|
|
|
Sock
Jobs and Sticky Sheets
By Beth
Goodtree
(This
story is absolutely true, but all names have been changed to prevent
matricide.)
When my friend’s preteen son first took an interest in doing
laundry, she immediately began to wonder if he’d want an Easy Bake
Oven next and began to worry. And when she kept getting only
single socks in the laundry before going through the washer, she knew
something weird was up.
It was a very strange summer anyway. Her new landlord was
probably a terrorist and he used her address as a mail drop for any
number of Middle Eastern names. He also had a phone
call-forwarding device installed in her basement closet, even though
he had never lived in the house. The dog was getting huge erections
every time he saw a fire engine -- which was quite frequently since
the firehouse was around the corner. And her son was taking an
inordinate interest in laundry instead of video games.
Being a blonde, she didn’t figure it out right away. But one
day she had a brunette moment and realized that he was only washing
his sheets. He would wear the same crud-covered shorts for days,
but his sheets he had to wash almost daily.
She did what any discrete mother would do -- bragged to all her
friends that her son was now having wet dreams more often than the
dog! Not only that, but he didn’t clean up after himself with
his tongue. She was so proud; she even left a bottle of that
expensive protein stain remover right on top of the washer.
But it still didn’t explain all the single socks in the laundry
basket. Was she dating a one-legged man she didn’t know about?
Were her bananas looking for blankets and wearing them?? She
hadn’t a clue and was rapidly going broke having to buy her son
new pairs of socks on a weekly basis.
By this time, her son was spoiling her by volunteering to do all the
laundry. She figured he was gonna ask for some outrageous
privilege, but was willing to be spoiled until that happened.
Besides, the basement was full of centipedes and jumping spiders and
basements had always creeped her out.
She was blissfully ignorant until the day the furnace decided to turn
itself on for no reason and spray rusty steam out of the radiator and
all over her newly painted pink walls. She had to go down to the
basement to shut it off. She also had to empty it of water.
She filled up the first bucket and took it over to the sink to pour it
out. However, the sink was blocked.
What was it blocked with, you ask?
About 100 single sticky socks in varying colors.
Oy.
Her son the laundry freak had reinvented the sheet protector in the
form of a cottony, breathable condom-like, one-size-fits-most ‘sperm
guard.’ And at the rate he was going through socks, he was
using them for more than just nocturnal emissions. Any port in a
storm...any sock in a...well.... you know.
She didn’t want him to know she’d stumbled across his secret, yet
she couldn’t keep buying him a new pair of socks (at least) every
day. She was subtle, yet direct. Diplomatic, yet ... nope,
not diplomatic. Not even subtle. But her timing was
perfect..
Just as her out-laws (other people have in-laws, she has out-laws)
were honking their horn for her son to go with them for the weekend,
she gave him some advice along with a good-bye kiss.
"If you’re gonna jerk off over there,
do it in the shower like everyone else and you won’t have to do the
laundry."
© Beth
Goodtree |
