No really. ON two feet.
I'm talking socks, here. Notably used socks. I wage a daily battle against the cotton hellspawn and i swear they breed like bunnies.
My husband, From Whose Feet Springs Grimness, swears up and down that he doesn't leave those horrid, crumpled piles of used socks on the floor... the stairs... the couch... the bed....
You know how a dog pees on things to mark his territory? I've accused the man of doing much the same thing, only with socks. And its reached a point, where like the apprehensive dog owner, or even the Giant of Jack lore, i enter the house, look around suspiciously and sniff.
''I smell... waugh!! SOCKS!''
i don't know why it is that I can face down a reeking diaper full of intestinal nuclear-grade waste, with a side of baby vomit down my shirt and never even blink. But socks? Something about their wrinkled crumpled sweaty piles of evilness just gives me the creeps.
And lets not discuss the teenager's socks. I haven't quite recovered from last week's stomach-turning episode. (I am buying new shoes for that kid and i think the old ones have to be declared a HazMat.)
Is there a solution? I have no less than 4 hampers in the house and I DO find socks in them... maybe the others are acually escapees. Is there an evil Sock Fairy, who scatters her foul footwear to mark those who offend her?
I don't know. All I can say is...
This situation stinks.