Inconceivable!

People who read this blog may recall that I was sick for the entire month of June this year. Major bronchial snotrocket extravaganza. It sucked.

So, I think to myself: I get a pass. At least one year! No sickness! Right?

Dirty bitches.

And by that I mean: You Typhoid Mary Dirty Bitches. I woke up with a teensy bit of a sore throat today. I could walk it off, really, much like Rambo sews up his arm. Yes, there's just a little sniffle, too, but hey, it's cold. Very cold. Sniffles come with the territory.

It is the staring that bothers me. You know you are going to a bad place when you feel like you are on antihistamines but, in reality, you are not. This to me is the gong crash signifying one hell of a white blood cell Armageddon to come. Sonofabiscuit.

Also, I sat right next to Typhoid Mary on the Train. I was boxed in, furtively thinking should I move? Is it too late? O Lord, Lord, I think it is too late already. And now I have tuberculosis, too.

As an odd aside, an interesting thing happened this morning. I was toweling off from my shower when I saw some sort of bug struggling in the water beads at the bottom of the tub. In New York, in December, you see a bug you think GROSS KILL IT for it is most certainly some sort of cockroach. So I turned on the water to wash it down. The thing had a killer grip and would not be budged. Do note that grandma's eyes are not what they used to be, but from my mighty giant stature of 5'5" I was able to tell that the little bugger was too fat and round to be a cockroach. So I bent closer for a better look.

Ladybug! In my shower! Alive! And fighting like hell not to die. My instant reaction was panic. In the bug world, the ladybug gets a pass, right? She is too charming to be gross or creepy or shriek inducing. And as a former bug lover who could spend a day chasing down helpless crawly things because I wanted to love them and hug them and call them George, well. Killing a ladybug would have been horribly wrong and I most certainly would have cried.

So, what to do? My thoughts, being all whirly and tissuey from the oncoming plague, tripped down the stairs and into oncoming traffic. Visions of hamster cages with live plants and miniature jungle gyms danced in my head. I considered a makeshift habitat, for Christ's sake. Tupperware with romaine lettuce and a grape, why not! All I knew was that I had to save it and love it and call it George.

I realized that it had been a long time since I'd handled a bug (moths don't count, they feel like eyelashes batting madly against your hand--what harm is that?) and knew that I would not be able to pick her up for fear of that bug clutching that is freaky no matter what kind of bug is in hand. I got some tissue and scooped her up. She went possum. "I am dead and therefore uninteresting to you, giant bag of mostly water." (Watching waaaaaaaay too much STNG these days.) I looked around my kitchen and had an interesting thought.

Ladybugs are feminized creatures, lovely in their bug way, with the black belly and face and brilliant red-orange wings with black spots. Being such a sweet reminder of childhood, wouldn't it make sense to learn that ladybugs are actually brutal killers? I looked up to the one plant I placed on top of my kitchen cabinets, high and far from the other plants. Ugly fern, full of little gnats because I thought repotting it would invigorate the plant's growth. Instead, I got these annoying little pests. I got out the step ladder, climbed up, and flicked my ladybug onto the soil.

I saw her crawling around the branches as I busied myself for work. Will she live? Not long. According to Wikipedia the entire life cycle is only 4-7 weeks. What else does Wikipedia say? Well, my ladybug could very well be a killer, some varieties dine on aphids of which I have an abundance; other ladybugs are happy little herbivores, however, fully capable of laying waste to crops. I doubt this one little George will do much damage in that case, but I'm hoping she's a real killer, instead. Die, evil aphids, die! And stop kamikaze-ing into my morning coffee.

Anyway, let's hope she brought me good luck and that my immune system will smite the infernal bug that is trying to give me a cold or (God forbid) the flu.

Here's more from Wikipedia on the subject of ladybugs...or as they use the British term, the "lady bird": "The name that the insect bears in the various languages of Europe is clearly mythic. . . . The esteem with which these insects are regarded clearly has roots in ancient beliefs. In parts of Northern Europe, tradition says that one's wish granted if a ladybird lands on oneself. In Italy, it is said by some that if a ladybird flies into one's bedroom, it is considered good luck. In central Europe, a ladybird crawling across a girl's hand is thought to mean she will get married within the year. In Russia, a ladybird is called Божья коровка (God's cow) and a popular children's rhyme exists with a call to fly to the sky and bring back bread. Similarly, in Denmark a ladybird, called a mariehøne (Mary's hen), is asked by children to fly to 'our lord in heaven and ask for fairer weather in the morning'. In Irish, the insect is called 'bóín Dé'—or 'God's little cow.'"