After some mild trepidation and complaint, the boys and I agreed to my wife's project: we poured out all three sock drawers onto the floor and while we watched Friday Night Lights, we paired up socks; disposed of threadbare socks, and traded socks . . . and-- for now-- all the socks are in their proper places . . . for now.
Showing posts sorted by relevance for query socks. Sort by date Show all posts
Showing posts sorted by relevance for query socks. Sort by date Show all posts
No One Ever Told Me This Shit
Our washing machine stopped spinning last week and we couldn't figure out why, but a jovial Hispanic appliance wizard solved the problem in 10 minutes-- for $150 . . . so that's $900 an hour, no wonder he was so sanguine-- after calling our machine "a piece of junk," he used a screwdriver to pry open the front panel and my wife and I actually screamed "ahhhgh!" in unison-- and we meant: holy shit! this is where all the socks went!-- so apparently if you wash socks and underwear in a mixed load with a lot of water, they float to the top and spill out over the tub and impede the motor-- to her embarrassment and chagrin, Catherine's thong was wrapped around the tub and a drive belt-- so once we removed all the socks and underwear, the washer could spin again-- and easy fix-- and the jovial appliance wizard told us something I never heard: we should wash socks and underwear separately, with very little water-- how did I make it 51 years without learning that?
A Review of Dave's Most Ubiquitous Wardrobe Malfunctions
Lately I've noticed that if I don't wear a belt, then my pants fall down-- this was never a problem for me until recently and I'm not sure why it's happening now, but it's not the kind of thing you can ponder, it's the kind of thing you have to address-- and I'm dealing with this on top of my other clothing problems, which I've gone over in previous posts, but I'll list them all here for your convenience:
1) my neck is too thick to comfortably wear a dress shirt or a tie;
2) I can't wear a hooded rain jacket unless I wear a hat;
3) scarves perplex me;
4) duck boots pull my socks down;
5) I tear apart a lot of socks
6) I need to tuck my sweatpants into my socks when I ride a bike;
7) in general, socks suck.
1) my neck is too thick to comfortably wear a dress shirt or a tie;
2) I can't wear a hooded rain jacket unless I wear a hat;
3) scarves perplex me;
4) duck boots pull my socks down;
5) I tear apart a lot of socks
6) I need to tuck my sweatpants into my socks when I ride a bike;
7) in general, socks suck.
Motivation and Consciousness (and Socks)
After I get out of the shower, on the weekend, I'll throw on some clothes -- but not socks -- and then I'll go downstairs to do whatever . . . but I know that invariably, I will want socks, but I neither put them on then, when it is convenient, nor do I carry a pair of socks downstairs with me, to put on when I will inevitably need them (and Saturday morning, when I realized this ineffective habit, I still did nothing to correct it).
I am Throwing Out These Tevas!
Yesterday, I found a pair of black Tevas in my chest full of random boots and shoes and figured they were perfect for the afternoon adventure my wife and I were about to embark upon-- it was sweltering hot and extraordinarily humid, plus there was a slight possibility of rain, so I wanted to let my feet breathe (plus I had played over two-and-a-half hours of pickleball with my brother his group of expert players down at Veteran's Park in Hamilton, so my feet were tired and my toes needed to spread out, encumbered by shoes and socks) and I didn't want to be traipsing around in wet shoes-and-socks; our plan was to take the train to Princeton Junction; then ride the "dinky" into Princeton proper; head to a bar and watch Coco Gauff play Aryna Sabalenka in U.S. Open finals, then meet our friends Melanie and Ed for dinner at The Dinky Bar & Kitchen . . . but it started to rain a bit as we were leaving to catch the train, so instead of walking all the way to the train station in New Brunswick, we drove to the edge of Highland Park and we got out of the car, holding these tiny umbrellas, and started to walk but we were immediately soaked by sideways rain, so we decided to beat a hasty retreat, get our fancy rain jackets (which we didn't bring because it was so fucking hot and humid, and it wasn't really supposed to rain) but when we got back to our house, we heard some odd thumping on the roof of the car and then we noticed dime and quarter sized hail hitting the windows and or neighbor's driveway (it was so epic, I took some video) so now we were stuck in the car, but I figured our dog Lola was very upset, so I bolted through the hail and got into the house, where she was duly freaking out-- and we checked Uber to see if we could get to the train station that way but there were massive surge charges, so we were going to put on our rain jackets an dbrave the storm, but then Connell heroically offered to drive us, so we made our way into New Brunswick, through a couple of deep channels of water, and caught the 3:49 train; once we got to Princeton, the rain had subsided, and we made our way to the Ivy Inn, a dive bar with TVs on the other side of town-- except that I clicked on "The Ivy Club" instead of "The Ivy Inn" on my phone, so we started walking a circuitous route through campus because we were walking towards Princeton's first eating club, not the bar-- but we figured out the mistake and we didn't walk that far out of our way and we got to see a bunch of drunken shirtless fraternity guys playing an outdoor version of "beer die," which was enteraining-- and then we drank some beers and watched some tennis at the Ivy Inn-- very fun, but cash only-- and Melanie and Ed and Lynn and Connell joined us for the end of the match, and then we stuffed ourselves at The Dinky Bar & Kitchen, got some very expensive artisanal ice cream at the Bent Spoon, and caught a ride home with Lynn and Connell-- and once we got home, I took off my Tevas and both of my feet had areas the straps had rubbed raw and I remembered why I had stuffed these Tevas in that boot-and-shoe-chest . . . because they suck and ruin my feet and I think I've done this three times now with them, so I am throwing them out and sticking with Chacos.
