Ladybug, Ladybug, Where Are You?

It's possible that my mother made up the song, "Ladybug, Ladybug, where are you?" just so we could sing to ladybugs. In fact, I'm not sure that the song had another line to it, which makes it ever more likely that my mother made it up.

But the poor little, baby ladybug--it really was a baby, it wasn't near the size of a regular ladybug--I saw Friday, oh how my heart just bled for her.

Here I was sitting on my back deck enjoying unseasonably cool weather (and "by unseasonably cool" I mean I could sit outside and smoke without sweating) dialing up a friend on the phone only to look down in my glass of wine and find a baby ladybug floating near the top.

Poor old gal was either drunk as Cooter or long gone for this world.

Maybe that's the way to go--either drunk as the day is long or drowning in a vat of luscious, luscious pinot grigio.

It's probably more of a testament to my life than I realize.
L.


PS--For those of you wondering, I did finish that glass of wine. I would never throw one out just because there was a bug in it. As they say, you can take the girl out of southwest Arkansas, but you can't take the southwest Arkansas out of the girl.