One of These Things is Not Like the Other

In an ongoing attempt to decrease the number of orphaned footwear in my life, I have started pairing together obviously mismatched socks in hopes that nobody notices.

Of course everybody notices. Joe's response can be heard each morning at about 6 am as he pulls a pair on his feet, "What the f@*k?!" Danny simply takes them off and tosses them back in the laundry pile hoping for a different result from the next spin cycle. Jack holds them up confusedly, shrugs his shoulders, and puts them on anyway because he's the only child who really loves me.  Joey, being the sole OCD kid in the mix, instantly goes ballistic and throws himself on the floor in a massive display of over-reaction, crying, "Why dees socks wrong, mommy...why dey so wroooong???"

But I trudge on. 

Same dingy white color...looks like a match to me.

Every time I knowingly mismatch a pair of socks, I start thinking about that old Sesame Street song, "One of these things is not like the other" (click link for Cookie Monster's rendition).  Then I think about all the other things I have encountered in day-to-day operations that don't belong together.  Like the rubber duckie found swimming in our toliet.  Or the open tube of Neosporin discovered next to the boys' toothbrushes. 

Even my television preferences seem at odds with each other: 

I'm thinking about pitching a show to NBC about a serial killer who only slays people to the beat of Broadway musicals.

It really doesn't fit any kind of  personality profile for a person to be obsessed with a show about a serial killer as well as a program that embraces all things kitsch-musical.  But that's where I'm at. 

(Quick shout-out to my sister Megan who mailed me Season 1 of Glee when she read on my blog I was hoarding my Coke Rewards Points for this very boxed set.  Perhaps I should have mentioned I was instead saving Coke points for...I don't know...having my stomach raised up from knee-level and put back in its original position?  Meg? You still there?)

My husband and I don't always seem to be an obvious pair either.  People often think I'm nicer than he is because I smile more and don't swear as much.  Yet Joe is the one who calmly stays up with sick and vomiting children while I'm threatening to put them in foster care.  Joe gives money to people on street corners and once even handed a homeless guy the gloves I gave him for Christmas during a particularly cold Chicago night.  My comment?  You could have just said you didn't like them.

I get irritated with the Street Wise people. I tell them to stop harassing moms pushing double strollers and hauling diaper bags. When they try to throw their hot bagels at me in retaliation, I remind them that it's been 7 years since I ate anything warm. They sit down on the sidewalk in their schizophrenic haze telling me I'm a bad person. That doesn't stop me. I start yelling that I don't sit down each day until after 11 pm. Even Dexter is viewed from a standing position while folding laundry at a kitchen table. By the time I'm ready to walk away, the homeless person is frantically looking around for a police officer to rid himself of the psychopathic mom threatening to steal their hot bagel.

You get the idea.  My ability to maintain calm died years ago. Murdered by the reality of daily poop and boogars.  There are days where I dream of world where this is no poop or boogars at all.  Over the rainbow maybe.  Where poop and boogars melt like lemon drops.  Or not.

While my husband and I may not seem to be a natural match, it seems to work.  At least until he wins PowerBall, drops me like a hot potato, and gets himself a shiny new trophy wife. But until then, I will continue to offer him mismatched socks and a stack of take-out menus each night. Some women look for husbands with money or exceptional looks. I looked for a man with unwavering sanity.

Somebody needed to balance out my crazy. 

One of a handful of pictures of Joe & I together and I'm pregnant.  Anyone know how to Photoshop out my cheeks?