I am one of those people who pays super-close attention to how my beds are made.
Just ask my family... they are completely intimidated by my bed-making skills.
It's the one thing (my family might say there's more) that I am completely
Maybe it's the nurse in me... I did, after all, go to nursing school during the years
when it was requisite that a quarter bounce off of the bed you had just made.
No wrinkles allowed... wrinkles caused pressure on delicate skin.
Hospital corners? No one makes a tighter hospital corner than me.
Bed-making might be my all-time-greatest achievement.
I should have run a Bed and Breakfast.
I'd have nailed that profession!
Really... it's sad.
And so, it seems only fitting that nowadays...any time I leave the house...
(with all of the beds neat as a pin, mind you)...
I return to find them all disheveled.
All of them.
The above illustration is a mild example of the "bedlam" I have found
upon returning home.
I did a little investigatory work, trying to find the perpetrator.
I intensely interviewed each suspect.
Each of them was tight lipped.
No one would fess-up.
Their stories... airtight.
A conspiracy, perhaps?