I think I may have mentioned before that I don't do bugs. As in, the smallest, most innocuous invertebrate makes my skin crawl, my palms sweat, and my legs to shake.
I blame this weakness on my older brother, The Philosopher. When we were wee, maybe five and six years old, he told me a story about a bug called a "Stink Bug." This particular insect was so dangerous that if it got near enough to spray you with its stink, you would DIE.
Of course, every time we saw any kind of a bug, he'd say "Lookout! A STINK BUG!" And I'd go running off, screaming my gullible little head off.
Before the Legend of the Stink Bug was imparted, I didn't have a problem with bugs. I even had a pet praying mantis. Alas, now I am reduced to a sweaty, trembly mess when in the presence of such creatures.
Therefore, I'm having a bit of a hard time now that we've been invaded by ladybugs. There is one on my bedroom window and one on the upstairs bathroom window. *shudder*
We get them every year, and every year I freak out. I know they are harmless. I know they are helpful—or would be if I could manage to keep alive any plants that might attract aphids. But still... there is something creepy about their hard little shells and how they rattle between the blinds and the window, sometimes fluttering, sometimes crawling, always LOOKING AT ME. *shudder*
Anyway, at least the ladybug invasion doesn't last too long, and then it will be Winter and all the bugs will die. And we can live in peace until the giant beetle thingys start coming in through the windows in the Spring.
Can't hardly wait.
3 years ago