Waking Up With a Brazilian

My sister-in-law generously gave me and my husband a set of "T-shirt" sheets in early December as a Christmas gift. Now, I’m generally not the type to look a gift horse in the mouth (not that I’m comparing my sister-in-law to a horse or anything), but I fucking hate these sheets.

I have tried so hard to like these sheets, really I have. I washed them twice, added fabric softener, whipped them with willow branches, ironed them, beat them with rocks, chewed on them till my teeth ached, sang nursery rhymes to them while gently stroking their disgusting little sticky fibers...As you can see, I did everything in my power and beyond (the psychic sheet-whisperer was a total rip-off).

These things are not sheets, they are stretchy, lint-gathering, wrinkly slabs of Satan’s skin that not only make my legs twitch, they remove body hair better than a porn star’s esthetician.

The word “sheets” evokes a sense of crispness, does it not? A feeling of cool smoothness and warm security and slip-slidey comfort. These T-shirt sheets have ruined the associations for me. Now when I think of the word “sheets,” I am reminded of the felt numbers and letters we all used to play with in Kindergarten -- remember those? -- and Kindergarten evokes memories of Heidi Campbell spitting chewed up cookies and milk on my new maxie-skirt, which makes me sad. I am positively devastated as the word “sheets” has long been my personal mantra, used during particularly stressful moments to calm me, give me peace. No more.

Example: this morning was a true test of motherly patience - the boy helped himself to a box of Goldfish (“the snack that smiles back -- until you bite their heads off“), and thought it a grand idea to empty the box onto the floor and dance atop them until they turned to multi-colored cheesy dust. As is usual in times like this, my psyche called upon the “sheets” mantra, but my soul was not soothed by images of soft, clean comfort and promises of bedtime -- instead, I was assaulted with Heidi Campbell and the memory of having woken on devil sheets two weeks ago with a peculiar burning on my genital region, a drafty, unpleasant sensation that caused me to peek under the covers then gasp in horror when I discovered the cause. Yes, you guessed right; my pubic hair had been ripped clean off by the Velcro-like spurs of the T-shirt sheets. You don’t want to know what happened to Lar. Too hideous to describe without retching.

The reason I’m writing about those wicked T-shirt sheets today is that my dryer is in pieces at the moment -- Lar took it apart last night, unbeknownst to me -- and I am not able to wash my good sheets, my nice, friendly, crisp and smooth normal sheets that are balled up on my bedroom floor amongst the rest of the dirty laundry.

I will be forced to sleep upon the devil’s epidermis tonight, and I am filled with dread.

Jesus Christ in a pink pinafore, I was just beginning to look somewhat normal down there, too.