The kids were in bed. It was the first moment all day that no one was talking at me- demanding things from me- trashing my home/yard/patio as I turned my back to load the dishwasher. I closed my eyes, breathed deep into my belly for the first time in four months and took a sip of burgundy chilled deliciousness. After another twelve hour shift with two kids and no naps, I was cooked. And the week had just begun...
I opened my eyes.
There they were, in my direct line of vision; Brock's socks... on floor. The balled up, greasy, stinky, dirty work socks sat on the carpet I had just vacuumed. At the end of a long day, during my one hour of relaxation before I closed my eyes and started all over again the following day, I was left to stare at my hard-working husband's used up man stockings. Seriously, man? Seriously???
Not even three sangrias can erase the irritation of skanky ass work socks with some dog hair encrusted tape stuck on the bottom. I couldn't stop staring at those nasty used socks. Then the unthinkable happened. The socks were ruining my happy sangria buzz.
Finally (after approximately 42 seconds), I turned to Brock and firmly said, "We have a problem. Your socks are on the rug. Again. Can you please pick up your socks?" I added, as a warning of sorts, "They are pissing me off."
I looked at his gnarly feet and vowed to teach my sons about pedicures.
Brock picked up the discarded socks, wadded them into a tighter ball and shoved them under his thigh, which rested on the couch one foot away from me.
He looked me dead in the eye and said, "No, YOU have a problem."
I sat in stunned silence. My eyebrow raised so high it was as if The Good Lord himself was pulling it to the heavens with fishing line and a barbed hook. Then my face recoiled. I think my neck ate my chin. My right eye finally started to twitch. Stabbity stab stab...
Then Brock said, "It's my socks. They're on the floor. Again. That's your problem."
..... for a moment, I thought I heard the voices of angels singing.
Then I laughed, "You're right. That IS my problem."
Then he gallantly said " AND I WILL PUT THESE SOCKS IN THE LAUNDRY!"
I asked, in all seriousness, "Do you know where that is?"
He got up off the couch and headed to our bedroom, in the proper direction of the dirty clothes hamper and I felt... was it hope? Hope of a brighter future? Yes. I heard him say, "Right here!"
Then he questioned himself and muttered, "Is this the dirty laundry basket?"
I said, "Yeeeeeessssss."
Then he threw them on the floor next to the laundry basket.
I'm going to need more sangria.
Here's the recipe!
Get a fancy schmancy pitcher. Mine is from Wal-Mart. Pour in:
- a shit ton of inexpensive red wine from the box siting on your countertop
- a lemon, not moldy, sliced and de-seeded
- a lime, not brown, sliced and de-seeded
- a tiny orange, it was sketchy, I will not lie, sliced (a large fresh orange would have been lovely)
- the rest of the almost furry strawberries that had been sitting in the fridge for who-knows-how-long, topped and sliced
- a splash of orange juice
- a splash of pink lemonade (because it looked pretty and I love lemonade)
- a generous dose of apricot brandy
Mix together into a glass container and pretend like you are going to put it into the fridge to "cure" overnight. Fuck that noise, I immediately poured mine into a glass of ice and topped with lemon-lime soda.
Drink liberally until husband transforms into that charming man that you once married.
Peace, Love and Laundry Baskets That Even a Man Can Locate,