Pest: (n.) a destructive insect or other animal that destroys crops, food, vodka, etc.
I was telling my friend Philip a story today at work and at one point I noticed that his eyes were kind of glazed over and he finally just shook his head and said, "You are so weird." And I immediately perked up and said, "Ooooh, I should blog this!" And he immediately said, "Dear God, please don't."
Naturally, I am blogging it.
I have ants. Not in my pants or at my desk at work, but at home. I've lived in this house a little over ten years and never had a problem, but some invincible mutant Tennessee ants have recently invaded two spots in my house - the kitchen sink, and my bedroom windowsill. In our attempts to eradicate them, we've tried, in no particular order, a pest control company, bay leaves, cinnamon, vinegar, peppermint oil, Windex, electronic thingies that plug into the wall and supposedly emit a sound that repels ants (IT DOESN'T WORK), and ant poison (which I'm convinced just beefed them up and increased their libido and made them come back in exponential droves) and honestly you guys, I'm just not sure what to do.
So, I've started talking to them, which is what I was telling Philip today.
There seem to be two different kinds. They are both small black ants, but one variety has stripes on its butt. Or its thorax. Or whatever the anatomically correct name is for the striped butt part of the ant. When I hole up in my room to avoid the craziness of my family, I generally bring a drink with me, and I generally set that drink on the windowsill that the ants have claimed as their home away from home. Because my drink consists of vodka and Sprite, which has a considerable sugar content, it draws the ants like...well...like sugar.
Turns out, ants really like vodka! Y'all, I've turned these ants into alcoholics. They get in my drink and I just sigh and fish them out and scold them..."you silly striped ant, you know better than this," and I watch them on my finger as they rear up and wave their little feelers at me and then, depending on my mood, I either squish them or let them go. I always feel bad squishing them. Like, did I just murder Kenny? Or Joanne? What if a group of ants at their little colony is grieving the discovery that Bruce will never come home again?
I don't know what else to do with these pesky ants except to talk at them. I have another pest control company coming out this week to try yet again to get them out of my house, but until then, I guess I'll just keep on chatting them up. Heyyyyy, ants. Hey.