It’s getting to that time of night when I start seeing alien faces leering at me from the curlicue patterns in the Persian silk rug draped over the end of my bed. Of course, being temporarily bereft of Internet access at home means I can’t figure out what exact species of grasshopper nearly caused me to keel over from fright this afternoon, so I can only describe it as an unholy cross of a spider and cricket, all big and thin and creepy and stripy and crouched ready to spring in a flock of a score or so in the hollow within the folding table I was setting up in the basement of the house where we’re doing a sale. I was so freaked out by the sight of these horror movie escapees that I almost vomited my heart (which I found had suddenly lodged itself in the vicinity of my vocal cords), while my skin had gone goosebumps in a fraction of a second. Nasty, nasty creatures. Not at all like the jolly fat brown crickets that occasionally turn up in my apartment—those I catch in my bare hands, toss in the toilet, and flush while cackling evilly. I don’t even think a clutch of roaches, as awful as they are, would have made me as jittery. Roaches--at least Yankee roaches such as we have here (quite unlike the poetically-named Palmetto bugs of South Carolina)—only run, they don’t jump. And they can be stomped. These things made me want to turn and run shrieking. Instead, I slammed the table halves back together and ran the whole out into the back yard, where I flipped the thing open and over and released the ‘hoppers out into the wild. But my skin continued to crawl for half an hour at the thought of them. I may have to start carrying a brace of frogs in my pocket holsters in self-defense.