Confessions of a Sock Whore

Confessions of a Sock Whore

I am a self-proclaimed sock whore.  I come by the title honestly.  Some of us like shoes, jewelry, collecting dishes, spoons, glasses, paintings, you name it and I bet someone collects it.  My older sister Cindy once asked me what I collected.  I really could not come up with anything I collected. In desperation, I said embroidered pillowcases. I have a few so therefore I have a collection.  I don’t think of socks as a collection.  They are a necessity. My feet need them.  In all my years of living, I have come to respect the opinions of my feet when it comes to both socks and shoes.  Life is way too short to not have comfortable feet.  Just ask mine.

You can imagine my delight when a friend said she had slightly worn loved socks for me.  Would I like to have them, I restrained myself, and did a little happy dance in my mind. It was easy to reply on Facebook and I said yes without capital letters. No reason to scream with unbridled exuberance at the thought of new socks.  I have been thinking that I needed to buy some more socks as a few of my faithful playmates had given up and left for a rubbish bin without toes mended.  I have mended quite of few of my favorite socks back when I was a college student and thread for mending was cheaper than buying socks.  I would put the worn out soul upon my foot, bend over and mend the toes of my socks.  I must admit that I am not quite as limber as I use to be but I will still make the effort of fixing some of my socks while they are on my feet.  My mom-in-law says that life is too short to mend socks.  As always the universe supplies.

I have toyed with the idea of making gloves with some of my socks.  It seems a shame to toss them away after years of devoted services.  This idea has come and gone in my mind every year. I let the thought pass.  I go and buy gloves.  One year I might clear off the sewing machine, bring out my scissors and then call a friend to see if she can do it for me.  I will provide the socks, the ideas and lots of hugs, go my merry way while she works away on my project because she loves me.  I hope.

I have been on a blog hiatus.  I started this one in October 2018.  It is now January 20, 2019. Where did I go? Or rather, where was the inspiration for writing.  My man has been faithfully writing a blog each week. I think I got into the mind set of why? Do I really have anything to say? I still have thoughts about the purpose of my writing.  I really do write about mundane things.  Like what happened to me during the week or on a Saturday/Sunday’s afternoon.  I am not sure I have a life during the week.  I work, I eat, I sleep and if I am lucky I read.

I like my husband’s blog.  He writes about changes in the world, he thinks about what he grew up with, books he has read, television shows he watched or movies he has seen.  The God and Goddess knows I really don’t remember anything like what he has experienced.  I am writing about the importance of my socks or the slug I found in my salad (last Sunday’s blog). I had a childhood.  A good one filled with wonderful journeys, a great family.

I guess talking about what is going on in the world is too painful. Do I want to be sad all of the time? No, I rather think about happy moments for me, the gift of socks from a friend, a surprise visit from a brother, a beloved cousin who travels hours and hours to see me for a day. I am certain of only one thing.  I like my socks.

Slugs and Other (Vegetables) in Salad

Slugs and Other (Vegetables) in Salad

Winter is hard in some ways as the favorite vegetables of the season have gone away. The harvest land is now covered with the white of winter snow in some areas or has the constant cold rain pelting on the ground in our part of the county on the West coast.   When visiting our local Farmers Market, my husband pointed out the salad greens on display and asked if I want some for our dinner.  I was delighted.  We grabbed a bag of greens, a few other things from the organic vegetable vendor and continued our shopping.  It was a delightful morning as we had met up with a friend and I strolled arm in arm with her for a bit. We stopped to buy bread, a new hat for me and beautiful red-black place mats for her. My husband followed with my shopping bag ready to be loaded up with my purchases. My friend parted with us at the door after I picked up my Saturday fresh brewed cup of coffee.  It was a good beginning for our day.

Saturday is our grocery shopping day.  We make a list. We head to the store and if we are lucky, we have the list otherwise two great minds struggle to remember the list sitting on the table at home. Generally, we try and cook something up for the week in order to have something for a quick lunch when we come home from work. Our commute is five minutes from work if the traffic lights are with us.  The supreme advantage to living in a small coastal town. Vegetable chili is our pick for this week. For our Saturday dinner, fresh wild caught salmon and the greens for our salad.  It was a good day for shopping with no wind and no driving rain just beautiful sunshine. Lucky us.

This Saturday is the day that I decided to have some of the stories I am working on printed up to make it easier on my eyes to edit.  We picked up a new thumb drive and after unloading the groceries, having something for lunch I started to load the thumb drive with the help of my man.  For us, a quick drive to a local print shop was all that I need. Or so, I thought.

Trip number one:

I grabbed the thumb drive, headed to the front door and put on my shoes.  Realizing I have the wrong glasses on (my reading glasses for the computer), I cried out to my husband to bring my glasses. I make it to the printers.  He printed out my stuff handing it to me.  I say, “Is that all?” I was looking for more.  I quickly check and realize I had selected a wrong file. He sends me home saying I can pay when I come back. I let him know I am minutes away as I head out the door.

Trip number two:

I open the door to my house. Calling out to my husband.  I need your help.  I forgot a file.  He quickly loads it up and happily I head out the door. The young man greets me and takes the thumb drive. “I can’t print this,” he says. “It is in the wrong format.”  I ask him what is wrong with it as he lets me look over his shoulder at the computer screen.  “Okay, I will be back.”  He hands me the thumb drive and off I go. At least, it is not raining, I think as I drive down back streets, across the highway remembering to miss the bump on one of the streets as I go.

Trip number three:

My husband is vacuuming.  I have to wait as he finishes the cleaning of the heat pump on the wall.  “Help. He says it is the wrong format.” I explain what I need and my husband replies he is my IT guy.  Soon the thumb drive is reloaded with the proper format and as a plus I found some of the story hidden in a different file so we add it to the thumb drive. I head out the door, sure I have everything.  As I wait at the light to get back on Hwy 101, I recite to myself, “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more.”

The third time is the charm.  With a small box of papers I head home.  I am content. After all, the day is sunny. I have a lovely dinner to look forward to, books to read, there are board games to play with my man before we watch television.

Dinner.

My husband works on baking the salmon as I work on reading my collection of mysteries, selected by Ellery Queen.  I have read mysteries here and then.  Mostly, Agatha Christie.  I am working on branching out from science fiction and fantasy.  I take a break from reading when the salmon comes out and later when the freshly baked chocolate chip cookies come out.  My contribution was chopping the walnuts.

I get out the salad greens and pile my plate high.  My husband says, “Did you wash them?” 

I reply, “I think they were already washed.”  I added my salad dressing.   I sit down and start to read again deep in a mystery of a new author.  Carefully spearing bits of lettuces, etc. on my fork gazing absentmindedly at my load before forcing the fork full in my mouth.  They are fresh, tasty.

 

I ate several mouthfuls before I see antennae sticking up, followed by a brown head as a three inch slug begins its journey around my plate.  I don’t scream.  Calmly, I let my husband know of the invader as I head into the kitchen to dump the creature into the compost.   After seeing a slimy thread connecting some of the greens, the rest of my salad follows the slug into the compost well-seasoned with a shiitake sesame vinaigrette.  I head directly to the fresh warm cookies eating two in my suffering.

I washed the rest of the greens in a slightly salty water bath.  I inspected each piece on all sides.  I placed them to dry on a small red towel on another cookie sheet.  I am thankful.  I missed spearing the slug. I am thankful. I missed cramming him into my mouth to rest on my tongue or to slide along my teeth before my teeth closed down on its body to force cold internal fluids into the cavity called my mouth.  Now as I sit here writing this I think I just might need another cookie as I think about slugs and other vegetables in my salad.