Making the Bed

I know I usually write stories on Sunday. When Girl Twin and her friends encountered the snake this past week, I became so excited to tell the story I couldn’t wait until Sunday. I wrote the story days ago; I just cracked yesterday. I had to push the “publish” button.

I’ve wanted to address a post I saw on Spacebook a few weeks ago. No guys, I’m not going there. Monner can’t discuss Presidents, riots, masks, statues, tax cuts, walls, tariffs and First Lady’s dresses. Did I miss anything?

A friend of mine asked the question in a post, “Do you make the bed every morning?” That simple question started a conversation with Elaine and me.

I’ve never made a bed. Oh, I’ve helped Elaine put clean sheets on the bed a couple times, in the last forty (+) years. As a kid growing up, my mother made my bed. I know, some of you are thinking Mom spoiled me. Mom knew what she was doing. By making my bed, Mom had a reason to walk into my room to look into dresser and closet. I don’t know what she was looking for, I was near to perfect back then. Did I mention she peeled an orange every day for me? God, I loved that woman. Elaine won’t even hand me an orange. It is some kind of feminist thing. (Elaine, says she will hand me an orange. I'll let you know.)

If I was to make the bed, Elaine wouldn’t like it. She doesn’t get up as early as I do. No one wants to be stuck in a made bed.

Well, the story doesn’t stop there. I’ve spent quite a bit of time traveling for work, living alone in motels, hotels, apartments and extended stay facilities. I didn’t make the bed any time; in any of those places, either.

Obviously, in the motel and hotels the maids made the beds. It was a little different in the apartments and extended stays.