Several hundred houseguests arrived last week. Fortunately, they don’t want to be fed. Unfortunately, some want to fall into bed with us.

Our guests are Harmonia axyridis a.k.a. Multi-Colored Asian Beetles. They are nicknamed Halloween beetles, an appropriate name as they are filled with tricks and are not exactly a treat to have around.

These bugs are plump, larger than native lady beetle species and range in color from yellow to red. Their black dots can be nonexistent or up to twenty. There is no uniform dress code for these insects.

United States Department of Agriculture scientists introduced the Asian ladybugs to do what the beetles do best… eat aphids. Others hitched rides on freighters and cargo. All have made themselves right at home to the point where our native species are dying out.

In Fall, masses of these beetles start searching for warm, dry cracks and crevices in which to hibernate. Our homes fit that description, especially the warm, sun-facing exposures.

It is our experience that these visitors arrive surreptitiously. Then, on a brilliant Fall day when the thermometer goes over 50 degrees, they come marching out to say,”Surprise! Thanks for the hospitality.” In the midst of an invasion, it is well to remember their good points:

*They are harmless to people and pets.

*They don’t eat our food, unless our kitchens are filled with aphids.

*They don’t have sex orgies in the house. In spring, they crawl outside for a roll in the foliage.

These beetles do have some tricks. They squirt foul-smelling, yellow fluid from their legs when they are threatened. Few bite, but all can inflict small pricks from spurs on their legs.

These lady bugs are also photopositve or are attracted to light. Since they swarm over windows, skylights and glass doors, prepare to view your landscapes through polka dots.

Our personal houseguest survival strategy plan is to hope for cooler, Fall days when our boarders will crawl back into the cracks. If that doesn’t occur and critical masses form, we can always resort to the shop-vac. We would prefer coexistence, there is so little of that these days.

Every issue of New Mexico Magazine that lands in my mailbox has some reference to ghosts.

For example, describing a historic home, the writer states,”you may even see a ghost of a former resident lurking in the shadows.” I don’t think so.

Ghosts fill my life, but they are not supernatural beings, they are memories. The older I get, the more ghosts I acquire.

I can’t drive down a particular stretch of Lincoln Avenue in West Allis without seeing the ghost of my Aunt Vi hiking in her high heels on her 10 mile daily hike.

My father’s ghost appears every time I see a Hershey Bar, while my mother visits when I underline passages in books. Her presence is especially felt when the passages are in library books. She is not happy.

Because I have been lucky to have traveled all my life, my ghosts are equally well traveled. Albuquerque and Tucson are thoroughly haunted. My Aunt Gladys lurks in Chantilly, a marvelous French bakery and cafe in the Duke City. My mother and father-in law continue to confound me whenever I drive in Tucson; they never made left turns, and I never learned the direct route to any place in that town.

As we age, our younger selves also join in the ghost parade. The towering redwoods in California conjure the ghost of a young mother holding her little daughter as she throws up into the majestic beauty. (The coast highway is an extremely twisting road.) The same ghosts then move to a laundromat in Eureka, California.

Halloween is near, and improbable tales of the supernatural will proliferate. I don’t need any more ghosts, thank you. I have plenty of my own.

I gave up naps when I was one and a half. According to my mother, I just stopped taking them, and she didn’t press the issue.

I vividly remember nap-time in kindergarten. We were supposed to rest on a hard mat on a hard floor in a sunny room and fall asleep. Each day I dutifully stayed on the mat with my eyes wide open and my mind telling me that time spent at the easel and paints would be much more fun.

When I met my husband, my opinion on naps changed. Here was a man who loved a quick nap. What’s more, he could sleep anyplace, anytime and almost anywhere. (His experiment at napping in the shower did not work.) Best of all, he would wake up refreshed. The value of being able to recharge at will was not lost on me.

The cats, who have elevated napping to an art form, also have added to my appreciation of a quick snooze. Their pattern seems to be a pre-breakfast nap, followed by a wee rest, a before lunch doze, an early afternoon quiet time and a four o’clock siesta. Then it’s dinner, a brief crazytime, and the before bed catnap. Felines are hard wired by Ms. Nature to sleep 2/3 of each day.

I, however, was not wired with a nap-time circuit. As desirable and therapeutic as a quick nap often would be, I am biologically incapable of taking one. How handy it would be to fall asleep in a plane, train or passenger side of the car. Alas, motion has a stimulating, not a soporific, effect on me.

My favorite commentary on napping is found in the delightful children’s book The Napping House by Audrey Woods. No child is necessary to enjoy this tale of naps gone awry.

The evil letter arrived two weeks ago. “Spider Problems” it screamed in bold type. “We can exterminate every spider on your property, inside and out.”

Being an arachniphile, a spider lover, I was horrified. These folks were advocating spider genocide.

I must admit, however, that our resident spider population went into overdrive around mid-August. The entire outside of our house was wrapped in silk, and each morning we walked through webs when we exited any door. Furthermore, our resident Charlottes must have sensed impending doom and were busily wrapping up and sticking egg sacs everywhere. Clearly some action needed to be taken.

My husband proceeded to spend two weeks vacuuming the outside of our house with his shop vac. Then he gently sprayed every board and washed all the windows. Our home no longer looked like a cartoon drawn by Ed Koren in his famous fuzzy lines.

Last night I sat down to dinner and looked out the window at the Tooley Cafe. A silver glint caught  my eye. A lovely, plump, garden spider was gliding down from the eaves on its dragline.

All is well at our house. The web of life keeps spinning.

Gato did not get the birthday present of his dreams. That would have been a case of Sheba cat food cans or a lifetime supply of cat treats. No, Gato got a Slimball.

Our relationship with Gato goes back to October 1997 when he was born on our kitchen floor. He immediately pushed his siblings aside to get to mom’s milk. Any kitten who tried to get a turn got a star-shaped paw, claws out, in the face.

Gato’s aggressive approach to food continued after weaning. No other cat’s food dish was safe; his appetite was insatiable.

One day I made the mistake of setting a full grocery bag on the floor. When I looked up, an orange streak with a 6 pack of hamburger buns dangling from its mouth was whizzing by.

Despite repeated attempts at limiting Gato’s food, we were definitely being outmaneuvered. Then one portentous day, the vet looked at us and said, “Your cat looks like a head on a box. Drastic measures are needed.”

Gato got diet kibble, 1/2 measured cup a day, and was locked in a separate room to dine. He was not let out until the other cats had finished their food. Slowly and painfully for all, Gato lost ten pounds.

As every dieter knows, maintaining weight loss is a struggle. Enter the Slimball. This clever device is a ball within a ball covered with holes. The ball is filled with the cat’s kibble, and the size of the holes is adjusted. We set it on small.

When Gato unwrapped his present, he instantly knew that his food was being held hostage. He immediately flopped down on the floor and pushed the ball. One piece of food fell out. Without raising his body off the floor, Gato extended a paw and slid the kibble to his mouth. A physicist could not have devised less energy output for maximum food input. Gato has completely subverted the calorie burning aspects of  his Slimball, but he does eat more slowly.

If it weren’t a mangled metaphor, I would call our Gato a total chow hound. Happy birthday, Gato, and best wishes for a long and purry life.