Sock It to Me

Over the years, I have learned that home is neither a place on the map nor a pile of semi-organized lumber and textiles I live in.

It's a man who balls up his Gold Toe socks into pungent little cotton grenades—before tossing them in the hamper so I have to—eww—stick my hand in to unravel them so they’ll wash properly. He evidently thinks I tear up over a load of whites because doing the laundry makes me sentimental.

I might as well talk to the wall as ask him to quit doing it—it never changes anything. I suppose every long marriage has at least one issue that has been submitted to committee, reviewed, discussed, rejected, appealed, ignored, and finally absorbed into the constitutional order of the household. So… I just keep unraveling his socks, while muttering rude comments about him under my breath.

Despite this, the rare times he’s been gone a few days to visit his family in Michigan—the house just seems... off. Not necessarily empty. Just… different.

The energy changes. The rhythm changes. Even the silence is the wrong shape. And then the maddening proof of love is that when he returns—along with the warmth and rightness and comfort—comes the balled-up socks.

The full package. No substitutions.

It puts me in mind of the old J. Geils Band song “Love Stinks.”

Yes indeed. Quite literally—and in more ways than one, as I learned after we first were married.

*

When you’re dating someone, you tend to forget you’re really only hearing their “greatest hits,” so to speak. Once you’re living together full-time… well, that’s when you begin to explore the entire back catalog—b-sides, demos, the entire sordid discography. If you can handle that without running out of the house, screaming into the night… well, it must be love.

I recall once in our early days together when I’d left Sean at home to go back to Iowa to visit family. He didn’t have enough vacation time built up at work yet, so he elected to do the bachelor routine at home.

While I was gone, he went shopping at the one small Asian grocery store we have in our town to stock up on some Chinese comfort foods from his childhood. Fair enough, I suppose.

Upon returning from my trip, I dragged my luggage up the front steps of our rented townhouse, opened the front door—and was cold-cocked by an olfactory assault that nearly brought me to my knees.

It was the overpowering odor of garlic—and I don’t mean the zesty scent of fresh garlic that you’ve tossed into the homemade sauce you’re making for your Aunt Marie’s eggplant parmigiana.

No, this smelled as if the townhouse itself had somehow consumed a pepperoni and onion pizza the size of a stagecoach wheel and then had a quart of garlic ice cream for dessert. And God help us all, garlic ice cream is a real thing. Don’t tell Sean.

Anyway, the entire place literally had garlic breath from hell.

“What in the name of God have you been cooking in here?” I finally managed to wheeze out once I’d caught my breath and wiped the tears from my eyes.

Sean poked his head around the corner from the living room couch and gave me a quizzical look.

“Ob, you’re home! Umm… what do you mean ‘what have I been cooking?’” he asked in a puzzled voice.

“The garlic, Mary Ann! My word, what in the world have you been eating?”

I dropped my bags in the foyer and marched into the kitchen, with Sean padding behind me like an unruly Labrador. He was sporting a vaguely guilty grin as I opened the refrigerator, searching for incriminating evidence of his culinary malfeasance.

“I don’t know. Nothing much. Just some Chinese snacks.”

As he continued, I zeroed in on the culprit: a large glass jar with what appeared to be whole garlic cloves floating in some sort of brine.

That’s it. Pickled garlic.

Sweet baby Jesus.

“What is this?” I said in the same tone I’d use if I’d just caught the cat piddling on the bathroom rug.

“Umm… pickled garlic? I just ate a few.”

“A few? Half the jar is gone! Okay, new ground rule. All consumption of pickled garlic on these premises must occur only when I am not present and must be concluded no less than seventy-two hours prior to my anticipated return.”

He gave me a sheepish smile and said, “Sorry baby. So… no welcome back kiss, I guess?”

“You’re not to come within fifteen feet of me until at least tomorrow,” I said vehemently, as I opened the crisper drawer and fished out a slightly wilted bundle of curly parsley.

“Here. Eat this.”

I handed it to him and continued, “Good lord and butter, this place needs a serious airing out.”

Closing the refrigerator door, I went over to the stove and flicked on the vent fan above it.

“Will this help?” he asked, holding the bundle up like a floral bouquet.

“For my sake, let’s hope it does.”

I headed back to the foyer to gather my abandoned luggage, then turned to trudge up the stairs to the bedroom so I could unpack. As I did, Sean leaned casually against the kitchen counter, nibbling on a frond of the parsley.

“Hmm. Sort of tastes like carrots,” he muttered, looking for all the world like Bug Bunny’s Chinese cousin.

I stopped halfway up the stairs and glared back at him. I finally softened and let out a resigned sigh.

“You stink, but I love you.”

“Silly,” he shot back, with a mischievous grin.

*

Throughout our marriage, I have lodged my complaints, issued my rulings, and muttered darkly under my breath in laundry rooms and kitchens alike. None of it has changed him in the slightest. Socks continue to be wadded up, garlic consumed like a vegetable, and other offenses against civilized domestic order continue unabated.

However, it’s also entirely likely that advancing age isn’t the only cause of the gray hair on Sean’s temples. I wish I could tell you that I’ve never gotten on his nerves—but if you ask him about my scented candle addiction, designer clothing obsession, or general disregard for credit limits on our Amex—you’d better pack a lunch and be prepared to spend the day.

So, I keep unraveling his dirty socks, opening the windows, and switching on the vent fan. In return, he’s learned that where the credit card bill is concerned, ignorance is bliss. Besides, he has to admit his husband is a snappy dresser, and those candles do smell awfully nice.

Love is strange that way. The irritating habits and peccadillos that drive you around the bend—the things that make you sigh, roll your eyes, and complain to the ceiling—are the things that would break your heart to lose.

Home, it turns out, has nothing to do with the house itself.

It’s the person inside who makes the silence feel right, even when he smells faintly of garlic and leaves his socks balled up in the hamper.