Between my mom and grandmother, I was taught most of the basic life skills: how to cook, clean, dust, bake, do laundry, iron, make small sewing repairs, dress cuts and abrasions, and generally keep a household. I suppose on some unconscious level they both knew I was destined to be living by myself for the majority of my adult life, and didn't want me imploding because I couldn't boil an egg.
The one bit of arcane forbidden knowledge that they did not pass on however, was how to fold a fucking fitted sheet, and I mutter curses under my breath whenever I'm forced to attempt it. I am destined to live out my life not fully understanding the magic necessary to bring it about—much like my never mastering algebra, chemistry, physics, and the Law of General Relativity.
Seriously. Five decades removed from childhood and I still can't. The best I can hope for is to create something resembling a flat, square, bloated puffy pillow that will at least slide into a drawer and looks good on the outside—even if it's a crumpled mess on the inside. Wait…isn't that a metaphor for me?
Oh, my gosh, it's so easy. I learned how to do that in the Navy.
To which he replies, "Fuck you." ?
Martha Stewart says there is only one way to fold a fitted sheet. You take if from the dryer and then put it on the bed. This is Martha in in later years.
That is generally what I do. But occasionally there are two sets of sheets in circulation.