Though it's only February, the ants have already begun to mass their forces, have begun making forays into the house.
On Friday, Kris discovered they'd captured a bag of sunflower seeds, and then this morning they were in a box of conversation hearts on the opposite side of the kitchen, the side which, by mutual agreement, has been off-limit all these years.
These terrorist attacks seem to indicate worse times ahead. Kris and I discussed implementing a color-coded alert system for coping with the bastards, but ultimately we discarded the idea because it would require the cats to sacrifice too many of their civil rights.
Instead, I sat down and had a face-to-face conversation with delegates from the Monomorium Hegemony, a confederation of local anthills. They were, as you might expect, stoic and unresponsive. Plus, they seemed distracted by the plate of rice krispie treats on the counter.
"Look," I said, "you've got give us a break. We've granted you access to the east side of the kitchen, but we can't have you on the west side."
They didn't say anything, only twirled their antennae. They seemed angry. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to bring in the exterminator the last two years (though his assaults hadn't seemed to do anything).
I tried to compromise. "What about this? How about you ants get free access to the garbage and to the compost bucket, but you stay out of the cupboards?"
"What about fresh fruit on the counter?" asked one of the ants. He was sizing up the fruit bowl.
"Fresh fruit is off limits. But," I said, attempting to stifle protest, "You can have access to the recycled cans. I won't wash them out."
The ants were not impressed.
"And the recycling by the back door. You can have access to that, too."
They looked as if they were preparing to walk out on the discussion.
"But there's wine bottles in there! You love wine bottles."
It was not enough. The talks broke off, and the ant leaders retreated for home.
I grabbed a bottle of Orange Guard and gassed the motherfuckers. It gave me a special pleasure to watch them squirm a painful death.
The house is on yellow alert.
On this day at foldedspace.org
2005 — Seven Dollars I understand that there are certain jobs in our society that do not pay well, but something feels wrong about this fellow's plight, though I can't put my finger on it.
2003 — The Toolies One thing that really pisses me off is when people tell me how far out in the country Custom Box Service is (or, for that matter, Canby).
2002 — Book of Remembrance Inside the package I found examples of the McClellan tartan and brooch and badge. But the gem was a "Book of Remembrance" by my great-grandparents, Frank and Mabel Watson.
Slippery slope, dude.