Sock Management 101

If you Google the word SOCKS it will throw you back 382,000,000 results, which is almost exactly the amount of socks that lives here at Chateau Da Woog! And always, with something so simple and mundane, there is a long and interesting history behind this particular garment. Originally they were made from leather, or matted animal fur. The word SOCK is derived by the Old English word SOCC, which referred the item as a “light slipper.”

The main purpose of socks is to cushion ones foot and provide a purpose to absorb foot sweat, therefor eliminating odour. A son of mine, who shall remain un-named, sometimes does not wear socks on Sports days and the stench of his shoes at the end of the day is enough to incinerate the small hairs in your nostrils. Socks are important people!

But if you are a domestic goddess, much like I am, you will know that sock management is a real issue, biting unto important time where you should actually be watching The Bold and the Beautiful. Or robbing you of the time when you could be examining your facial hair in direct sunlight in a magnified mirror. Or so I believe.

My little OCD Goblin, Mr. Woog, goes out once a year and buys ten identical pairs of black socks which makes managing them a doddle. But it is the other socks that causes me nightmares. There are footy socks, school socks, ballet socks and sports socks. There are fluffy socks and sockettes and ski socks. There are dozens of them. Into the wash they go, those little stinkers, and get washed and then dried. Then they are added to the WASHING COUCH where they can sit for days at a time. Once I lose the will to live, or run out of undies whichever comes first, I put on a podcast and start a little folding party.

I always start with the towels. I find folding towels oddly soothing. (Note to self. Apply for job at Bed, Bath and Table.) And then t-shirts before working my way through pants, shorts and “household” items such as tea towels until all that is left on the washing couch is a mess of socks and undies. Undies are easily sorted and then, there are just the socks.

Bastard little piles of cotton. The black ones are dealt with little pain. The striped ones, the spotted ones, the white ones. Three hours later I am left with a dozen odd socks. Where the fuck are their twins? I know Isobel Barbara is fond of walking past the washing couch, selecting a sock before going out into the backyard to play with it. I know that a few always fall down the crack in the middle of the couch. So what I do is chuck all the odd socks into a drawer of the sideboard, and watch that collection grow.

Then, every few weeks, most often on a Sunday Evening when the kids are pissing me off too the max, I announce with glee…

“BOYS! COME AND JOIN IN THE SOCKS BALLING PARTY!” before I dump the whole drawer onto the dining table. I hear their groans but I insist that it is quality, team bonding time before taking my leave to inspect my facial hair under the bedside lamp in my magnifying mirror. It’s a glamorous life.

After the Sock Balling Party finishes, I look at the leftovers and, brace yourself ladies, I CHUCK THEM OUT! Ruthless. They have some through all of the challenges and their time is up. I do not require seven manky odd socks sitting in a drawer until the day they remove me from the house in a body bag. It just is not necessary. Brutal, I know.

The cycle begins again. And you want to know the interesting thing? I do not recall ever buying any of these socks. It is puzzling and mysterious. It is like living in an endless episode of The Twilight Zone.

Do you have good sock management practices down pat?

What do you do with the odd ones?