickly Flushing Itself Down the Toilet as Quickly as Possible!  Then I realized I sounded just like one of them.  So, I checked my 'tude and decided instead to list . . .

13 People For Whom I'm Thankful and Give Me a Shred of Hope That All is Not Truly Lost.

1)  The housekeeping lady who took a little time to have a conversation with Mom when it seemed all the other staff were too busy or impatient to listen to her.

2)  The doctor who patiently answered our questions without giving us the sense that he was in a big rush to move on to the next patient, and stopped to visit with me when he passed me in the halls even though I didn't initiate the conversation and knew darned well he was in a hurry.  He didn't have to, but I appreciated it.

3)  The hospital security guard who asked how Mom was doing every time he saw me.  With all those people going back and forth, he still always took the time.

4)  The gift shop lady who made a special effort to help me pick out a nice arrangement for Mom's room, then added some pretty ribbon and a nice card to make it more special.  THEN, two days later, remembered me when I stopped in for some gum and asked how Mom was doing.

5)  My drummer, the doctor, who took time away from his own practice while Mom was in the hospital to call me twice each day to check in and get a report, then tell me what to make sure happened and didn't happen with Mom's medical care.  (We averted several problems with his help!)

6) The lady at the Fall Carnival last evening who watched mom for a little while so I could bring the car around to load my daughter's amp after her band played. She was so nice to visit with Mom and make her feel at home in a strange place.

7)  The moms of my daughter's band mates who spent time visiting with Mom last evening and asking her how she was doing, listening patiently as she sort of rambled on all dementia-like, bringing her water and cookies, moving her chair to a more comfortable spot where the sun wouldn't be in her eyes, making sure people didn't stand in front of Mom so she could see my daughter's band well. . .

8)  My hair dresser, who went above and beyond to work us in and help mom feel pretty yesterday.

9)  My husband, who works so hard all day, then insists on helping with dinner and the kids when he gets home even though I have it under control.

10)  The keyboard player in my band who won't take 'no' for an answer and is bringing us a meal this evening.

11)  My son who patiently endured a rambling lecture from Mom as she went on about not wasting talents, then replied with kindness, "That all sounds good to me.  Thanks."

12)  My dog who hasn't left Mom's side since she left the hospital. And came to get me, Lassie-style, when I was at the back of the house and couldn't hear Mom calling from the living room that she couldn't get up out of the chair.  (Not a people, but he still deserves a little blessing/special treat.)

13)  All my wonderful readers who've offered kind words of hope and encouragement over the past week.  It was so good knowing folks were thinking about us and praying for us. (Thank you!)

That's actually more than 13 folks, isn't it?

The little bits of kindness we offer can help in such big ways!  May God be generous when He hands out those crown jewels!

What small kindness has someone offered you recently?

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Playing Catchup

The good news is, Mom is home with me and feeling great!  I took her to my daughter's choir concert last evening and she loved it!  (Mom used to sing opera professionally, and this is the kind of gig that rocks her world - not so much Pink Floyd for her.)

The bad news is, Mom is home with me and feeling great!  Gah!  She was so stinkin' sweet and pleasant in the hospital before they took care of the blockage.  Now that her blood is back to flowing well and she's all oxygenated and feeling spry and stuff...Argh!  She's turned into a 98 lb, 5'1" Frankenstein.  Trick-or-treat's hind end, this little lady is s-c-a-r-y!!!

So, I need some distraction here.  A few dozen circus poodles, a ride in a hot air balloon, a visit from the Dallas Cowboys' offensive line...ANYTHING!!!  Just take my mind off the incessant questions and repetative comments and stories.   Anything.   Seriously.  Blogging works, too.

Before my life got stood on its pointed head, Angelika and James were darlings to think kindly of me.  I was going to post this last Saturday, but. . . Well, better late than bamboo shoots up the fingernails, I always say.  (Actually, I'm not sure I've ever said that before just now.)

Thank you, Angelika!   Your blog rocks, too!  I love all the escapades with Evan.  That kid has your number, girl.  Even when your 'tude needs a little adjusting (uh...sleep?) you keep your humor on.  That's a rare quality.

And thank you, James!   I heart your blog too, man!  You keep it real by sharing the good things and the not-so-good, but you don't go all pity-party on us.  Somehow you manage to find the bright side and I respect that.  Rock on, bro!

And my blog, Bass-ically Speaking, is up for Best Music Blog in the BlogNet Awards thing.  This is the first time I've ever nominated myself for something and I'm not sure it really counts if you nominate yourself, so don't feel compelled to vote.  If you do want to, you can go here and scroll down, down, down until you find Bass-ically Speaking.  I'm not sure how it all works, but your comment can be entered into a contest for a cash prize?  Something like that?  That would be cool if I knew you got a little cash just 'cause you voted for me.  That would be better than me winning the award, actually.

