My house is a freaking ant farm. It won’t stop raining. Spawn came for a visit, bearing gifts of lame excuses and a nasty cold, which she bestowed upon me and Mr. Sarah as she greeted us with a loud, rattling cough. It would be really great if people would understand that those of us who work for ourselves don’t have paid sick days and could be kind enough to stay away while contagious. The bratty calico literally went on hunger strike and screamed at us for two days straight until we bought her a chicken. Our basement has flooded numerous times. I saw a shirtless ponytailed ginger riding in the trunk of a VW Passat, dragging a lawn mower behind him, and he and the passengers went knocking on doors to kindly offer their lawn mowing/home invasion services… um, no, for so many reasons. And frickety fracking ding-dang old $_(%&&%(#&!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Ok, that’s better. This is my owl collection.
I’ve been on Ant Patrol for the past several days. I carry a flashlight around the house and shine it angrily into the shadows every few hours like a testosterone poisoned security guard. Everyone is whining on the local news about ants in their houses because of the record flooding, and at my house, the ant sitch is only moderately worse than it usually is this time of year. We spray ant barrier in the spring and only have to do it once or twice more until fall, but too much rain will wash it away, so there’s just no point right now. I cannot have ants in my house. If I see ONE ant, I go into major wipe-down mode. Guests fortunate enough to be at my house during one of these Fantastic Ant Wipes look at me like I’m nuts. Obviously, they’ve never had ants repeatedly invade their pantry in the night and take up residence in their raisins and powdered sugar. About a week ago, those wretched little varmints got into a tightly lidded bottle of homemade Kahlua by walking between the threads. I thought I was going to die of acute annoyance at that, but thankfully, I survived. What nearly killed me was the troop that came all the way in from outside, just to procure a Pringle crumb the size of a head of a straight pin, and it was in the middle of my bedroom floor, nowhere near the outside wall.
Yesterday, I awoke abruptly after a half-awake dream about ants in my Lucky Charms on top of the fridge. I went to look, and sure enough. They were also all over the wall next to the refrigerator, and if it had been left any longer the ant count would have grown to incomprehensible numbers. Mr. Sarah said that I need to start playing the lottery, with such specific visions like that. In my half asleep stupor I was still able to instantly fly into guilt-free ALL ANTS MUST DIE mode with my pine-sol/vinegar spray. I hate them. I hate them so much. I want them all to die. All other insects are free to live, even those awful fuzzy black spiders with bright green eyes who put their front legs up, ready to skittle with you when they see you coming. Those little angels get captured in a jar and deposited outdoors. Why? Because they wouldn’t bring a thousand of their creepy friends over to my house for Lucky Charms uninvited, that’s why. I’m sure we can find someone more respectful of boundaries to take over whatever benefits these dastardly ants provide our mother earth. I’d even pitch in by chewing on a rotting tree limb for a couple of hours every year if it will help move things in that direction. And it’s starting to rain, again. Thank goodness they’ve mostly stayed out of the bead cave.
In other news, I was one of those sub-morons who got caught up in a flash flood on Saturday. I was sure I’d have time to get to the BBQ joint, get the fried okra and get home before it started pouring. Nope. The moment I got there it began to pour. I get inside the restaurant and find the scrolling message at the bottom of the TV screen – flash flood warnings for blah-blah counties until THURSDAY. Remember, this was SATURDAY. I picked my jaw up off the floor, got my okra and got into the car. I was moving along fine, even in the river of really hard rain. I only got about 4 blocks towards home when I got an urgent call from the Department of Common Sense, instructing me to get out of the street and find higher ground, like, NOW. I pulled into a closed gas station, the one I always make fun of for having only one pump and being about a dollar per gallon higher than any other station in OKC, and parked beneath the awning.
I had a clear view of the street and rising water, and after about 5 minutes another car pulled into the station. Stalled cars began to accumulate in the street at an alarming rate. The passenger of the other car under the awning poked her professional shoplifter looking self out of the sun roof and began “filming” a stranded motorist in the street with her bright pink phone and clunky fake nails, all the while giggling gleefully and shouting something at him. Probably to pose like a rockstar and then come over and sign a release form for when her crappy rainsoaked video goes viral. He was knee-deep in rushing water and was being pelted by rain as he pushed his stalled car backwards, unable to understand her over the gushing roar. I felt like telling her to pull off her fake eyelashes and her stupid Justin Beiber looking hat and go help that poor guy instead of practically creaming herself over his misfortune. I decided in the spirit of kindness and self-preservation, I’d probably better not. About 10 more minutes passed and I watched the water level decrease and booked it for home. Luckily I knew that area very well and sort of zig-zagged through the miraculously un-flooded side streets and was so relieved to be home I beeped all the way up the driveway.
Yeah, I guess I’ve grown bored and frustrated with rainy days. Rainy days are my favorite, but this is about a week past way too freaking much. I just thought I’d pop in and let you know I haven’t washed away. Yet. But I’m close to running away from home, with a red polka-dotted bandana full of peanut butter sandwiches and cats tied to a stick resting on my shoulder.