These pillows and their corresponding cases and this sheet for fitting have all been resting comfortably on my bed in a laundry cocoon for the better part of the day.
Whenever I walk into the bedroom my heart plummets. And then I walk right back out of the bedroom.
Because I never know which corner to start with the fitted sheet. And it really doesn’t matter anyway. Whichever corner I choose is wrong. Then I spend the next half day twisting round and round what feels like a linen Rubik’s cube. But there are no colored squares to guide you. No YouTube master patterns to follow.
I don’t even bother with the top sheet anymore either. That’d be one more key tumbler for me to fumble with in a lock of woven madness.
All the while both cats are sitting in feline bemusement, or quite possibly in feline judgment. They have no thumbs to help, only fur to shed on a clothesline fresh comforter.
And then the pillow stuffing. I feel like Real Trump must have when he had to stuff all those jumbo, pinto quesadillos into that supersize Taco Bell sack on Cinco de Mayo of 2018.
Don’t get me wrong. I love my pillow forts as much as Abed and Troy but when will this laundress lunacy ever end? And there’s two more pillows off camera. Because five pillows is the minimum requirement for entry.
So I guess this is what’s really been happening in my Geneva house, this Sunday, this Twelfth of May.
How are you guys?