Black Holes and Socks: a scientific study

Everyone knows about how socks disappear into black holes in the wash. No one, as far as I know, understands how or why this happens. However, I recently have observed something that I feel will add significantly to the scientific study of this phenomenon.

For the past couple of years, I have been doing laundry separately from anyone else’s laundry. During this time, my socks seemed to avoid the vortex of oblivion. Occasionally I would lose an ankle sock, but who really cares about an ankle sock?

Then the strangest thing happened. Nate moved in and we joined laundry. Now he washes and I fold and somehow, socks have begun disappearing. I do not think this is Nate’s fault. We’re talking about a man who is very good at laundry. Did you know that wool socks should not be dried on high? I did not, but Nate did. That is why he washes and I fold. But still, somehow, despite his careful sorting and my careful matching, chaos has inched closer. Is it because of love? Is it because of the low heat setting? These are questions science has yet to answer.



How about them Seahawks, huh? Let me tell you. Actually, I’m the least qualified person ever to do that, because I a) don’t understand football, and b) didn’t actually watch the Super Bowl. But I’m just not going to let that stop me.

Recently, Seattle has been pretty Seahawks crazy. Everywhere you go, there are people in Seahawks gear. It’s kind of like being in Boston on an average day. Only the Seahawks. The obsession even hit the homeschool crowd.

“How do you spell Russell?” asked one of my students.

“Wrestle,” I told him. Poor old Wrestle Wilson.

And then there are all the 12’s. I have no idea what they mean, except that they are suspiciously footbally. The construction crane hangs a 12 flag during its off hours. Our neighbors made a 12 from Christmas lights in their window. I don’t understand it, but it’s friendly-feeling, like a big snowstorm. Like we’re all sharing something.

I did watch some football earlier this year with my friend Scout, who’s a fan. At least, we got burgers and beer and the game was on, and she kept trying to point out the hot quarterback — Marshawn Lynch, Google helps me remember — and I kept missing the hot moments when he had his helmet off, and with helmets on they all look like wind-up warrior ants to me. Finally, I saw a good shot, where he was wiping the sweat off his face and breathing hard. Totally hot. Totally heroic. Is that what football is about — drinking beer and objectifying guys in tight pants? If so, we got it down.

Anyhow, that was all the football watching I did. During the Super Bowl I went up in the Cascades with Nate and Squinch. We hiked in the snow, and it was still and quiet. When we got back, it was over, and the internet showed us pictures of so many people dancing in the streets it looked like Obama had been elected on New Years. We walked around our neighborhood. A drunk man lifted his coat and flashed his jersey at some cars.


Then we went home.

But you know, even when I was off in those quiet woods being a bad Seattleite, guess what color my hat was. Seahawks green.