So I received a rather disturbing notice under my door a few days ago. Apparently my apartment complex has seen a recent outbreak of the dreaded bed bug. Now the bed bug isn't exactly dangerous, just disgusting. They are little beatles about the size of an apple seed that live in dark hidden places in your home and come out at night to drink your blood. This wouldn't have been a problem like 20 years ago when DDT's nearly wiped every one of these suckers off the face of the Earth, but now they have come back with a vengeance. (For those who are squirming and having a hard time looking at the picture I attached I should note that I have not seen one of these suckers anywhere in my place and there is a chance I never will.) Thank goodness I'm a really good sleeper or else I wouldn't get a wink thinking of the possibility of bugs on, in, or near my bed.
One thing continually bothers me as I read Diana Gabaldon's richly detailed story of Claire Beauchampe, a doctor who innocently walks into a stone formation in Scotland and winds up in 16th century Scotland. Much has happened since this beginning...Claire has married Jamie Fraser the young and impressive Scottish Laird (against her wishes), fallen madly in love with him regardless of a precarious beginning to their relationship, followed him around as they attempt to evade the English, fought with him at the battle of Culloden, been forced back through the stones to safety with their unborn child, raised their child with her ambiguous husband from the future, returned after her child had grown up so that she could find him, made a new life with him in an American Colony, and been surprised by the appearance of her daughter and new son in law in 16th century America. Through their many, often rediculous, adventures there is that one thing that my brain ...

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