Last thing:  Brenda tagged me for a meme-ish thing.  I'm supposed to list six thing y'all do NOT know about me.   Heavens to blogatroid!  I've been blogging so long, I'm pretty sure my guts are posted all over She Lives.  Here's my feeble attempt at coming up with some new material.  (I guess I seriously have hospitals on the brain right now, so bear with me.)

1)  I am an R.N. (everyone knows that).  I started out in L&D, then moved into child/adolescent psychiatry until my daughter was born, then I went back to maternal/child health. (Which rendered me semi-useless with mom's recent heart incident.)

2)  One of the psychiatric hospitals in which I worked had a sleep lab and did a lot of work with patients (mostly adults) with sleep disorders.  I became very interested in this and, at the suggestion of one of the psychiatrists with which I worked, became a registered dream analyst. 

3)  I know I dream every night, but rarely remember my dreams.

4)  The last nursing job I had was at the indigent clinic in one of the poorest counties in Texas.  There was no doctor at the clinic - just a nurse practitioner, myself and a staff of LVN's and techs.  The nurse practitioner handled all the medical patients and I did all the prenatal care, family planning and well child checkups.  All of them.  Tons of undocumented folks.  It was quite an adventure.

5)  Halloween day will mark 12 years since I left that job.

6)  Because it's been so long, in order to practice nursing again, I'll have to take a refresher course through the University of Texas.  I'm seriously considering doing that this spring.  Even though I never want to work as a nurse again.  With the economy like it is and the kids quickly approaching college years...I may have to, though.  It certainly pays better than working as a musician.   Argh!

I hate to be the dead end, but I'm not passing the tag.  I'm sure it'll spread along just fine without me.

Okay, so awards and a meme -  That's a lot of blog-ish love!  Knowing y'all are thinking of me makes me feel a whole lot better about getting through the day with you-know-who. 

(I really am glad she's okay.  I just wish we didn't have to go through this Alzheimer's thing.  I hope I don't wear my kids thin when it hits me.)

I think I'll go plant some bulbs.  Or circus poodles. 

What are you going to do today?

Weekend Report

Or: Why hasn't she posted or dropped on my blog lately?

Friday evening:  Took Sister, her family & my mom to see my daughter perform at the high school football game.  While leaving the stadium, Mother clutched her chest, got short of breath, and (insert textbook heart attack symptoms here).  911 called.  Was rushed via ambulance to the local E.R. out here in Far Western Suburbia.

Saturday morning, 3:00AM.  Transferred to the cardiac specialty hospital in The Big City.  Medical history is really sketchy as my sister and I have no records with us, we don't know her full cardiac history - only that it spans the last 2 decades,  and we definitely can not rely on mother's deteriorating memory.

Saturday afternoon:  lots of testing and doctors and so forth to determine the cause of the problem.  I went home to grab a shower and found my 3y/o, autistic nephew outside alone, standing on the diving board.  I sent my sister and her family home.

Sunday:  More doctors and testing. Can't get records faxed from the cardiac clinic in New Orleans because it's...Sunday!  Gross hospital food.   Dozing in a chair next to Mom's bed. No real sleep since Thursday night.  Starbucks only one block away from the hospital so there was hope for my survival. 

Meanwhile, my darling husband is taking care of everything on the home front (laundry, meals, getting kids to their games, rehearsals, dates with friends, etc.).

Monday:  Cardiac catheterization performed on Mom revealed a blocked coronary artery.  Stent inserted millimeters from the stent she got back in '96.

Today:  Mom to be discharged at some point.  Will come here for a few days and, if all goes well, I'll take her to my sister's at the end of the week.

In the future:  Somebody slap me upside the head the next time I anticipate an intense visit from my family, okay?  I didn't mean for "intense" to include "heart attack."

The good thing:  it happened here with me.  Can you imagine my sister trying to juggle 3y/o twins - one with autism - and deal with all this medical stuff that she just doesn't understand?  I would have had to go to Austin and stay with mother down there during all of this.  Since I'm an R.N., these things fall to me and I'm thankful I can help. And there was a Starbucks a short walk away! 

God truly was merciful throughout this entire situation.  He is so good!

One thing I learned throughout all of this:  it is very difficult to self-administer Starbucks vanilla latte's with whipped cream intraveneously.  Do NOT try this at home!

