This morning began like any other day. Donna slipped into the bedroom, quietly smooched me good-bye, and headed out the door of this home of eight blissful years, off to work.
A few minutes passed before I managed to propel myself from the mattress and start my dawn with the obligatory, ceremonial stubbing of my toe on the dresser.
That was standard operating procedure. The new mystery of which I speak lurked at the top of the stairs.
As I rounded the upper step, my eyes beheld a befuddling sight. Throughout the house, there were socks draped everywhere. Socks on the counters. Socks on the chairs, drawer handles, doorknobs, the stove, and, yes, my beloved TiVo, already set for tonight's "How I Met Your Mother" and an all-new "The New Adventures of Old Christine" on CBS. Later, Dave's got Kelly Ripa!
Nearing the coffee pot, I mustered the courage to touch a white crew sock which may have once contained and coddled my tippy toes and their wide array of Ace Bandages and wound creams.
The sock was moist, cold. I recoiled and blanched.
What was this scene? Who are these socks? What is their story?
I've heard of phantasms or some such, yet I prayed there had been a problem with the clothes dryer. I hadn't received a memo.
Perhaps Donna had set the booties out to evaporate after a wash -- as simple as that?
I don't know. I don't know where the laundry room is or I would check.
Meanwhile, I'm scared. I am very afraid.
