A Message from the Department of Passive Aggressive Disorder

Although I can't be diagnosed with Oppositional Defiant Disorder, I have, from time to time, considered diminutive, yet effectual, acts of rebellion to the life I've established for myself. A quiet dissention, so to speak.

Let us consider my time honored favorite subject once again—laundry. This time, let’s narrow the topic a bit.

Let us talk about socks.

(First, let me begin with a huge note of thanks to the old man. Last spring he got so tired of listening to me whine over laundry; listening to me persuade reluctant and frightened kids into helping with the laundry; and, being the victim of my laundry-hatred (his gentle way of spurring me on was: "Are there any clean whites?"), that he purchased two new, white, and shiny machines: one meant for washing, and one especially for drying. We got the largest ones we could find. And what a difference it has made this last year. I can now keep up with the laundry and, miracle of all miracles, the clothes are dry before the next load is even done washing. Thus I can fold and stack them in the appropriate baskets, and even put it away, before I have to switch the wet clothes into the dryer. Amazing! No more stagnant baskets. Also, as an added bonus, on the days when I neglect the laundry, I no longer have to abuse the washer with oppressively enormous loads or wait hours for the tremendous load to dry. But what about the socks?)

This is the final frontier. Some say it's space—actually, it's socks. My way of dealing with them is to not deal with them. While I fold the laundry out of the dryer, I throw the socks into the basket as I go, planning to turn and match them afterwards. Surprisingly, I never do go back to them—until a week later I realize Maddie is going out to play—in MY socks.

Forget matching those 50 pairs of tiny little socks and figuring which pair goes to which kid, first you have to turn them inside right because, apparently, when people in this house take off their socks they do so by turning them inside out.

Well, I quit. You may get your socks—washed, dried, paired and folded—you may even get YOUR socks in YOUR basket—but you'll have to turn them yourself.

And watch it, or I may stop turning your t-shirts too!