Intense Guests

My sister, her husband, their 3y/o twins, and my Alzheimer's mom are in town visiting for a while.

Please pray for me. 

If I don't post here or drop on your blog for a while, PRAY HARDER!

Thank you.

Thursday 13 #82

13 THINGS I DISCOVERED THIS WEEK

1)  A vacuum cleaner counts as"heavy machinery."   On the side of the bottle of Valtrex, there is a little sticker that the nice people at the pharmacy slapped on to warn me not to drive or operate heavy machinery while taking that medication.  I'm supposed to take it for ten days.  Which means I'm going to be home a lot.  So, I decided to vacuum.  And nearly killed myself in the process.  You don't want to know.

2)  It's not good to walk around the house when your big toe is bleeding profusely.    You know how, when you bake a cake for your 16 y/o daughter's birthday and you open the bottom cupboard to put the electric mixer away and your favorite nut chopper falls out and you see it happening and it startles you and you try to jump back, but you lose you balance and your big toe comes down squarely right on top of the edge of a giant chunk of broken glass - you know,  on the underside of the toe where it meets the ball of the foot - and it starts bleeding and you need to find the hydrogen peroxide and it's in the master bathroom and you hobble in there, leaving giant drops of blood all over the place?  Don't you hate that?  I mean, it was my BEST most FAVORITE-IST nut chopper!

3)  If you are first in the carpool line and you don't pull all the way up to there, someone will come along and back their dual-cab pickup into the 3-foot space ahead of you.  It will, of course, be the person whose kid emerges from the building last so, after your son gets into the car, you'll have to wait forever and ever to pull out of the line.  Even though you were first.

4)  Some people are way too lonely.  If you list something for sale on Craig's List, there are people who will reply to your ad and engage you in a marathon exchange of emails, pretending interest in your item.  Then, when it's to the point where they need to come see the item, they totally stop responding to your emails and won't answer your phone calls.  I'm pretty sure they just troll around looking for someone to type to.  Pathetic.

5)  It takes my brother three days to find a document in my mom's house.  Bless his heart.  We now have the passport.  No need for me to go to Columbia armed with a semi-automatic.  Lucky for the drug cartel, huh?

6)  If your son goes to school with his arms and legs covered in bruises and the teachers know he plays football, they don't mistakenly call CPS despite your fear that they will.  Especially if you live in small town where football supersedes the laws of nature.  I guess they're used to it.

7)  It's good to have a drummer that can get you the drugs you need.  Hey!  He's a DOCTOR!!

8)  I much more deeply appreciate the quality of the cards dropped on my blogs than the quantity.  Thank you to those who take the time to actually read.  Double-triple thanks to those who also leave thoughtful comments.  As to the rest, maybe they'll find something of value here one day.  Or not.

9)  The inspection sticker on my suburban assault vehicle is way expired.  I don't know why it took me so long to notice.   Maybe because I'm always jumping into my vehicle in a hurry to get where I'm going and, while I'm going there, I'm oblivious to everything except whatever's playing on the radio and all the bad drivers around me.  It's on today's to-do list.

10) It's not a good idea to wear your favorite, black, Heart concert t-shirt when adding bleach to a load of white laundry.   No matter how careful you try to be with that splatter-proof spout, a few errant drops with minds of their own will defy the laws of splatter-proof spouts and jump out to target your belly.  (Sorry, Ann and Nancy.)

11)  No matter how late you're running, it is totally worth it to pull the car over to watch a beautiful sunset.  And, while you're pulled over, enjoying God's amazing display, you might also notice something really important.  Like your expired inspection sticker.

12)  Homemade roasted pumpkin seeds from the pumpkins you carve for halloween taste so much better than the store-bought ones.

13)  Some people take themselves way too seriously and don't take God seriously enough.  Actually, I already knew that.  But there have been a few recent reminders.

Did you discover anything interesting this week?

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The purpose of the meme is to get to know everyone who participates a little bit better every Thursday. Visiting fellow Thirteeners is encouraged! If you participate, leave the link to your Thirteen in others' comments. It’s easy, and fun! Trackbacks, pings, comment links accepted!
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Sixteen Shingles

I could lie about my age and say that I'm not old enough to have a 16y/o daughter, but the truth is I am.  I'm actually old enough to have graduated college, then had a child who graduated from college and then had a child who would now be almost old enough for kindergarten.  That's the truth.  Yay, me.  *snort*

Last night at rehearsal, I showed our drummer this red thing that's been bothering me on my neck.  No, it's not a zit.  It's actually quite a bit more painful that the zit I did not have on my back.  And I was pretty worried about it.  It's only about the size of a thumbnail.  But it hurts.  And I have pain all up my neck and the side of my face, across my upper chest and upper back and down my arm.  I don't do meds, but did take some Advil over the weekend, it was hurting that badly. 

