How Old Are Your Socks?

Yesterday as I was sorting the mountains of laundry that had accumulated in our apartment, I was perplexed by this site at the bottom of the laundry basket:

My husband's socks from his latest softball game.  I couldn't understand why he thought these were even salvageable from their current state.  I turned them over to get a closer look.  Holes. 

Why was he even hanging on to these?  I understand that the economy is rough, but we've got a little money saved up in the bank for tough times.  And these socks are definitely having a tough time.  I took a picture, texted my husband and asked him what kind of miracle he was hoping for.  He informed me that he'd had these socks since high school, and they were his "playing socks."  What?  Since high school?  He hasn't replaced his socks in 15 years?  (Yes, he is that old...)  Well that settled it.  I texted him back, told him it wasn't fair to the socks to make them go on this way.  I reassured him that they've had a good long life, but it was time to let them go.  They'd be happier not suffering anymore.  Goodbye old, dirty socks.  It's been quite a ride.

This is Why I Pick Out His Clothes

I did my shopping at Kohls for Ron's birthday, as usual.  I bought him a couple of pairs of sneakers, some new slippers (because his stunk so bad that I threw them out the front door...), and a fleece jacket.  Unfortunately, only 2 out of 4 of his presents were keepers.  One pair of shoes was too small, and the jacket didn't fit right.

I offered to do the returns for him.  I figured I'd be able to easily exchange the sneakers for a half-size up, and pick out a different fleece for him.  However, for some reason unbeknownst to me, my dear husband decided to venture into a clothing retail store on his own this afternoon.  He came home proud that he actually took matters into his own hands, and did his own returning.

As I was preparing dinner, Ron walked in showing off his new "jacket."  I'm not really sure it can be called that.  Perhaps it's more of a sweatshirt?  Or a parka?  I really don't know.  What I do know is that it is God-awful, and this man shall never be permitted to pick out his own clothing.  See for yourself:

Ron: "How do you like this?"

Me: "Are you Serious?"

Ron: "Yes."

Me: "I don't.  Not at all"

Ron: "You really don't? But the sleeves unzip to turn it into a vest."

Me: "You're serious."

Ron: "Yes, I'm serious.  You really don't like this?"

Me: "No.  It's awful.  All that's missing is plaid pants and a cane."

Ron: "But the sleeves unzip."

Me: "That makes it worse.  Not better.  I'm telling you, that does NOT look cool."

Ron: "Oh.  I thought this was like the best jacket ever."

Me: "You really did?  Did you look in the mirror?"

Ron: "Yea, I really thought I looked stylish.  I guess that's why you do the shopping."

Yes, honey.  This is perfect evidence of why I do the shopping for you and the children.