By Lisa Scottoline
I don’t know who invented duvet covers, but judging from the spelling, it was the French, and I’m guessing they did it in retaliation for Pepe Le Pew.
Oo-la-la, mon cheri.
I don’t know when I got sucked into the duvet-cover scam, but I think it was in the eighties, a time before I had dogs, which is relevant here. Because back then, the duvet cover never needed washing, and everything was fine. But now I have to wash it all the time, as a result of sleeping with various and sundry critters, which means that I have to put it back on the bed again.
And it’s just impossible to put a duvet cover back on a duvet, or if we stop being pretentious, a comforter.
I don’t know how to do it in less than an hour. And last time, I got so disgusted that I gave up and just placed the duvet cover on top of the comforter, making my bed like a cheese sandwich.
I mean, what’s the difference? The cover was covering the duvet, after all, and who’s coming after me? The gendarmerie?
I simply can’t do it.
Here’s my procedure: I stuff the corner of the comforter in one corner of the duvet cover, then jump up on the bed and shake the comforter down the sides and into the other corners, which is when I realize I have the comforter twisted like a double helix inside the cover. So then I have to dump the comforter out and start all over again while profanity commences, and I forget about bothering with whether the comforter is lengthwise or not, because I pretend it’s a square. Bottom line, I struggle and struggle until the comforter is shoved back inside the cover, like a baby stuffed back into its amniotic sac, in a process that’s only slightly less painful than giving birth in reverse.
If you follow.
I’m over it. I’m done with duvet covers and the other impossible things around my house, like halogen bulbs. I have them under my kitchen cabinets, and the contractor swore to me they would be beautiful, and they are. But he never told me that it would be impossible to change the itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny, twenty-watt, double-pronged bulb.
And by the way, you’re not allowed to touch it with your fingers.
I’m not kidding.
He told me that the oil from my fingertips will somehow rub off on the glass of the halogen bulb and cause it to spontaneously combust or perhaps cause World War III, and that I’m supposed to take a paper towel or piece of toilet paper, wrap it around the halogen bulb, then hold the wrapped bulb between my thumb and index finger and stick that assembly in the pinpoint holes in the fixture.
Try this at home.
The bulb will pop like a cork from the paper towel, sail through the air, land on the counter, and shatter into lethal shards. It will take four bulbs to get one inside.
Or, if you manage to keep your grip on the paper-and-bulb combo, try sticking the bulb’s two prongs, which are the gauge of sewing needles and just as pointy, into the tiny holes in the fixture, which are the size of a needle’s eye.
Good luck with that. You could attach a spaceship to a docking station with greater ease.
And the kicker is that since my fixture is under the cabinet, I have to bend backwards in order to change the bulb, so that the back of my head is resting on the counter. Then I try to stick the bulb in the fixture, like a mechanic under a car, only doing the limbo. The last time I changed a bulb, I felt like I ripped my stomach muscles. It gave new meaning to shredded abs.
So I tried a new way, climbing onto my counter and lying down under the cabinets like I was going to sleep. I went through two bulbs and gave up, and now I’m cursing the halogen bulb and the duvet cover.
And Pepe Le Pew.
Copyright Lisa Scottoline