SOMEONE'S AT THE DOOR

Today on a message group to which I belong we've been challenged to match up socks, and then toss any mis-mates.

First about the message group.  My pen pal Jeani of 40 years, introduced me to FlyLady.net, a website geared to helping homemakers get out of CHAOS which stands for Can't Have Anyone Over Syndrome.  You've been there.  Someone knocks on the door, you look at yourself with hair pointing to Jesus, and floors covered in Hot Wheels cars, Legos, and toddler clothing that's been shed because little Johnny said his belly button was hot, and you just know one look around and The Knocker is screaming internally "Run away, run away!"

So you go to the door, strategically place your PMS bloated body (really you ate 3 donuts yesterday) in the crack of the open door to block their view.  Then it's "Oh, isn't the weather nice." as a fall leaf with water droplets from the "scattered showers" that morning wind-whip up and smack The Knocker in the face and you budge your body out the door toward said knocker to make sure any further communication is conducted in the wonderful crisp autumn air, ROFL.  Yep, we've all been there.

Anyway, back to the message group.  FlyLady.net says if you sign up with her she'll send you messages and missions and tasks and reminders and routines of things to do daily to help you get out of CHAOS.  Then she devised a way for members in each state to come together in Yahoo message groups, and subsequently those members get together in their county every month at what is called a FlyFest.

So here I am with a little mission of matching socks.  It'd be more fun to distract myself with typing up a poem.

Where do socks go? I may know. 
Resitin' in the cupped corners of your sheets, 
down the sleeves-- into your son's everyday T's.  
Chewing pet thought it quite yum, 
smells like his friend who pets 'im. 
 
A bleached sock doesn't match its mate,
a stretched sock looks as wide as a gate.
A sock found in the crevise of a couch,
smelly, dirty, hard to the touch, ouch! 

The washer has it's own game to play
sucked up agitator's gap - sashay, sashay -
somewhere hidden in the overflow space
or the sliding seal casing might be the case.

You just never can tell, it doesn't pay to beg,
but you might spy your eye down your hubby's pant leg!


And there ya have it.  No magic fairy came in to match socks while I played, they still hang in a bag behind the door waiting for me with Little Chuckie glee.  

I gotta go.
Been nice talking to you.
Oh, look!  Hear that?  Someone's at the door.