Once upon a time, we were coming out of a strange and wonky, terrible, horrible, no good, very bad year, and we were left with little in the way of personal possessions.
This had been quite tolerable since we kind of prefer the minimalist life anyway and you’d be surprised at how much you do NOT need.
I basically AM Marie Kondo.
But, you know, chubby and American.
Anyway, we were down to one set of sheets for our bed (mismatched of course: a flowery fitted sheet and a solid color flat sheet.
And a squillion pillow cases… I guess I was worried that I’d have a squillion kids who needed to go trick or treating or something).
Those sheets anyway were… well, threadbare. You could probably read a book through them without squinting, and there were areas that looked like I’d been sleeping with a night-terror riddled Wolverine.
Ah, Hugh. Why don’t you love me?
Okay, I totally just thought of a hilarious story involving my grandmother. She was a young bride, 16 or 17 I think, and very shy.
She was setting up housekeeping in the ’50s and needed some sheets.
I guess they didn’t come in sets back then, and she was specifically in need of a fitted sheet. She couldn’t find them in the department store and so she had to ask. Did I mention she was shy? She found a sales lady and peeped,
“Do you have any fitted sheets?”
Only she didn’t say fitted sheets.
She mixed up the consonants in the last two words.
That’s right, my little, well-behaved, respectful teenage gramma, asked for help finding shitted feet.
She was so mortified, she ran out of the store and never got her sheets. To this day, my mom, sister and I cheerfully refer to fitted sheets as !@#! @#$T%&.
Okay, back to the original story. I just felt like you should know that.
So, hubby and I got into a conversation about sheets and thread count. He decided our sheets had a thread count of two: one for him and one for me. Hahahahahaha!
Next to his warm panini press legs, I married him for his sense of humor.
So we’ve been keeping our eye out for new sheets. But I’m too cheap to buy any. And I actually kind of like super well worn sheets anyway. Ironically, I get this from my gramma!
Wait. She probably didn’t really like them. She was just scared to replace them. I just figured that out! I probably need a series of detective novels written about me. Also, an action figure.
But anyway, Hubby texted me from work the other day.
Hey, babe, Obie is going to the Sportsman Show and they have 1200 count sheets for twenty bucks! Want him to pick us up a set?
Ummm…no. Not really. Do I want some guy named Obie to buy me sheets at a Sportsman Show?
Call me old fashioned.
Hey, maybe some guy named Juan could run out and buy me some Always Overnights with Wings at the dollar store! And some dude named Butch could grab me some pantyhose at the Super Walmart! And some man named Carlos could snag me a bra while he’s at Freddie’s!
Heck, I’ll never leave my house again! I’ll just get strange men to buy me the bare necessities of life and deliver them to me while I lounge in yoga pants and eat bon-bons!
Sadly, I turned down the generous offer made by my husband and his shopping pal and now I can’t find a better deal.
Actually, I can’t find 1200 count sheets at all. Ross and TJ Maxx – my two main haunts – don’t have anything over 400, and they’re more than twenty bucks.
But I’ll never admit it to him or to Obie.