A Ferrerman Mystery
The younger Gilmore Girl (I'll call her, Rory) rang my doorbell. I'm like a dog with doorbells. They freak me out. I don't bark, but I run around the house looking for my pants because I know, it's probably someone I need to wear pants for. And, of the 100 or so ring tone options on the doorbell, it somehow settled on a very loud, up tempo Jewish tone. Not Hava Nagila. Something snappier. I fucking hate it, but I probably hate them all. Nobody drops in on me except the Gilmore girls, so I guess I got the wireless doorbell for them. Rory was distressed. Near tears. She began apologizing, not for the intrusion, but for the reason for her ringing. She feared she might have bedbugs and that I might too and that it might be their fault. Rory invited me down to scope out the evidence. Her and her mom had done their homework on google before consulting me, and it was an either-or proposition of evidence. On her mom's bed, there were black dots that could well be bedbug ...