sock cloning and dusting with your man’s brooks

Odd Socks!  Bet you have  a million of them laying around the house.   In my house I’ll find them under the bed, back of the cupboard, under the car seat and bottom of gym bags.  And like the world over, I can never, ever find the partner.  But you know,  once found,  I wash them and move them to the clean underwear basket where they wait for a mate to appear.

A little part of me likes to believe the abandoned-socks listen with awe to the elder-socks stories of a sock-cloning device that is days away from launching.  I can see the launch now, socks of all colours, shapes and sizes mingling around a sparkly stainless steel box that fits snugly atop the washing machine.

Can you imagine the consequence of sock-cloning? Beds would teeter on mounds and going to the gym would require two bags, one for odd socks, and one for your gym kit.

Socks, sock, socks!

But this odd sock thing got me thinking about what we won’t throw away and also what we won’t spend money on.  Clearly I do not enjoy tossing out odd socks, I have about a gazillion of them laying around at home.   But more to the point what do I not want to spend money on?

Well let’s put it this way, don’t expect a greeting card from me, or a nicely wrapped gift.  So not going to happen.   I know, I know, I sound like a miserable old bat, but I cannot for the life of me hand over cash for something that will end up in the bin. I’d rather buy you a nice gift, something I know you want, and hand it over in the shopping bag it came in.

What won’t I throw away? Hmmm, not much escapes the bin for me.  No, no, I know what.  Bags and scarves.  It’s pretty odd really because I can toss out clothes on a regular basis, but not my bags and scarves.  You’ll have to wrestle them from me.

Hubby on the other hand resents buying clothes.  The man walks around looking like a pauper, holes in his shoes, worn collars, threadbare trousers and paint spattered t-shirts.  Take him by the arm and force him into a shop and he practically hyperventilates pricing underwear.  If I let him near shoes, I would be reading his obituary the next day.

Then there is his van.  Nope, not changing it.   For him the battered panels and doors and much cherished missing petrol cap all give character and have a story to tell.  The damp smell is now familiar, and the pock exterior is tactile.  Actually this van is a bit of an amusement to us.  We like to arrive at posh restaurants in this well-loved vehicle.  It’s pretty childish, but dangling  a blinged-up wrist from the window as we sign in at the gate is a must.

Hubby won’t throw away anything.  And I mean anything.   There is no point allocating him a man-drawer for his bits and pieces.  Nope, he’d laugh at me and maintain his claim on the study, garage, shed, kitchen drawers, kitchen counter, and if I let him ,the top shelf in my cupboard.  He not only hangs onto broken appliances, chairs, screws and paint-stuck brushes etc, he also hoards empty food tubs and jars.  BUT, I draw the line at his insistence on keeping his old underwear for dusting.  I’m sorry, that’s just wrong.  Flicking dust with my mans underpants is not something I want to do.

Could you just imagine me handing hubby’s brooks to my mother and asking her to polish the TV.  Not good.  Could be another obituary moment!

 

Yes I like your cupcakes, now get out of my kitchen!

Being a Sunday, I tend to mooch around the house.  I sweep up here, sort out there, and then my favourite, I cook my family a meal.  Not that they fend too much for themselves during the week that is.  But you know, I figure that after enduring my crumbed chicken and oven chips once too often in the week, I like to give them one real food meal on a Sunday.

And as yesterday was the coldest day since weather has been recorded, I decided to give them a hearty beef stew.  So easy to do, but real comfort food and minimal pots.

Great, there I was, poised, veges at the ready, knife in hand, beef shin exposed and ready for cubing when I felt a presence.  I tried to ignore it, but then it spoke, a small little voice, “what you doing?”.  My daughter had arrived.

My inner self started to scream, and my knuckles began to turn white as I gripped my knife.  I didn’t need help, I was perfectly happy  chopping and browning and wallowing in beef stock.  But worse was to come,  “can I make the pizza for lunch?”  Yep, hubby had arrived.

What is it with them? It happens every single time. As soon as I start cooking they arrive to get in on the action.  It drives me insane.  They do not see they are invading my space and that my once happy mood dissolves faster than  stock cubes in boiling water.

And so, before I knew it, daughter had the onions sweating and beef browning, and hubby was rummaging in the fridge extracting pizza toppings.  And as for me, well that’s easy, I was at the sink.

What happened to the cupcakes you might be wondering.  Well in an attempt to wrestle my onions back from my daughter I mentioned I had a new recipe we might have a go at at some stage.   Bad mistake, some stage became that moment and she started hauling out pots and flour and enough butter and sugar to produce a heart failure.

So there I was an hour later, 20 cupcakes cooling, every pot in the house used, pizza cooked and eaten and and me still in soapy water, but at least the stew was in.

I know I sound like a grumpy old cow, and I should embrace my family wanting to be with me, but sometimes, just sometimes, I wish they’d just get out of my kitchen!

Hang your knickers on the line

I won’t say I’m bonkers paranoid about hanging out my washing the right way, but I will confess to not allowing anybody in my household the honour of placing pegs on any piece of fabric, of any shape or form, that has recently been removed from my washing machine.

Got that straight….goooood!

Anyway that’s not what I’m here to talk about.  Nope, I need to talk about hanging out my knickers to dry.

Disclaimer - these are not mine!!!!

There I was about an hour ago, outside in the garden, pegging and hanging,  when once again I started hiding my knickers behind other larger garments so my neighbours couldn’t see the type of I wear.   Now I’ve done this for my entire adult-clothes-washing-life-time, and I don’t know why.

I mean I’m not embarrassed by my knickers! They don’t for instance cause an eclipse when held up high, and they’d be absolutely no use as an emergency piece of string for trussing the turkey at Christmas.   AND, I hasten to add, they are not full of holes and/or held together with staples and barely there elastic.

Could it be I’m worried my neighbour will leap over the wall and whip my knickers under her armpit before clambering back and tucking them in her undies drawer?  I think not.  She looks as if she can afford her own.

Disclaimer: These are not mine!!!!!

There is of course the possibility that I am really a rather shy and coy lady who blushes at the thought of a male seeing even a hint of my drawers.  Pre-children I would have said yes, post-children it’s a big fat NOOOOOOOOOOOOT. Any mother will tell you that first pregnancies take away any form of modesty your dear-old-mum has installed in you.

Which reminds me, does anybody remember this old song?

What’s the time, half past nine

Hang your knickers on the line.

When the Policeman comes along

Hurry up and put them on!

Anyway enough about my knickers, if anybody has a theory, let me know…

Give it to your woman!

Don’t shoot me down, but I thought this was funny. 

Madhouse, a clothing shop found along London’s Oxford Street ,  is in some hot soapy water for some of their cheeky T-shirts and now a rather cheeky label found in a pair of chinos – see below

Apparently  Twitter users are furious and cyber-ranting their disdain, and at least 1 feminist blog “The F Word” has climbed in to add comment and no doubt rally up support for women worldwide who work and also do the washing.

Personally I took it with a pinch of salt and had a giggle, what do you think?

Give it to your woman!