Thus Endeth the Week
Parent/teacher conferences, a couple of away games, a puking player on the bur ride to South Amboy, forgotten socks by my son at South Amboy (so he had to share socks) and a bleeding player on the way home from South Amboy, Pub Night, a hard fought loss this afternoon, dinner with my family for my brother's birthday, and a bunch of other stuff . . . an epic week, so I'm rooting for this blustery Nor'easter to cancel all the weekend stuff.
The Paradox of the Socks
Our household is now in the proud possession a teenager: Alex turned thirteen today . . . it's bizarre to have a child this old-- especially since he still looks like a little kid-- and equally bizarre that I am taking him and some of his friends to a rated R movie on Friday (Logan) instead of something more tame and typical, such as The Lego Batman movie-- but though Alex has entered puberty in a numerical sense, it's my younger son Ian (who is 11) who possesses all the hormones: lately, after he's done something athletic, his feet and socks smell to high heaven, while Alex's aren't offensive at all.
The Attitudes About Toes, They Are a Changin'
On the mornings when I play sports before school, I often wear sandals while I teach; it's faster and easier for me to put on sandals when I'm soaking wet-- just out of the shower-- trying to dry off and change into school clothes in the crowded coach's room and rush to first period . . . so yesterday after basketball, I wore my gray Chaco sandals with a pair of gray cargo pants and a black UnderArmour golf shirt-- pretty sharp, I thought-- and I apologized to my first-period class about my exposed toes and explained the situation-- very little time to shower, the difficulty of putting socks on when it's humid, time constraints, the desire to shed heat through my feet-- but to their credit, the students were oddly unfazed: usually the first time I wear sandals in class the kids give me some flak, but this time a girl simply said, "You English teachers always have your toes out," which struck me as peculiar, so I did some further investigation-- both around the school and on the internet-- and it turns out that high school kids think it's weird to reveal their toes in school-- they don't wear strappy sandals or heels or athletic slides or Jesus sandals or flip-flops-- in fact, they're so self-conscious about their feet and toes that they even wear socks even when they are sporting Crocs-- which I find nuts-- and at this point the student body seems to be used to the English department baring it all (below the ankle) as a matter of course (and I think they categorize us as "a bunch of hippies").
Is Something Wrong With Me? Besides the Obvious . . .
Another Great Free Idea
Usually, my wife folds my laundry -- though I tell her this is unnecessary -- so this time, when she finished the load, I took the basket and threw all the clothes on our bed, and then I was able to grab the socks and t-shirts and sweat pants and other stuff that doesn't need to be folded and put them directly into drawers, and then I put the shirts and pants on hangers . . . and so avoided any intermediate folding stage for those as well . . . but the problem with this method is that you have to do it right when the laundry gets done, and I don't know about your house, but in my house, nobody likes to put away clean laundry; even my wife -- who is perfect in all other regards -- has trouble completing this task in a timely manner.
Desert Truffles
During our three year stint in Damascus, my wife and I thoroughly enjoyed a short period of time in the spring-- just after the desert rains-- when the Bedouins would come into town with sacks of white truffles; they were dirt cheap, as far as truffles go-- four dollars a kilo (and that was the price for a white guy who spoke rudimentary Arabic and was a notoriously bad haggler) and a recent episode of Planet Money: A Trunk Full of Truffles inspired me to do some research about these "desert truffles," which are called "kimmay" in Syria . . . they are not nearly as expensive as Italian truffles (which can cost up to $2200 per kilogram) but white and brown desert truffles do fetch much higher prices than we paid on the streets of Damascus . . . anywhere from $80 to $270 per kilogram; I should point out that truffles are not very dense, and so a kilogram of truffles is a LOT of truffles: we baked them like potatoes, sauteed them like onions, and sliced them thin and put them in salads . . . this is not how you're going to eat truffles in the States, as they are very expensive and the market for them is quite strange-- I highly recommend this episode of Planet Money, as you'll learn about truffle smuggling, truffle depreciation, and why people like the smell of old socks.
