Dill Pickles and West Nile

I live near Utah Lake. Aside from being one of the most polluted, disease-ridden cesspools I've ever had the pleasure of living near, it's also home to enormous populations of mosquitoes.

I hate mosquitoes.

Apparently, I have "sweet blood." That's a lot nicer way of framing the harsh truth that I'm only slightly luckier than the guy who got an extra ear on his forehead from mother nature's wonderful genetic lottery. To say that I attract mosquitoes would be a gross understatement. Forget bug repellent--take me with you into the woods and you are invisible. I am the sun eclipsing your small candle.

I woke up this morning after putting forth a truly commendable effort to deny the sun's existence. Grudgingly, I opened my eyes and turned onto my side, feeling the air from my fan blowing gently across me--singing it's siren song of continued comfort and rest--pleading with me to forsake all thoughts of work and duty and surrender to another snooze-button's worth of blissful denial. I was strong.

I opened my eyes and saw a pillow, thrown aside and positioned about where you would expect to find the head of a second occupant. As I was looking at the pillow a rather large mosquito landed gently, almost casually upon it's surface. Knowing that this mosquito had likely been feasting on me all night long, watching it sit on the pillow, unmoving, unafraid--it seemed to be asking me, "Was it good for you too?"

I killed the mosquito.

I got a free cinnamon roll tonight. That made me happy. Renae made it for me. Apparently, Renae is pregnant. I think she made them for a baby shower... or something. I don't know Renae, but a mutual acquaintance didn't want her neatly packaged, very appetizing cinnamon roll. Always willing to save a delicious treat from Almost-Certainly-Going-To-Be-Eaten-By-Somebody-That's-Not-Me Doom, I decided it was time to take action and volunteer my digestive services to the poor wayward cinnamon roll. It was packaged in plastic kitchen wrap and tied at the top with some string and a note (how craftsy-cute!). The note read, "Thanks! from Renae's bun-in-the-oven!" At first I thought this was sickeningly cute--then after a moment's pause I realized that for the first time in my twenty three years of existence, I was just thanked by a fetus.

Then it was just creepy.