Televised Filth and Johnny Bahama

Sunday at my house is clean sheet day.

Part of what I had to do after acknowledging that there was nothing left of my marriage to save and initiating the divorce process was to reclaim my bedroom. There was a serious issue in my marriage of delineated spaces and boundaries I was expected to observe but a complete lack of ability to set any of my own.

To be fair, conflicts over sleep styles are to be expected in any marriage, and my sleep style is less than typical.

I need light, and I need noise, and even then…it’s basically a crap-shoot.

And it’s best to just kill two birds with one stone and fall asleep watching television, in my opinion.

It’s not for everyone. I get it.

But basically what happened is that my personality was such that I routinely found that what I thought was me appropriately compromising was actually me being railroaded to hell and never even noticing before it was too late, and then not knowing what to do about it once I did.

Long story short, I slept on our sofa for four years of my life.

Today, my bedroom is once again my very, very favorite room in the whole house, and unless I just got home or my kids are here, it’s likely where I’m to be found.

And as I did with every room of the house, I basically threw out everything but the furniture and started fresh. Another problem that I failed to respond appropriately to was the keeping and hoarding of things.

Just way, way too many things.

Like sixteen sets of sheets.

All dark colors.

Which was fine. But I’d always loved crispy white cotton sheets. The kind that rustle like the pages in a fully filled notebook, or dry fall leaves, every time you move.

You know that sound.

It’s such, such a great sound.

But, like many of my pre-relationship passions, my obsession with crisp white sheets was mine and mine alone.

I mean, he didn’t oppose them.

But he also didn’t really care if they were well taken care of either.

White sheets, I mean truly white sheets, are not an effortless thing that just happens. They require strategic laundering processes like soaking and bleaching. And you’ve got to rotate bleaching efforts between traditional chlorine bleach and other methods, so that the bleach doesn’t break down the fibers too quickly, losing you that delicious crinkling sound as you toss and turn at night.

White sheets also need to be chemically blued every third or fourth wash. And you cannot let them go more than seven days, at the very outside, without a long, hot soak.

There are also soap, scent, and makeup residue restrictions. Because don’t stain my white sheets, guys. Do not.

I specifically keep two of the five pillows on my bed in colored pillowcases to accommodate the occasional mid-day nap or break, when I don’t want to wash my war paint off before pressing my face into the pillow.

I know it sounds awful. But really I do not think that asking someone to clean up just a bit before bed is the most egregious routine adjustment request to make.

Is it bad?

I’m honestly asking. I struggle to know whether I’m being too selfish or too selfless in interpersonal situations. All the time, I estimate that value incorrectly.

It’s really annoying, actually.

It’s like personality vertigo.


Anyhow, needless to say, my set of white sheets went yellow, and then directly out the door, pretty early on in the relationship.

It was fine. I told myself over and over again that “this” or “that” was “just” this-or-that.

“No biggie” became my catchphrase.

The sheets were not representative of failing autonomy or a dangerous dwindling of mutual respect.

Of course not.

So after de-hoarding the room that my bedroom became by divorce season, I threw away every set of sheets and comforter and committed to a simplification of lifestyle. One set of cotton sheets, one set of flannel, and two comforters. One heavy one light.

It also has a lot to do with my perhaps over interest in consistency. My focus on crispy white sheets.

I’m willing to admit to a flexibility deficit in some specific contexts.

I’ll own that.

Anyhow, the day I moved off the sofa and back into my room, I went shopping and I bought these delicious Johnny Bahamas.

(Squatch, too, is a fan of clean sheet day.)

I can’t decide which I love more: the smell and cool-to-the-touch-feel of fresh, crispy sheets on Sunday nights or watching the most grotesque parade of televised filth whilst I snuggle into them.

The Walking Dead is so great. Especially this season. I didn’t even hate the Governor as much as I hate Negan.

And yet, I can’t hate him completely. At the same time. Is so weird.

He’s one of the best-rendered villains of all time.

Except maybe Sheila. Sheila is pretty awesome too.

Oh, Sheila. You silly, silly undead tease.


Love you, girl.


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