Them Dang Ol’ Skeeters

As a Minnesotan, I’m no stranger to mosquitos.  They seem to love me.  No difference here in Hong Kong.

I get bites daily, even when we have our windows closed, they somehow find a way in and then find me.  My fella has no bites.  I just don’t get how that is even possible.  I have so many that if they were red, I would look like I have chicken pox.  The other day one got me good– smack dab in the middle of my forehead, as if I had a bulls-eye pasted to my face.

The word for Mosquito is “Man”.  Say “Mahn”.

Because I have so many, I’m always scratching.  I can’t help it.  So Rob is always telling me “Ng Ho” (say Mm Ho) which means “Don’t”.*  That literally translates to “No Good”.

To combat these little suckers, I’m now wearing a lovely new perfume scent of Off Deep Woods.  

*We don’t actually speak Cantonese to each other.  He isn’t saying “Ng Ho”, he is saying “Don’t”.  Sorry for the lie.

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