Damn You, Martha Stewart!

Yesterday I did something so stupid it’s almost embarrassing to admit. However, we all know how I’m the first person to laugh at me, so here goes.

I know I can’t possibly be the only person who has gotten a charley horse, a twisted ankle, and a broken fingernail simultaneously while wrestling a fitted sheet onto a fat mattress. It’s high on my least favorite make-me-sweat activities list. These sheets should have been different. A great deal on Overstock.com a while back, they’re king size, 1,200 thread count and were supposed to fit extra thick mattresses. $80 versus the $700 they usually run got me giddy to say the least. I am now beginning to think the people who determine “extra thick” must come from a 3rd world country where it means TWO layers of woven palm fronds on the floor. We are American and we love all things over the top. Extra thick here means 20 inches, please adjust packaging language accordingly.

I digress. My stupid thing: I ironed my sheets.

Normally I couldn’t give a flat or fitted sheet about this – it’s so far down my list of domestic duties I’ve never done it. I’ve heard of other people doing it, like…probably my Grandma and Martha Stewart, both overly fussy women about the house. Difference is my Grandma actually did her own work while Martha makes her staff do it until the cameras roll, then pretends it’s all her.

This started out pretty innocently. I bought some lavender scented spray starch thinking if I used it on the boys’ pillow cases it might help them sleep. Any mom will try anything at some point, and while melatonin does work, I’d feel guilty doling out doses all the time. The iron was still hot, and the dryer almost done tumbling the sheets from my own bed. I figured I might as well do my own pillowcases too, since Hubs struggles sometimes with sleeping after swing shift. They finished so buttery smooth and smelling like relaxation, I had to go for the whole enchilada.

So I began the ironing process with enthusiasm, which quickly faded as I realized just how big this heavy king-size sheet was, and why I got such a good deal. Apparently the KKK is shrinking and I got what otherwise would have been purchased by the tallest, fattest, Grand-Dragon-Supreme-Top-King-Poobah for the Spring Break Klan Rally in Crossburningville, Middle-of-Nowhere. Lucky for me that racial tolerance is spreading so much it’s driving down market price on white sheets and I could save some money here. (Though, on a serious note, not fast enough for me.)

It took longer than normal for a few reasons: 

1. We have a built in ironing board that’s about ¾ normal size.
2. The starch was not aerosol so I had to spray manually. Don’t get excited about this one, I make up for it with hairspray. Screw the ozone layer.
3. I was refilling the water in the iron with the previous night’s champagne flute which didn’t hold much so required more trips to the sink.

It took me over an hour to get both sheets and pillowcases done. I dragged them up the stairs and let out a big sigh at the prospect of doing battle with that freaking fitted sheet again. However, this time was different. I actually got all four corners to stay on at the same time! Ironing had flattened out all those fibers and gave the eeeextra little bit needed to fit.

Holy Sheet.

I made the rest of the bed which looked unbelievably catalogish and inviting. When I climbed in at bedtime, my body was sending my brain thank you notes. It was like h-e-a-v-e-n. My regret was not having shaved my legs so I could get the full effect. It was like laying on frosting or something, so difficult to describe. This is definitely a problem.

1. There is no way I can go back to sleeping on sheets straight out of the dryer again.
2. There is no way I am going through all that work again.
3. We do not have a maid.
4. I really do not want to admit that Martha Stewart is right about anything.

So you can appreciate my predicament. To top off the night, Clayton climbed in on Daddy’s side since he was working, wriggled his legs around and said “ooh mommy, your blankets are sooooo comfy.”

"I know, that’s what I was doing in the laundry room all day today, ironing them smooth.”

"Nice, can you pleeeeease do that to my bed too? And Esten's? Pleeeeease?”

If anyone's looking for me, I'll be in the laundry room for the rest of my life.