To Do:

suck the helium out of your daughter’s old birthday balloons and sing to her. She may be indifferent to the tonal changes in you voice, but I promise you’ll get a kick out of yourself.

So apparently, there’s this place socks go to. I’m not sure where it is, or how they get there, but somewhere there is a giant room full of mismatched socks. When I still lived at home with my parents, all my siblings knew where that room was because I kept losing my socks. If you share a house and a laundry room with nine other people, there’s bound to be at least one person with a sock-vendetta in the laundry room at any given time. I was quite relived once I got married and moved in with AJ to find that he had no idea where this room was either, and so we lived many blissful years of matched socks. The end.

oh wait, we had a baby. Not only does she know where this room is, she aggressively searches for socks to put there. When I was folding laundry this afternoon, she crawled up and snatched one out of the pile and headed off to find a suitable portal to the sock room.

Standard