The butt sock incident

Rushing to get in the shower this morning, I picked up what appeared to be a washcloth out of the basket of clean laundry that’s been sitting there on the bedroom floor, waiting to be folded for almost a week. There were no washcloths in the cupboard under the sink where they’re usually kept, thus the frantic pre-shower search.

I hopped in the shower, only to discover I was about to wash my face with one of Jim’s gym socks. Before we move on: I’m not completely insane. An inside-out sock, at a glance, could be a washcloth. It could be. C’mon, work with me.

Rather than jumping out soaking wet to find something more appropriate with which to scrub, I decided to forge ahead with the sock.

It was clean – I’m big on bleach for socks and underwear – so I wasn’t concerned about where it had been.

And being the innovative type that I am, I slipped it over my hand for maximum scrubbage. Of course, I eventually had to switch hands to do my left under arm and that was when it hit me: “Next time, two socks! One for each hand! I’m Brilliant!”

Half way through my shower, Jim walked in.

“Guess what?”
“What?”
“We need more washcloths.”
“Oh yeah? I thought we had a ton of them.”
“Me, too. But right now I’m using one of your socks and I’d rather not ever run out of washcloths again.”

And that’s when he said it:
“You’re washing your butt with my sock?”

This is my life. Every day, at least one good belly laugh because of Jim.
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But wait, there’s more:
“Do I look okay?” - H.
“Yes. You’ll be the prettiest girl at the funeral.” - J.