Sally Breslin: My Life: QUIT BUGGING ME!

I know I probably will upset a lot of entomologists when I say this, but I really hate bugs.

The only exceptions are butterflies. I do like those. I also used to like ladybugs until one of them pinched me and left a red welt on my skin. Those cute little beetles have very strong mandibles for their size, and they won’t hesitate to use them on humans who bug them (pun intended).

They say ladybugs bring good luck, but you can’t prove it by me. A few years ago, the outside of my house was covered with so many of them, they looked like an abstract-art design. With all of those ladybugs, I should have had tons of good luck and won the lottery or something, but the only thing involving money that happened was my property tax increased by $1,500.

Now that spring has sprung, I’ve been sharing my home with a lot of uninvited guests. I’ve probably shared it with them all winter, but they’re coming out of hibernation now, so I actually can see them.

Believe me, I wish I couldn't.

For example, I reached into my bag of potatoes the other day and pulled out a potato that had dozens of tiny holes all over it – like a potato sieve. As I stared at it, wondering what had attacked it, a black spider crawled out of the bag and just sat there looking at me, as if to say, “Hey! Get your clammy paws off my potato!”

I was pretty sure the spider hadn’t made the holes. More than likely, however, it was interested in eating whatever had…like the dreaded saber-toothed potato weevil, or whatever insect enjoys turning potatoes into Swiss cheese.

Needless to say, I’m never going to blindly reach into another bag of potatoes again.

And last night, I killed seven ants on my kitchen counter. Usually my kitchen attracts these nearly microscopic reddish-colored ones, but the ants last night were big and black and had congregated on a teaspoon I’d left on the counter after I'd stirred sugar into my tea.

So I dug into my supply of ant baits and set them out on the counter.

Then the torture began.

In order for the poisonous ant-bait to work, the ants have to carry bits of it back to the colony and feed it to their queen. Once she kicks the bucket, all of the other ants, which have some kind of weird suicide-pact going on with old Queenie, also will drop dead.

Unfortunately, this now means I can’t kill any of the ants I see crawling across my counter because if I do, there won’t be any left to take the poisonous treats back to the queen...and the colony will continue to thrive.

I actually break out in a cold sweat when I'm forced to just stand there and watch the ants partying in my kitchen while every fiber of my being is shouting at me to smack them with something…like a cast-iron skillet.

But my problems aren't limited to only the inside of my house. Just the other day I noticed the Green Family constructing a nest on my front porch. I’m talking about hornets. I call them The Greens as a tribute to that infamous superhero, The Green Hornet – although I’m pretty sure he never built a nest on anyone’s porch.

And if hornets, ants and spiders aren't bad enough, this officially marks the beginning of the ticks' nymph season. Nymphs are about the size of a grain of salt and they inject you with their special formula of Novocain before they burrow into your skin, so you have no clue they’re there. They also have a fondness for dark, warm, moist places (like armpits and crotches) on the human body.

The experts keep posting reminders for everyone to do a complete body-check for ticks after every trip outdoors. Well, with my bad eyesight, acres of skin and the fact I'm not a contortionist, I'd say a tick could remain undiscovered on me for about a year and a half.

In other words, I'm as good as doomed.

Speaking of which, I’m heading out for my daily walk now, where I immediately will hear the faint sound of a dinner bell ringing somewhere overhead, and I’ll be greeted by a swarm of hungry black flies that think my blood is comparable to a fine, vintage Pinot Noir.

I guess I'll just have to keep reminding myself there are only seven more months until winter.

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Sally Breslin is an award-winning syndicated humor columnist who has written regularly for newspapers and magazines all of her adult life. She is the author of several novels in a variety of genres, from humor and romance to science-fiction. Contact her at: sillysally@att.net

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