So, I showed it to our drummer, who happens to be a doctor (otherwise, I wouldn't have shown it to him, right?  I mean, drummers are...well, they're drummers and you don't go showing stuff to them, okay?)  and he pronounces me to have shingles.  Gah!  Stinkin', freakin' shingles, man!   So, I'm old enough for shingles.  Blastedchildhoodchickenpox!  It truly doth succoth. 

What's this got to do with my age?  Wait...uh....I'll remember here in a sec... Daughter, college, age, rehearsal, doctor, shingles...

Oh, yeah!

So, Doctor Drummer has to have my date of birth to call the prescription in to the pharmacy.  Valtrex.  Sounds like a character in a bad sci-fi movie.  And I'm supposed to swallow it.  Blah.

And, with the entire band standing there - oh, the indignity of it all - I have to give not only the month and day I was born, but also the stinkin' year. 

I don't lie about my age.  I just never tell anyone how old I am.  Leave 'em guessing, is my motto.  Whassa motto with that?  Now the whole flippin' band knows I'm....Wait!  I'm not telling YOU how stinkin' old I am.

But my daughter is so proud to be sixteen!  It's a milestone age in our culture, isn't it?  "Sweet sixteen and never been kissed."  Although, I know she has been kissed.  (Stinkin' teenage boys swarming about all the time.  I am so not afraid to go to prison and they know it.)  But she's still sweet sixteen today.  It's the driver's license age.  She does have her permit.  But she's nowhere near ready for the license.  She hates driving.

I loved driving at that age.  I was really good at it.  I started driving when I was 14.  Illegally, I know.  But third world country where half the population was driving illegally and the other half didn't have a license . . . Nobody seemed to care. 

This girl's not such a good driver at this point.  I won't tell you about our latest jaunt to Wal-Mart.  With her driving.  Into oncoming traffic.  Every time she's behind the wheel truly tests my nerves of steel.  One of which now has shingles growing on it.

Happy birthday, my Principessa Angelica! 
You are a joy and bless my life each and every day.  I am so proud of you and so very humbled to be your mom.  (And so relieved I'm not old enough to be your grandma...unless I started really early.)  I'll bring pizza to school for you and your tablemates at lunchtime today.  And tonight, your favorite supper and a homemade cake...A round cake with layers, just like you like.  With sixteen candles.

Your old, shinglefied mama loves you!

That Age-Old Lie

Okay, so it's only fair that if I show my MIL's short side, I need to show my mom's too.  'Cause my husband isn't the only one with a quirky mom.

Fifty years ago, my mother told a lie that now has her in serious trouble with the federal government.  Seriously.  Uncle Sam has come down hard on my 75 73 75 73 seventy-something year-old Alzheimer's-inflicted mother. 

And that's the problem.  They don't know how old she is.

When Mom met Dad back in 1958, she lied to him about how old she was.  We think she was five years older than him, but she shaved it down to 3 years older.  So, when they got married and she obtained her naturalization papers (she had dual Panamanian/Columbian citizenship at the time), and became a US citizen eligible for military benefits, all of the paperwork she filled out listed her year of birth as 1935. So she would, you know...Not be so much older than her husband, I guess.

Back then, in the 1950s', in third world countries, before all these records were kept on computers,  back when paper trails competed stiffly against a person's word, and bribery was still an option, and pushy talkers like my mother were able to verbally wear down hapless government drones, convincing someone that a 3 was really a 5 was a lot easier than it is today.

But the Social Security folks weren't so easy to fool.  They listed her as born in 1933.

And so, for fifty years, Mother's driver's license and military ID listed her as born in '35, but the Social Security office has her down as '33.  Got that?

Well, now that she's eligible for Medicaid, and it's 2008, and she not only has to file on her military health insurance, but also Medicaid for benefits, and there are computers keeping track of the databases shared by all the government drones, Mom is busted!

Social Security is in charge of Medicaid.  The Military is in charge of her health insurance.  And, even though all of her numbers and photos and addresses and other logistic, demographic, photographic, alphanumeric and other data all matches up perfectly, the difference between a 3 and a 5 have completely shut her out of all federal benefits. All of them.

Yeah, they said we can send in her passport and her birth certificate to get it all straightened out.  But I'm a little nervous about that.  For one thing, we have no idea where those documents are.  And she has Alzheimer's, so....  And the hospital in Columbia in which she was born burned down in the mid-60's.  And that birth certificate is going to be where, exactly in  Medellin Columbia?  In some drug cartel kingpen's house?  If it exists at all?  I mean, seriously. 

