Three-year-old Janessa already knows that reading to her child is the secret ingredient for enhancing imagination, education, and inspiration. Who's reading at your house today?
Tuesday, January 6, 2015
I’ve never considered myself a wimp. I’m not afraid of hard work or telling off people who deserve it, no matter their size. But creepy things do get to me. At the top of the list would be mice. Slimy things would be right up there too, along with big bugs. But recently I discovered a new phobia. Somewhere in the last couple of weeks I read a book that exposed the fact that dust is actually bug poop. Seriously?
I could’ve enjoyed living a long time without knowing that tidbit.
I’m okay dusting the furniture, because I got myself one of those mitts that you spray with polish, so my fingers aren’t actually touching the bug poop. But now I can’t enjoy reading a book with a cup of coffee at my side without placing a saucer on top of the cup. Who’s to say how long it takes for dust to fall? The idea of even one miniscule turd dropping into my coffee between sips is just too disgusting.
I don’t remember which book I read this information in, because I read a half dozen over the last weeks. But I can tell you, if I knew for sure, I might do the horrible deed of crossing that bug-poop line out with a thick marker, making it unreadable, in case I ever want to read the book again. My sleep might depend on it.
I say that because now I can’t help but assume there’s bug poop floating in my bedroom during the night, landing on me, dirtying my face and sticking to my eyelashes. I am so glad we got a new furnace this year, one with a super thick filter. Maybe it’s keeping a little poop out of the air (and away from me and my coffee!).
I don’t have obsessive compulsive orders, except for in my husband’s opinion. He thinks that because little things bother me—having an afghan spread over the back of a sofa, and accidentally arranging one corner lower than the other (I think he does this on purpose); a picture off-kilter a quarter inch on a wall; toast not buttered all the way into the corners; bread more than a half-a-day old; socks not snug over toes—that I’m like TV’s Mr. Monk.
No way. The things that bother me would bother anyone. After all, I can’t believe there’s someone willing to sip a beverage that’s been sitting on the table a few minutes, if he or she really thinks about what might have dropped into it.
How about you? Do you place a saucer over your cup between sips?