Dear Mrsatroxi,

Well, since the hubby teased a silly little thing that happened this weekend, I guess I should write it up.

A few of you may be aware that I am taking classes to be certified. Ahem. Chiropractic-ly certified, that is. Sheesh. You people. These classes are far, far away from Sucksbury, and will happen every other weekend. (I had been promised this little notch on my belt at my last job. They lied. My new, nice, can-talk-to boss signed me up as soon as he hired me.)

Far, far away from Sucksbury means stores (!) with nice shiny in-style merchandise. So Sunday, after lab, atroxi and I of course went shopping (Actually, he shopped the whole weekend, but that’s another story. One he can tell.) at the local ginormous mall. I’ve been looking for a purse. Now, I’m not like a lot of women who have a pocket-book fetish. Shoes? Yes. Pocket-books? No. Don’t misunderstand me, I have plenty of purses. (Cheap purses, I should add.) I can just take ‘em or leave ‘em, you know?

But my mother-in-law very kindly bought me a beautiful expensive bag last year. And I just love it, it goes with a lot, it’s functional and it looks very, very nice. The only thing is it’s brown. Which is fine, like I said, it goes with plenty of things, just plenty of brown things. I decided I would like to find one like it, but black. Of course I couldn’t find that around here. Therefore, these classes were a perfect opportunity to look. So look I did. I marched myself and atroxi right up to the lock-up counter in Macy’s and started poking around the Dooney and Bourke’s and the Coach’s.

And that’s when we both noticed the crazy lady. Semi-well dressed, nice shoes, good haircut. Talking to herself. Loudly. Just about standing on her head and doing a split to see the back of the display case. Pulling and yanking at the few purses that were on the counter. Oooo-kaaaay. So atroxi and I quietly stroll to the other end of the counter, and that’s when I see it. Tucked behind another huge brown bag is a small, functional, simple, and drop dead elegant black bag. I say nothing. I sidle over to the clerk and say very softly that there is a bag I would like to see, please. As soon as I point out the bag I want, Crazy-Lady is suddenly beside me. Right beside me. Breathing down my neck close. Touching my shoulder close. She gasped as the clerk pulled the sweet little bag out. “I didn’t see that one!” she cried. “Do you have another? The black one? In black? I need it! Please?” The clerk just sighed and shook her head. The whole time, Crazy-Lady was practically leaning on me. Now, I was not looking at her, since a.) if I had turned my head I would’ve kissed her, and b.) I ‘ve always heard to never look a mad dog in the eye. But my hubby was. And he later told me that as soon as the clerk plopped that purse on the counter, pure greed was all he could see on the Crazy-Lady’s face. She coveted that purse. Badly. He said he was half-afraid she was going to snatch it away as I looked at it. I didn’t know this at the time. All I was thinking was “lady, take your stinky breath away and let me look at this purse in peace, and if I think I want this thing I’d better just buy it now.” So I handed it back and said “Wrap it up!” which made Crazy-Lady very sad indeed and she wandered off muttering about bridesmaids and 20% discounts.

I half-expected her to try and mug me in the parking lot, but nothing happened.

And I really like my new purse.

The end.

I HAVE FOUND MY NEXT CAR.

Atroxi, love, better start looking for another job.

I read a study recently that said bachelor’s kitchens, I think specifically the counters, were much cleaner than a homemaker’s. That pound for pound, bacteria was the clear winner in the women’s homes. Ok, I can believe that. I’ve watched How Clean Is Your House. The all-women households are always the most disgusting. But the article went to state that the women’s places were “clean” homes, and the bachelor’s were just, well, a guy’s house. So the study conductors concluded that cleaning causes bacteria. Scrubbing something down just moves germs around, helping them multiply. And since the men didn’t wipe things around, they had less pathogens.

Blink, blink.

Um, what about the fact that very little cooking or eating goes on in a “guy’s” kitchen? I mean honestly, take a house with mom, dad, and four kids, and compare the home-cooked (or at least home-opened) food consumption to a unmarried man’s home. I think that has a lot more to do with multiplying bacteria than a bleach scrub-down does.

Then I read a study that said, gasp, making your bed will give it mold and dust mites! Because if you make your bed right after you hop out of it, the moisture will not dry out. But never making it is more conducive to evaporation, because the sheets are not pulled tight.

Again, blink, blink.

Yes, and if you ball up a wet towel and throw it in your car trunk for a week it will mildew. Hell-o! We all know to throw the covers back after we get out of bed so it will air, do we not? We also all change our sheets once a week, correct? Well, perhaps not all of us. But the point is the answer to mold and mites is not to skip making the bed. It’s just good housekeeping and common sense, you dorks.

A long time ago I read a fascinating story about an ancient document that is in code. No one has ever been able to deciper it. Scientists have run tests, scholars have studied it, cryptographers have beaten their heads against it. And then this guy comes along, and says, “What if it’s a fake? A really old fake, but fake nonetheless? What if it’s not a great mystery, but a fraud?”

And these people, these so intelliegent people, these wonderful, hardworking, smart people, had never once thought of that.

Lesson of the day?

Let’s all try and see past the end of our nose, folks.