Escape is Futile

"Clean up, clean up, everybody clean up. Clean up, clean up, everybody do your share," the sing songy voice of a two-year old echos in my head as I survey the wreckage that has become my office. There are mortgages covering my desk and cases carpeting the floor.  Markers and highlighters add a splash of color here and there, and for extra sparkle, there are Werther's gold foil candy wrappers sprinkled about.

It's that time of year--the annual exodus of the paperwork. So, I sorted. And I piled. And I filed. And, two hours later, my desk shines. I have room for a legal pad and a coffee cup. Success.

Until I get home.

I fear that the laundry will smother me tonight. It clearly has taken on a mind of its own. Socks in floor. Underpants in the window sill. Visitors should be warned: "Come in, sit down. But only at your own risk. The dish towels have staged a coup, and they're sneaking up from behind the sofa cushions. If you smell Downy softness, run! They're coming for you too!"

I could (1) fold laundry every night until the second coming; (2) iron every shirt with precision tooling; and (3) pair each sock with its long lost brother. Instead, I (1) ignore clean laundry in favor of story time, cupcakes, and a glass of wine; (2) iron shirts, pants, scarves, and even hair ribbons on my smooth top range because the ironing board is too heavy; and (3) pray that the socks don't actually grow feet and run out the front door. I have evidence that the socks are in fact trying to escape. Sitting at my desk, I felt a lump near my shin. Curious, I reach inside my pant leg. A sock. Small, white, and clutching my pants. Escape was futile. The sock has returned to its brothers and is now collaborating with the dish towels.

Visitors beware; carry a stain stick (known to defend attacking laundry); and if you sit down, check your backside when you leave--socks are trying to escape, and static clings.