Short Sheets

Yesterday, my friend Maria asked me if it was a good idea to buy sheets. This is in keeping with our usual pattern of conversation where she is genuinely stressing out about something I find ridiculous, and so I end up making wisecracks and being generally unhelpful.

You see, she's been in her new apartment almost three months now and she just bought a bed. Up until now, she's just been sleeping in a vaguely defined pile of her softest possessions. But now that she has a bed, she's debating whether or not to get sheets, so she called to ask me what I thought. I told her that, though I do not know the standard for women, for men having sheets on your bed is like having windows on your van. It says that you are probably not a rapist.

And, just to be clear, when I say that Maria has bought a "bed," I do so generously. What Maria has actually bought is a twin-sized box spring and, purchased separately, a full-sized mattress to balance on top. Together they make up a giant two-piece Jenga set, which she lays atop to slumber every night. When I asked why she would buy mismatched components of the seemingly simple and common apparatus known as a "bed," she ignored me and started talking about how she has been getting horrible sleep lately.

"I have really strange dreams," she said. "I'm standing near this volcano, and the ground around me is really unstable. And I know that if I walk in any direction the ground is going to open up and swallow me."

I told her that this makes sense. Any slight toss or turn in either direction will flip the mattress over and send her legs up in the air with a surprised scream, pinning her now very awake self to the hardwood floor.

"I think I'm drinking to much coffee," she said.

I told her that I was reminded of the summer after my sophomore year of college. Back then I had only a sheetless twin mattress in the corner of a preposterously cheap room to call my own. But, I said, I didn't really mind the bare and homeless-person-like arrangement on which I fell asleep. Because, at that time, "falling asleep" was really just a euphemism for what happened at the end of every night after a few hours of drinking beer on various porches with my friends. So most nights, I was unable to take any notice of something as trivial as the thing I happened to be passed out on.

However, after attempting to bring girls back to that room, I did eventually learn why bedsheets are like van windows.

Maria then proceeded to recount the entire premire of The Bachelor to me. She is one of these friends (though she may be the only one, as far as I know) who asks for advice and her questions end up haunting me for days. "Should I buy sheets?" She asks things that makes you fundamentally question assumptions that you didn't even know you had. In order to answer her question, I had to consider sheets on a level that was far more philosophical than II ever had before.

Should one buy sheets? I mean, guess so...

You can definitely defend that morality of a basic white cotton set. But if you get right down to it, there's a certain thread-count at which it starts to get hard to justify yourself. Think of all the people who would be amazed at just the idea of a BED. The more I think about it, the more I cannot for the life of me decide if I should or should not own sheets. "Should" just isn't a word that really enters into my relationship with sheets.

As always after I talk to Maria , I'm starting to drive myself crazy. I have to drop it before I flip the metaphorical mattress off my mental boxspring. I'm going to go buy a beer and try to forget about all these complicated answers to such simple questions.

My Grandpa Owned A Grocery Store

I don't think I would make a very good grocery store owner. I lack the necessary organizational skills and drive. Everything would start out good, but after a while I'd get lazy. People would come in and the floors would all be unmopped and the aisles would have empty shelves with open boxes scattered everywhere. It would takes hours of wandering around and peaking under cardboard flaps to find anything.

Also, you'd have to be real careful not to move the boxes, because I know right where everything is and if you move one I will never be able to fucking find anything. Actually, maybe all the customers should stand at the front of the store. Just shout out requests and I'll come back with what you want. But if you ask for something weird or stupid, then you won't get it. No one needs a zester. You can make your more retarded purchases at goddamn Walmart thankyouverymuch.

Seeing as my favorite thing in all grocery stores is the lobster tank, there is going to be a really really big lobster tank. And each one will be dressed up like a little lobster person, ideally a famous figure from history. If you would like to purchase a lobster, you must correctly guess its costume and tell me how that historical figure died. Then you must promise to kill the lobster in the same way before you eat it. For the customer's convenience, I will do my best to come up with historical figures that died by being thrown into a pot of rapidly boiling water. Though I'm not sure I can think of any off the top of my head. Also for the customer's convenience, I'll try to avoid historical figures that died of old age.

Perhaps during the holidays we'll stage a little lobster pageant, reenacting the nativity. I'm not sure about the logistics of making lobsters stand still to act out their the birth of Christ, but I imagine the audience will be forgiving if Joseph and one of the Magi claw lightly at each other. And, before you ask, the baby jesus lobster does cost extra but is probably the most delicious. Oh, and please don't sit on the boxes. I'm kind of touchy about the boxes.

Maybe it would be fun to own a grocery store. Or maybe just a novelty lobster aquarium. That way my top actors wouldn't keep getting eaten.