Where Have All the Clean (Big) Sheets Gone?

There’s a fine line between being completely reasonable and Tom Hanks-like, and going all Joan Crawford screaming about wire clothes hangers. I think I’m about to cross it.

About bed linens.

I like to think of myself as a pretty reasonable person. (Okay, maybe not about the current occupant of 1600) Or that’s the way I used be.

When it comes to big issues like familial cancer, friends nearly dying and mortality I’m pretty solid. I deal, okay, compartmentalize, and function appropriately. I don't panic and can be counted on in a crisis.

It’s the little things that are going to lead me to walk in front of a bus. Like sheets.

This is a first world problem. I am well aware of how lucky I am to have small problems

Still.

Since Mom’s permanent home is in the Berkshires of New England, where as of mid-March it is still snowing, she spends the winter with me in Los Angeles. Mom is mobility challenged, which is medical-speak for the fact that she is confined to a wheelchair.

Mom’s pretty easy; she has a good sense of humor and deals with her disability much better than I would. The problem really isn't her.

The thing is these days Mom comes with a series of aides. Don't get me wrong. I am completely grateful to them. The ladies are pleasant, kind and put up with Mom, me, four obnoxious dogs and they rarely complain. Neither Mom nor I could function without them. We are blessed.

But.

I’m used to living by myself. At least as alone as one can be when you live with Great Danes, Brittanys and keep horses in the back yard.

Living alone is good. I can nap without feeling guilty. I can put stuff down and it stays there until I move it. I can watch really shitty television without being judged and I don’t have to slink out to my office to listen to music loud. Oh, and I can cuss a lot. 

After four months I’m getting used to some things like sharing my tiny space and all of the associated inconveniences. I dare say I’m even pretty good about it, though I miss swearing. 

What is going to break me are sheets. There, I said it again. Sheets.

It seems so simple, even logical to me. Mom’s room has a queen sized bed with a brand-new mattress. (Because the Danes ate the old one…) In her closet are shelves with sheets. Queen-sized sheets. For her bed.

In the hall is a linen closet. With towels and sheets for my king-sized bed. (Don’t be like that – I share that bed with Great Danes.) While my sheets fit Mom’s bed, hers do not work on mine. There are a three sets of sheets for each bed, with a few extras including blankets and pillows.

So how come last night I ended up wrapped in a one dog blanket and a horse cooler I won many years ago?

I am not exactly suffering, though my feet did get a little chilly around 2AM. But the missing sheets are driving me crazy and making me a bit cranky. Especially since it’s been raining, which means that the dogs make the bed filthy and I’d like to put on clean sheets.

Okay I'm really cranky. Like insanely crazy

I just hope that when you spot me wandering the streets of Chatsworth barefoot and clutching a torn, dirty sheet and screaming "WHERE DID ALL THE SHEETS GO?, " you will understand. Or at least point me towards Bed, Bath & Beyond and hand me a 20 % off coupon.