The Cookie Monster

My cookies are missing.

I considered calling the cops, but I don't think they'd get it.

I wasn't expecting much in the fair this year. I entered items that were favorites of mine but were either simply constructed or minorly flawed. Not the kind of stuff that places, necessarily. "Except your socks," Shawn says. My husband doesn't knit, but long practice has taught him to converse intelligently on the topics of toes and heels and stitch patterns.

So we got to the textile arts building at the fairgrounds.  Found the zombie ballerina, and River Tam (she did well, by the way - in spite of that whole backwards problem feature). I tracked down my felted bag, and my son, who had been promised any winnings from the children’s costume category as payment for having to part his Ewok get-up for the duration of the fair, took off like a shot looking for his fuzzy friend. He’s two dollars richer now.

But where are my socks?

The quilts were lovely. That’s where the hard-core competition always is, and they’re always dazzling. I don’t quilt myself. In fact, I don’t even like to hang out with quilters. They’ll get you into trouble. Their hobby takes up waaayyy too much space.

But no socks.

Cupcakes and muffins and...

But where the hell are my socks?

On the table where the sock competition seemed to live were four pairs of socks lined up in a row. One wore a first place ribbon and another a third. None of the four were mine.

I found a lady attached to the exhibit. “I’m missing a pair of socks,” I told her.

"Oh, I'm sure they're here somewhere, dear." She began to poke around some.

My family understood the gravity of this situation. Shawn was anxiously peering under the edges of quilts. My four-year-old tugged on the helpful lady's shirt. "Mommy's socks are purple."

The lady found another lady. We all looked together.

A third lady was tapped.

“Do you have your claim tag, dear?”

Did I ever. And a picture of the socks from my Rav profile queued up on my phone, in addition to incoming text messages from fellow Ravelers who swore they saw them in the exhibit on opening day.

No socks.

“Maybe they’ll turn up when we break down the exhibit,” the first lady offered. She was trying her best to be reassuring but it was clear that she was not hopeful. “I’m so sorry,” she added. “If I knew how to knit, I’d make you a new pair.”

I credit myself for thanking the lady politely for her concern and not screaming at the top of my lungs, “THEY WERE COOKIE A. SOCKS AND THEY TOOK ME FIVE MONTHS TO KNIT!!!!”

I held my breath for a couple of days. A friend send flowers.

I went back to the fairground today, the midway rides packed up and grounds empty except for litter. Posters coming down. In the Textile building, all the items were folded up into soft little tagged piles.

No socks.

Lost.

Stolen.

“I’m so sorry, honey,” my husband says. “They were beautiful and you worked very hard on them.”

There is a reason why I married this man.

Sigh.

No socks.

You know what bugs me more than anything?

You know whatever bastard stole them is going to throw them in the dryer.