When I went to wash my hands this week, I had a little surprise. My kitchen sink was inundated with ants. Hundreds or them. Millions of them. I couldn’t really say for sure. But I do know they were living their best lives using the pools of water in the dishes I left soaking as their own personal water park. They were slipping, sliding, and I’m quite sure I even saw a beach volley ball being knocked around. If you really listened closely, I mean really closely, you could hear comedically high pitched voices shouting “Wheeeeee!!” It’s true… well it is true that I wrote about this problem several months ago. I was waiting to post it, but this feels like the right time.

I don’t like to kill things. That’s an uncomfortable lead in. It certainly doesn’t help that I’m listening to the Taking Heads “Psycho Killer” right now either. 

Despite this, I firmly avow (like any normal person) that I don’t like to kill things. Anything. Beyond the occasional mosquito, my hands are clean.

At least until this week…

You see, every spring, we get ants in our bathroom. Why the bathroom you ask? I don’t know…But the thing is I want to contain them there. I don’t want any six legged conquistadors. So yes, I have been known to squish the occasional scout- dead men tell no tales and all that. But that’s the extent of my bloodlust. 

Now for whatever reason, our ants were late this year. Maybe it’s a sign of global warming. Maybe they have something bigger planned. Either way, it has gotten a bit out of control around my bathroom sink. 

So what’s a girl to do? I don’t want to use the spray poison. That feels too extreme. My weapon of choice is (hmmm- I should listen to that song next…) my thumb.

And you know, it feels pretty powerful. Like Zeus throwing down a lightning bolt or something else powerful… (I really need to work on my similes- sorry Mrs. Radclif) What was once the isolated squish became rapid fired squashes, leaving dozens of poor little ants in my wake. It’s kind of like Whak-a-Mole, but with more dire consequences… at least for the ants.

When I looked at the mass grave, I felt a little queasy. I can’t believe I did that and thought about getting the high score. It reminded me of the time I played 8-Bit Mortal Combat with my friend and I hit him when I lost. I was 26. 

This isn’t good, friends. I’m not sure what I need to do for absolution. This is all feeling very Rime of the Ancient Mariner. Maybe I can forego the supernatural teaching lessons and skip to the part where I learn to respect all of God’s creatures.

After all, I did spend all spring watching another tribe of ants relentlessly march up and down a crepe myrtle tree. I even threw them orange rinds. I also never kill palmetto bugs (which we all know what they really are…) so that has to count double. 

So, much like the wedding guest cornered by the old mariner, perhaps you will leave this reading “ / a sadder and a wiser man //” But until then I’m just going to leave the ant spray on the counter and see if they will magically disappear. 

The funniest thing happened. When I called my husband about our current ant situation he gave me instructions about what to do. Regrettably, I got held late at work. When I came home the ants were magically gone, all the dirty dishes had been washed, and the sink was spotless. Magic really is a wonderful thing.