Maybe the documents are in Mom's house?  I'd sooner take on the drug lords.  Mom is...what's the nice way of putting this?  A hoarder.  Just give me a machine gun and a round trip to Bogota.  I can take those guys a lot easier than I can take on my mother's house.

With mounting medical concerns and the future showing the rapid approach of a need for assisted living arrangements for Mom, she needs her stinkin' benefits.

No lie is innocent.  And, even if it takes fifty hears, it'll come back around to bite the liar's freakish butt.

My sister found a document in mom's room a few years back, written in Spanish, that listed Mom's year of birth as 1932.  According to her elder sister, that is the correct date.

Should I even try to go there with Uncles Sam?

Sticky Post!

If you're looking for my music blog stuff, it moved to Bass-ically Speaking.  See you there. 

Everyone else, I'm so glad you're here!

The Sock Monster-in-Law

There is a monster living in my house!  I am so not kidding.  And no, I do not have the halloween pre-jitters.  I swear it's true - a MONSTER!

You know how on Sesame Street there's the Cookie Monster?  They call him that because he's a monster that eats cookies.  It's true;  that really is why they call him that.  Okay, but he's just a puppet.  Muppet.  Whatever.  My monster is real and he's invisible.  Serious.

I call mine the Sock Monster.  Can you guess why?  No?  Because he eats socks.  I know that's exactly what's happening.  And it's been going on for years.  There is absolutely no other explanation for what is happening to one sock out of every pair in the entire house.  Because socks do not just disappear. The very thought is utterly ridiculous.  That's like Tooth Fairy talk or something.  Things do not just disappear.

The Sock Monster got me into trouble last weekend.  My mother-in-law came to visit.

When  my MIL comes to visit, she brings her white gloves.  She pretends not to, but I know she does.  She's complained to me countless times about my sister-in-law's house.  Like I even care.  I've never been invited to my SIL's house except for her kids' high school graduations.  Looked okay to me then.  Not interested in the dirt behind her 'fridge.  Or my own, for that matter.  There's probably inches of accumulation behind my 'fridge and I don't plan to get back there any time soon.  Maybe that's where the Sock Monster is hiding out?

So, my MIL offers to fold the clothes in the dryer for me.  Whatever.  Go for it.  If it makes you happy and all that. 

As an aside, my MIL is a widow, lives alone, and washes two to three loads of clothes each day.  I'm not kidding.  Any time she changes her skivvies, straight into the washer they go with like colors.  Or all by themselves if there are no like colors to go with.  She has never owned a laundry hamper, dirty clothes bin or laundry basket.  Ever! Everything is washed, dried, folded and ironed daily. 

I guess she doesn't blog.

So, she folds this one load of clothes for me that's probably been sitting in the dryer for the past few weeks, I don't know; I wash when the hampers runneth over - and, when she's done, she calls me into the laundry room. 

I'm a little worried about her at this point.  Her eyes are really big and she's sort of shaking.  At her age, I'm thinking coronary.  My laundry room isn't big enough for EMS to get in there with a stretcher, so I wonder if I need to get her out of there.

"Look!"  She says, holding up three dark colored socks.  I recognize these socks as my husband's.  He wears suits and ties to work, hence the dark colored socks.  "I don't understand!"  She continues, getting a wee bit red in the face.  "These socks have no match." 

"Okay, well, just leave them there.  I'm sure the mates will turn up." 

"But how did this happen?   This NEVER happened in my house.  I didn't raise my son to give me only one sock.  He folded them together when he brought them to me to wash.  I just do not understand this."

Hoo boy!  

I once read on one of those household tips blogs that the way to solve the Sock Monster problem (SEE?  I'm NOT the only one with a Sock Monster) is to buy large quantities of the exact same socks.  That way, it doesn't matter so much if one goes missing.

So, I did that.  For every member of the family.  LARGE quantities.  Like a few dozen pair for each person.

Now I have a jillion of the same socks, all without mates.

I thought about having the Sock Monster exorcised from my house, but I'm thinking exorcism is passe' these days.  Like, demon posession is old school or something?  Besides, he's not a demon - those are really scary - he's a monster; just annoying.

I'd send him to go live at my MIL's, but the poor guy would starve to death. 

It's a good thing she didn't see the massive drawer full of single socks that I've collected over the past seven years.  I would have seriously needed to call EMS then.

Do you have a Sock Monster, too?  How about a MIL?  How about a hydrogen generator made with old socks?