There is a vortex.

There's magic here on the bayou. Black magic, or so I hear.

I don't put much stock in the mystical realm. Science is what I believe in. Pure, cold, hard facts. But even a skeptic like me has to believe that there are mysterious forces about when the evidence is straight in front of my face.

I used to have a cabinet full of travel coffee mugs. This mortal occasionally needs some magic of her own (in the form of a chocolaty, caffeinated treat on the way to carpool) to escape the grip of Morpheus in the morning. But this morning, I brewed and brewed my heavenly concoction, only to find that I have no vessel in which to transport it.

I believe there is a vortex here. A place where objects go and never return. A magical travel mug-eating vortex. And I believe it may originate at the entrance to the husband's pick-up truck. Or maybe it has even infiltrated the confines of his office.

It is no fault of his. I believe this to be true. Occasionally, he will break the grip of the mug-loving bayou gods to return a treasured mug to me. But it will reek of the black magic.

Oh sure, it may just smell of moldy coffee to you, but I recognize it as the smell of death and betrayal. It is a smell, and taste, which cannot be washed away. Not with a thousand dishwasher cycles. Not with a rinse of boiling water and bleach.

It is a smell I am familiar with. For I live with the death smell everyday, as the husband has so gallantly captured it in his hockey bag.

Ah, my warrior. He is traveling this week, off to the far off place where we first consummated our union. But he leaves behind for me these scents to remember him by.

And if his cohorts at work should find a way to dispose of the tainted mugs piling up in their shared office before he returns, so be it. And if his loving wife should find a way to dispose of the death infused jock strap and protective cup before he returns, so be it.

For when he makes me an offering of replacement travel mugs, only then I will feel it is my duty to find a replacement jock strap and cup. Until then...

He can let the gods of the bayou protect his jewels, with their distinctive smell alone.