Sheet, man!

Even Suleiman the Magnificent gave up on folding a fitted sheet.

I consider myself to be above average in intelligence and everyday skills. I can recite history, do simple math and prepare simple meals. I am an accomplished picture hanger, YouTube carpenter, and experienced house straightener.

However, there are two household skills that have alluded me for my entire adult life. Even with the aid of every available YouTube video, I can neither neatly fold a fitted bed sheet, nor truss a chicken.

It is with deep sadness and regret that I admit these shortcomings.

I group these life failures together because I feel that they each involve the same part of my brain that was left on the editing room floor. No offense to God, but this Mr. Potato Head did not come with those pieces.

When it comes to fitted sheets, I do understand some basics.

Yes, I know how to find the little pointed end of the pocket seam and occasionally succeed in correctly tucking it into the opposing pocket at the top or bottom of the sheet.

It is the next step that consistently alludes my grasp and tumbles me into crushing failure.

When I go to the other end of the sheet and try to repeat the process, I invariably tuck the wrong point in the wrong pocket and get a twisted result. It would seem simple to correct, but nine times out of ten, I fail.

So instead of a nice neat stack of pop tarts in my closet, I have more of a pigs in a blanket result. I have occasionally resorted to the true cry for help of stuffing the entire sheet set in the pillowcase and praying that only the immediate family ever looks in the linen closet.

Now to trussing a chicken or more appropriately, hen wrestling.

I love a good Weber Kettle roasted rotisserie chicken, and step one is to wash and truss a nice 5 lb. bird.

With my cell phone carefully propped up on the counter and a measured piece of twine in hand, I quietly approach the resting bird.

The first steps are usually fine (similarly to the fitted sheet). I am adept at tying the cord at the midpoint around the Pope’s Nose and cinching a tight knot. However, either due to the “breast side up” mystery, the wings versus legs mix-up, or poor tension in the cross over move (also applicable to ballroom and square dancing) the damned thing just comes apart.

If everything that has gone before is perfect, tucking the wing tips under the string is easy (according to every guy on every YouTube video in my library).

You know that part of the video when the chef tosses the trussed chicken in the air and catches it like a football? I hate that part.

On the rare occasion when the chicken appears properly restrained, before I skewer the bird or shortly after, the wing tips pop out like a stripper from a birthday cake, and failure is again revealed.

Like the sheets, depending on my mood and patience quotient, I will either attempt to re-truss the chicken or just improvise. By improvise I mean tie up the chicken like a kidnap victim and resolve myself to a roasted result resembling the Michelin Man.

Lumpy linens and lumpy chicken, while not pleasing to the eye, succeed in their purpose of aiding hygienic sleep and nourishing our bodies respectively. No matter what mayhem I have reigned on a fitted sheet, it still looks lovely when stretched onto a mattress. And unless starring in a food commercial, my homemade rotisserie chicken is adequate for the task.