Pet Peeves

Today, I explore one of my pet peeves. It has to do with the laundry. {As an aside, I find the term "pet peeve" funny. I always picture a fussy Brit in a velvet smoking jacket stroking an inbred longhaired cat, saying, "Have you met my pet, Peeve?"}

Anyway, I am doing laundry again, it's a shock, I know. And what do I find but a bunch of rolled up, sweaty socks that need to be cleaned. Ick. I have mentioned this to my menfolk about how disgusting it is to reach into someone ELSE's dirty sock to turn it right side out, and could they please take care of this before it hits the laundry chute? Now I just throw them into the wash as-is and let them come out as a dirty wet ball of cotton if need be. Screw them.

This always reminds me of the part in "The Sparrow" by Mary Doria Russell where the poor broken sodomized priest is forced to work in the laundry after his rescue. He does just fine with most of his tasks, but the unballing of the socks is really troublesome for him. It seems that the aliens cut all the tendons in his hands to make him more appealing and needy and now his fine motor skills just aren't what they oughta be. While I can't relate to all of this (never having been sodomized by aliens-ok, just once, but I didn't like it), I can certainly feel his pain vis-a-vis the monumentally selfish, self-centered, entitled SOBs who compel him to push his poor useless hands into their wet stinky socks just so they can have sparkling white whites in their sock drawers.