The Ants are Marching

Except these dudes are not coming in two-by-two: they are coming in Russian army style, line after freakin' line. I believe they have tiny helmets on and tiny bayonets.

I am totally taking out my tiny machine gun and blowing them all away.

*****

Except I do not have a tiny machine gun and I'm sorta a pacifist. (Though I did once throw myself in the middle of a fist fight the Stud was in -- defending my honor, he was, that chivalrous fool. He is 6'4"; I am 5'3"; my black eye proved he did not need my help. My mother was not impressed. Ahhhh... youth.) But I hate these miserable ants with a passion that should put me on the PETA watch list. I loathe them. I despise them. I am thinking in lieu of the tiny machine gun, I might teach the GFYO the whole magnifying glass and sun trick. Which seems cruel, and also, he might burn our house down. Which would mean the ants had won. They could march through the ashes of our home (looking for discarded popsicle wrappers no doubt) and no one would even SEE them.

*****

I tell the Three Short Drunk People, "who needs a dog? we have these bloody ants!" and R says, "the ant is BLOODY?! where? i wanna see!"

*****

I go to the hardware store (truly one my favorite places; even the crabby old she-man behind the counter amuses me; I will make that hag smile some day, I swear to it) and I search through the pest control aisle. There are many many products for killing ants. They all seems wickedly toxic. I mull over a fly swatter. I leave with nothing.

*****

The entire front line of the Russian Ant Army moves across my cook top. I decide the kids will eat cold, leftover chicken tonight. They are not pleased (they rarely are with my culinary wizardry -- Jerry Seinfield's wife can suck it) and I say, "do you want grilled cheese sandwiches with ants in them?" And B says, "jeez moooooom: it's just an ant" and I say "you are so afraid of bugs it is not even funny; do not get all cooler than thou with me now, missy" and she says, "you need to get a grip." Which she actually didn't say, but I know she was thinking it. Because I have mad skills that way, like ESP and shit.

*****

I sit in front of the fan. Directly in front. My kids are hot and in a heap and watching Shear Genius. The contestants are cutting hair to look like famous cartoon characters: Marge Simpson, Betty Boop, etc. I need a hair cut. I unloop the ponytail holder. I check the length of my mop mane and lo and freaking behold, there is a mother lovin' ant in my god damn hair.

*****

I consider burning the house down myself.