This could be, possibly, maybe, likely, a bad deal. A very bad deal.
As I do on the glorious Sunday mornings when I am not ensconced in the depressing, fluorescent-lighted, macabre building that I spend precious weekends in (sorry human hospital workers everywhere…I must be honest)–ahem, as I was saying–when I am not there and I am here, happily ensconced in my cozy, idyllic, slice of heaven I listen to the news (on the radio–no television here), I drink some coffee and I peruse the world news on my trusty computer. This morning has me worried. I’ve developed a new cause for concern.
As if I don’t have enough on my plate. Melting permafrost in Alaska, rising sea levels elsewhere, forest fires engulfing the West, dry, dry, dry grass here. Fourth grade math. Ugh. That tops them all. Let’s get this out, shall we? I love math. I am a math geek. I love numbers and anything and everything to do with numbers. Numbers rule the world. We do not go through a day without, in some way, shape or form, doing math. Numbers are beautiful. Math is beautiful. Sheer, unadulterated beauty.
The darling daughter that I inhabit this house with seems to think otherwise. And has gotten it into her head that she’s no good at it. This prompts me to want to rip my hair out on a daily basis and run screaming from the house “aaagghhhhhh……” (One more thing that makes me crazy, nutso, loco, off-my-rocker, insanely mad–as in loony-tunes mad, not angry mad.)
We’ll be going along, slowly, but along albeit, and all of a sudden, out of left field, whammo. WHAMMO! She throws out a higher-level answer to a higher-level computation that she did in her head! That I didn’t even ask for as I was going in a totally different direction. And wouldn’t have even THOUGHT to ask her. I kid you not. I’ll sit there completely dumbfounded and speechless….I know, right? Me speechless. (The dear husband likes it when I’m quiet that way.) And then I collect my senses and we move on.
Wow. Did I ever digress.
Back to what I added to my plate this morning.
A study reported on by the BBC has contested the necessity of making the bed every morning. I know, right? At first, I thought this should be lumped in there with the study that I reported on a few months back about chickens and math. (Trust me. I wrote about it. I can’t tell you where it’s at. But it’s in the archives somewhere.) And then I thought to myself, “Self, what is with those people across the water?”
It would seem that there have been some scientists studying the effects on dust mites of making the bed every morning. And thereby wrapping them up in the sheets and tucking them in “as snug as a bug in a rug.” (Sorry. Couldn’t help myself.) They concluded that dust mites survived better in a made bed than an unmade bed. The obvious next thought would be if one is allergic to dust mites, then one shouldn’t make the bed.
My worry? My husband might stumble across said study and declare a deadly allergic reaction (think bee stings, need of an Epi-pen, etc) to dust mites that heretofore has never been known. Thus getting him out of making the bed each and every morning. Or, Goddess forbid, the brilliant little girl I live with.
Just when you thought the world was safe. Ha. Now I’ve got dust mites to add to the load.
Blessings be. (and don’t let the bedbugs bite….)