Write About Small Madnesses

It was the socks that did me in.  The week had been long and grueling.  My boss was on a rampage, and I had put in far too many hours trying to appease her.  Dinner had been takeout for the last three nights in a row and the dirty glasses and silverware still littered the kitchen, a silent reminder of yet another chore left neglected.  But for whatever reason, it was the socks that finally broke me.

I opened the door and dragged myself into the house around seven that night.  The dog started barking wildly and the cats immediately demanded that their bowls be filled.  I tried to wave them off but they quickly turned on each other as cats and dogs often do.  With a sigh, I pushed myself off the sofa and headed toward the laundry room to feed the animals.  The first pair of dirty socks were right there, next to me on the cushion.  Brown and crusty, they stank of shoes and foot.  I balled them in my fist to take with me, the animals dancing at my feet.  The second pair lay right on the thresh hold of the kitchen, as if welcoming me to the disaster that lay inside.  One was turned inside out and the other sported a large hole at the toe.  Amid the barks and mournful meows, I bent down and added this second pair to my hoard.  Down the stairs to the the laundry room, I encountered the third pair of the night.  Just as disgusting, lying neglected on the concert floor.  Too tired to bend over, I kicked them before me into the laundry room where they landed next to the mounds of unwashed clothing.

I poured cat food, scooped dog kibble and took a deep breath in the silence that followed.  The aroma of unwashed socked slinked up my nose but I enjoyed the silence nonetheless.  Revived, I headed back upstairs into the kitchen to tackled dinner.  One look at the mess and I knew it was too much.  I resigned myself to McDonalds again and turned to the bedroom.  With a groan, I kicked off my shoes and feel face first onto my bed.  And onto another pair of dirty socks.  I snapped.  The dog, the cats, the crazy work, a house left to ruin and now, more socks mocking my failure.  I suppose I went a little mad.  But who can blame me?  A haze of red rose before my eyes just as my ears picked up the sound of my husband coming through the front door.  I stormed out of the bed room and pushed my way through the twining cats and barking dog to face him, the offending socks thrust before his face.  He looked at them with surprise.

"If I find one more pair of your disgusting socks lying around this house, I will leave!" I bit out the words, loading them with all the venom and anger and frustration of the week.

We stood face to face for a moment, the socks between us, and then he gathered me in his arms, pressed his cheek to mine, and murmured into my ear, "So, you want McDonalds or Arby's for dinner tonight?"