'Skeeters

For some strange reason of which we have yet to figure out, mosquitoes have a psychotic attraction to my husband, Super Hubs. I just do not understand this. Perhaps it’s because of his olive-complected skin from a Mediterranean lineage. Or his aftershave. I don’t really know. What I do know is that mosquitoes love him; feast on him; savor him until they are so fully satiated they fly drunkenly back to their lairs and fall into comas until the next time he ventures out of doors. Me - they don’t love so much. I am cursed with the fair skin of my United Kingdom ancestors, which is apparently not so delicious.

Super Hubs and I can be sitting in the same place at the same time, and he’ll come away covered with itchy welts, while I am completely left alone by the little buggers. The other morning, Super Hubs woke up to say, “Man, I had a lousy sleep last night. Those dang-blasted 'skeeters kept attacking like a bunch of Kamikaze pilots on steroids.” He scratched himself vigorously. “I didn’t feel a-one,” I said. “Slept like a baby.”

And why is that? Why do they not touch me? I try not to take it personally. Who really knows what goes on in the microscopic mind of a mosquito?
Here’s my personal theory of the scenario:
(Super Hubs and I sitting innocently on our back deck)
Mosquito #1 (Says to his brother) ”Hey Bro, THERE HE IS!! The delectable one I told you about. Mmm Mmm. Just looking at him makes me salivate!”
Mosquito #2 “Do you mean the Italian-looking dude with the glasses?”
Mosquito #1 “That’s right.”
Mosquito #2 “But what about the blond?”
Mosquito #1 “Oh, I never bother with her, unless the line on him is too long. She’s like the Dollar Menu at Wendy’s. But him, he’s a Four Star Restaurant! He’s like dining at Chez Paul. Now let’s go get the gang, and we’ll all have dinner together. I’m buying.”
And then the two blood-sucking brothers invite their buddies, and their spouses, and their Uncle Louie and Aunt Carmelina, and then they all fly onto Super Hubs, and they start with drinks and Oysters Rockefeller at the ankles, work up to Chateaubriand at his torso, and finish off with cappuccinos and crème brulee somewhere around his neck. And so forth. I don’t really know, but I’m guessing it happens something like that.

But here’s what’s really weird. The other afternoon Super Hubs went out to do a little yard work. It was quite chilly here in the Midwest, the temperature hovering at about 50-something degrees. And he came running into the house, asking me where the anti-itch cream was. “I’ve just been dive-bombed by the ‘skeeters. I’ve got big welts all over my back!” “No way!” I incredulously. “The mosquitoes can’t possibly still be around. I saw frost on the ground this morning! Haven’t they flown off to their condos in Barbados or wherever they go when it’s cold??” I pulled up Super Hubs’ shirt and looked at his back. And sure enough, there sat several large welts.

So the point of my story is that, apparently, which I believe defies all scientific research of the top entomologists in this country, Super Hubs is a yummy-enough incentive for mosquitoes to hang around here for the winter! Which is good news for the people of Barbados.