For everyone else in the northern hemisphere, summer is getting its last licks in.
For me, haunt season is looming. Plans are being made, supplies purchased, and I’m soaking up as much of Husband’s time and attention as I can get while we’re still on the same schedule.
The perk I miss most when we shift to opposite schedules is the bedtime ritual of tucking, so of course I’m not letting him skip even a single night of it right now. Even if he’s meant to be working, or packing for his own trip—more on that later—“tuck the wife” is a Priority 1 task.
Which is not to say he fully understands all aspects of the project, nor that he executes his objectives smoothly every time.
ME: You’re still tucking me, right?
HIM: Yeah, if you hurry.
ME: K. I just gotta run to the bathroom; can you unfuck the bed?
HIM: … You just threw your phone and a bottle of water on the bed and now you’re asking me to unfuck the blankets?
ME: … Yes. That is the order in which those events occurred.
ME: Look, I’ll even— (holds his extra blanket) Because I’m a helpful helper.
HIM: Mm-hmm. (fixes bed, smoothing my side first)
ME: (tosses his blanket back on top) (darts into bathroom)
HIM: Wait, you—you’ll hold it for me while I unfuck your side but then you just throw it on top of my side?
ME: (through the door) That is an accurate summary of what occurred, yes.
HIM: (finishing bed) I’m not sure that’s what a helpful helper would do.
ME: Of course it is! Because I am, and it’s what I did. See? (beams)
HIM: Well I can’t argue with that.
Look, it’s not that I don’t know how to make a bed; I may not be able to bounce a quarter (spent many a long summer weekend grounded for that fact, too, because somebody didn’t tell me about the starch trick) but making a tidy bed was still a survival skill in my father’s house growing up and I had that shit down. I also had the “good enough for inspection” trick, which was where you had only minutes to prepare and flung the bedding in one smooth layer over the whole bed, anchored on one side by scooting the bed against the wall and made the other side quickly (still gotta get that hospital corner on the outside, in case he lifts the comforter to check your work). It’s just that I don’t fucking care. Also? This is a king-size bed. Everything is huge and unwieldy and you could be almost done before you realize you’ve got something sideways, and nothing fucks with your day like realizing you’ve put the sheet on sideways.*
So making the bed is one of those tasks that I’ll happily delegate to Husband, or the housesitter, or a passing maniac because the question of whether or not the job actually gets done is not one that’s going to keep me up at night.**
Interesting bit of trivia: Husband’s stupid cat (the one that’s not really a cat at all, but some sort of slug/turtle/carbohydrate hybrid that drools when it’s happy) has been ill lately. At first I thought she was just doing it for attention, since Alexander Hamilton had been genuinely ill from EATING TOO MUCH OF MY GODDAMNED PALM TREE AND MAKING HIMSELF SICK (is there anything more annoying than an emergency vet bill to hear, “Oh, he’s fine. Come back if he isn’t.”) but it kept on and she’s been surprising us with little vomit piles on the bed.
But, see, this is how we circle back to the bed making… and the first thing.
HIM: I’m for bed.
ME: Me too… inna bit. (grabs controller)
HIM: (sighs) Did you put the sheets back on the bed?
ME: (frowns) Nooo… but you can.
HIM: I already took the sheets off the bed. And put them in the washer, then took them out of the washer and put them in the dryer. After my cat threw up on my side.
HIM: I think I’ve already done my share.
ME: (lifts eyebrow in barest suggestion of sarcasm) Do you really?
HIM: But it was worth a try!
ME: Well, tell you what… I will help you out—
ME: … in my usual fashion.
HIM: Why did you throw your phone on the bed while we’re trying to make it?
ME: Because I needed to pick this up (brandishes towel)
HIM: Okay, but—
ME: You asked for my help!
HIM: (sighs) I did.
* Except finding out you’ve put your underwear on sideways; sometime around lunch, when it’s just too damned late and you’ve got to either get rid of them or roll with it for the rest of the day. If this has never happened to you then you’re so not on my team in the Fuckup Olympics.
** Unless it actually goes unmade until bedtime, of course… then I’d probably have a very strong opinion indeed. But isn’t that why couches were invented? Also, stop interrupting.