Remember that scene in one of the Indiana Jones movies where that one bad guy gets eaten alive by a colony of red ants?
Now picture that in my kitchen tonight.
It was just me and a bottle of Pine-Sol, trying to drive out that pack of hoarders.
I hate ants.
No, not really.
They’re kinda cute when they march through the garden doing a balancing act as they carry leafs 10x bigger than they are.
But inside is a different story.
It’s the same story every summer, no matter what city I live in.
They find one slice of past-ripe fruit in my trash can, and that’s enough for them to build a highway across one side of the kitchen cabinets, a bridge under the sink, a tunnel back up into the sink, where they march and wait for my husband to forget to rinse out his yoghurt cup.
He’s actually gotten pretty good about that.
And then, oh and then, they send their best ant-men to the restroom to scope out the area.
And why for?
Only to drown to their deaths when the human parasite decides to brush her teeth or take a shower.
Or worse yet- to be pawed flat and then licked up by a curious fluffy cat.
Stubborn little creatures!
I once saw them take over the head of a little girl at my elementary school.
What was her mistake?
To wash her hair with watermelon-aroma shampoo and then lean on the wall while sucking a popsicle.
…I never saw her again.
That, I believe, is the root of my unrest.
We have been plagued with ants for the last couple of weeks but it’s to the point that I cannot sit in my kitchen without one crawling onto me.
Last night I had a nightmare that my body was covered in ants and when I awoke, there was one on my arm.
I’m not allowed to kill them- they are my husband’s favorite creatures.
But maybe I will.