My sweet husband, Bruce, is a United States Marine. However macho he is, he can be delicate, too. Case in point: While grocery shopping one day, I noticed he was touching each of a dozen eggs in the carton. Frankly, he was more than touching them. He was full out playing with them. "Whatever are you doing, oh manly man of mine?" asked I.
"I am in search of cracks in the eggs," said he.
"I, too, look for cracks before I put a dozen in the shopping buggy. You, however, go much further than just looking. You are performing some sort of fancy finger dance, taking each oval orb as partner. It is quite fascinating to stand back and watch. Yet, is there a purpose beyond entertaining those about you?"
"Why, yes, there is. Rather than merely inspecting the eggs for any visible cracks on their tops, I pick up and spin each one to be certain there are no cracks on their bottom halves, lest we get them home and discover the ugly truth. Since scientists use eggs to grow cultures," he shuddered, "if it is within my power, I shan't bring into our home a flawed vessel which will propagate any bacterium and its off-spring, endangering those within said abode. Add to that, it is meet, right and proper, so to do, that we get a complete dozen, unbroken eggs, for the full value of the price we pay. I find a complete tender twirl to be the answer."
I have since begun the Cackleberry Club, as I now call all egg activities. We invite one and all to become members. Like our 3-Second Memory Club, there are never any meetings, so no minutes are taken and no dues required.
Wonder what our next club will be? I'd best be starting a list to keep all our organizations straight.
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