Alert the media: Mom, Interrupted turns 50 this month.
I had hoped to say something pithy and wise about reaching the half-century mark, something between Dave Barry’s famous advice to “Never, under any circumstances take a sleeping pill and a laxative on the same night” and “Woo hoo! I just got my AARP card!!!!” Stuff that would make me look contemplative, and not like I was looking for my next fix of Preparation H.
I’ve been wracking my brain for sagacious things to say, and asked The Little Man In My Head to see if he could find anything good. You know The Little Man; when someone asks, “Hey, who was the boy you had a crush on in second grade?” and you know you know the answer but you can’t place it and so The Little Man starts rummaging through the file cabinets in your brain and you forget about it until about 3 a.m. when The Little Man pulls out the right folder, says, “GOT IT!” and you wake up from a sound sleep and yell, “Andy Grabowski!” to the consternation of Dad, Interrupted.
It was my secret hope that I’d write something so witty, wise and wonderful that it would get set to music and sell a zillion copies and I’d become rich and famous and y’all could say, “We knew her when...” when National Enquirer ran pictures of me on a jet ski in the Mediterranean with a caption that speculated I might be just a little too friendly with George Clooney. Or Pierce Brosnan. Whoever’s free.
Dad, Interrupted is unamused by this line of reasoning. He thought a jet ski sounded fun, though.
Anyway, George, Pierce and Andy will have to wait, because none of that’s gonna happen. Every wise and pithy thing I was going to say is being subsumed by dirty sock molecules, because I’m up to my ears in socks. They’re everywhere. My sons have apparently taught their socks to breed like rabbits in the couch cushions. Sadly, they have not yet taught their socks to eat their young.
We’ve found socks in the pool filter, my shower, the dog food, the freezer in the garage, the trunk of my car and the vegetable crisper. Hilariously, one fell out of my briefcase during an important meeting with a client. There are none in the laundry hamper, in case you were wondering.
I’m certain that the next time a doctor comes after me with an otoscope she’s going to pull a size 7 Nike sock out of my eustachian tube. I’m shocked that none of the Mars rovers have cruised up on a rock formation only to find that it’s really a sock formation. Years from now, when Mom, Interrupted quits yammering and becomes Mom, Silenced, I predict that along with my rosary, my Bible, and my Star Trek Pez dispensers (don’t ask) they’re going to find that my casket has been lovingly graced with one dirty sock.
And when The Little Man finally riffles through the last file folder (and after 50 years, I have a lot of Pendaflex to riffle) I guarantee you that it will hold One. Dirty. Sock.
With a hole in the toe.
Ahwatukee Foothills resident Elizabeth Evans can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org. Her column appears monthly.