1/2/2010
We survived our first ski trip with the kids-- including packing (snow pants, gloves, hats, long underwear, fleeces and lots of socks); a 12 degree day with high winds (we went to an indoor water park-- it was even pretty cold in there, but they had a cool tube slide and Alex got hit with the 500 hundred gallon water drum and it pulled his bathing suit down); their first ski lessons; three nights paired with the kids in double beds, and driving home in a blizzard-- but in the end it will all be worth it, because our kids will be proficient skiers and what could be better than that . . . they will addicted to a sport that is not only dangerous, expensive, and contingent on the weather, but also may well disappear with the advance of global warming.
1/23/2009
It was freezing in my house, and so I asked my four year old son if he was cold and suggested he put some socks on-- but I guess my job as a parent is close to complete, because he said to me, "Why are you asking me that? If I'm cold, I'll tell you I am cold . . . If I don't tell you anything, then I'm not cold."
Breaking News from Dave's Sock Drawer!
Yesterday, I noticed that all my white athletic socks were torn through at the heel . . . is this a weird coincidence or an insidious plot of planned obsolescence?
Got To Be the Calf Sleeves
I played indoor soccer for 90 minutes yesterday and then I played pickleball for two hours this evening-- and while I think I looked fairly athletic playing both sports, if you could see the awkward and ugly effort required for me to pry off my shoes, socks, calf-sleeves, and knee sleeve/braces after I finished playing, you'd wonder if I was capable of walking and chewing gum at the same time, let alone actually doing something athletic, graceful, and coordinated.
First World Problems
Ian woke me up at three in the morning because one of his Spiderman socks slipped off while he was sleeping and his foot was cold.
Ahh . . . Denim Days
My buddy sent me this picture yesterday . . . I think it's circa 1990 but we are celebrating some romanticized version of the 70's that we cooked up at Pi Lam-- but now this photo just evokes nostalgia for getting together with a bunch of people in a poorly ventilated space (although we were sick in college all the time) especially because I got so bored this afternoon that I actually sorted out my sock drawer and searched for mates for all my single socks . . . mainly to no avail.
Winter Is Coming for Whitney
Whitney came to visit last night, but he was woefully unprepared for the cold weather-- he had his work shoes, thin socks, a light jacket, stylish but useless leather gloves, and he actually had to borrow my bomber hat (he refused a Yankees ski hat); this wasn't a problem, however, as we decided to skip the curling and instead meet the usual suspects at Charlie Brown's-- inside-- and, then while we were planning our next move-- to walk to New Brunswick-- Whitney caught a break and Mose gave us a ride to New Brunswick (I got shafted and had to ride in the back seat atop many layers of flattened cardboard boxes), but after a good time in the Corner Tavern and a better time at Giovanelli's (Whitney has learned something since his last visit-- though he ordered two sandwiches, he only ate a half of each one) Mose offered to drive us home-- another break for ill dressed Whitney, but then his luck came to an end and Mose got a flat (this was 2:30 AM and it was cold) and it took a while to wrench the lug nuts loose and an even longer while to get the jack to work and old man winter finally got his revenge on the poorly prepared man from Norfolk.
The Most Malodorous Game
Before I left to play pickleball yesterday afternoon, I got a whiff of something stale and sweaty and I had to play a most malodorous game: what on my person was exuding a bad smell? my socks? nope, the knee brace on my right knee? nope, the knee brace on my left knee? nope, how about my shirt or my shorts?-- sometimes the laundry smells weird because it didn't fully dry . . . nope, my breath? nope, my pullover, which gets several wears before I wash it because I always take it off after three points of play? nope, my shoes? nope . . . with most of the sports I play-- basketball, soccer, and tennis-- I'm so old that I can't play them two days in a row, so most of my stuff is clean before I play again, but I can play pickleball two or three days in a row before my knees and feet give out, so sometimes my stuff starts to smell-- but I went through everything and couldn't find the odor . . . except . . . the brim of my hat? the call is coming from inside the hat! yuck . . . so I switched hats and washed the offender and next time I will check my hat first, as it is the closest thing to my nose and so if it smells, then it's going to seem like everything smells.
Syrian Memory #2
The Umayyad Mosque, the third holiest place in the Muslim religion (and the site has been a holy place for thousands of years: a temple to Haddad, and then Jupiter, A Greek Orthodox Church supposedly harboring the head of John the Baptist) is awe-inspiring-- fields of polished marble, walls of mosaics, and a monumental mosque housing a Shrine to Hussein (Mohammad's grandson) where Shiites were busy kissing a grate . . . the area was so holy that you couldn't wear your shoes, so I left my old stank Nikes in a pile of other shoes by the door, but when I returned, they had been stolen-- obviously the person who stole them didn't know that this was the third holiest place in the Muslim religion-- and then, conveniently, there was a youngster outside the gates of the mosque who took a quick look at the white man in his socks and immediately led me to the shoe souk-- where I'm sure he received a commission-- and his cousin sold me the crappiest pair of sandals in the Middle East.
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