Isn't it amazing how the sound of a babbling brook or waves lapping upon a sandy shore can give you such a fine sense of well-being?

Isn't it amazing, as well, that a piece of minced onion between your toes while you're cleaning up the kitchen can make you spit fire for the rest of the day?

I don't even have to be PMS-ing to get annoyed with something like that. It's not just the fact that it's sticky and smelly and it won't simply shake off my foot, it's the questions that piece of minced onion presents.

Questions like: How did it get there? If my husband was mincing onions, why didn't he bend down and pick up the errant piece, so that it would not have to be forcibly removed from between my toes? and Was he eating chili dogs again last night?

It is highly unlikely that my older boys were doing the mincing since they are convinced that if any form of vegetable should hit their system, they would surely die. So how did it get there? More importantly, why is it attached to my foot?

If my eleven-year old was mincing onions, he probably wouldn't have stopped there. So where are the bits of dry spaghetti, Laffy Taffy, and Play-doh that surely would've been the victims of his mincing massacre? He's not known for cleaning up anything, much less a mincing-mess, unless he was trying to hide the evidence of a mincing mishap. So where is it?

Okay, maybe he was not moved to mincing today, but if it was my daughter, I need to find her, because she'll be in pain. The onion would have made her cry and, not being formally taught about the perils of onions, she would have rubbed her eyes with onion juice-coated hands. In my tortured mind, I saw her running blindly from the kitchen and hitting every door jamb from there to the bathroom. My imagination continued with a life of its own and I saw her rummaging, eyes closed, through cabinets and drawers full of razor blades and cleaning chemicals as she tried to locate a wash cloth with which to wash her eyes.

Strangely, I hear no bellowing from the nether regions of my house, so I can only assume that the latter scenario, in all likelihood, did not happen. Whew!

That leaves my six year old. If he was in the kitchen maniacally mincing, I have only one question: "Who gave a six-year old a knife?" Okay... two questions: "Since when did he start liking onions?"

Thinking slightly more logically - and for me that's not saying much- I realized that no six-year old in recorded history has ever liked onions, and since there was no chair pulled up to the counter he would not have been able to reach the sharp knives. Therefore, I need not worry that the next time I see him, he will have a few less fingers.

Clearly, someone was in here mincing onions. The evidence was right there stuck to the bottom of my foot.

The questions will almost certainly remain unanswered, because if I find out who left a piece of onion, placed strategically in a way which would make it become one with my foot, I will most likely be spitting more fire than a piece of minced onion should merit.

My next house is going to have a brook, babbling its merry way through my kitchen. If not, then maybe we can find a way to install a wave-pool in my garage.