Revenge

Earlier this summer, when I realized both my children could climb the silver maple in the backyard, I moved the lava rocks that were underneath it. The rocks didn't look very nice anyway. I think this house's previous owners intended for the rocks to look artfully placed, but to me they just looked like a couple lava rocks dropped at the base of a tree.

So I moved the rocks, and lo! the ants did scurry. Ants had nests beneath nearly every rock; when I moved the rocks I exposed the pupa. I felt badly about it. I did! I covered the pupa with an inch of dirt, hoping that would save them.

A week or so later we noticed that the ants had moved their colonies to the sandy spaces between the pavers of our back deck. My husband said we should kill them; he said that eventually they'd force us to re-lay the pavers. Ah, I thought. That's my fault. But we left them alone.

Two months later, as you know, those same ants have entered my house. Yesterday I found some on my kitchen counter.

And that is the limit to my ant empathy.

Yuck! It's disgusting! When I chop vegetables I'm just sure an ant will climb onto the cutting board and get mixed into the salad. What if I mistake an ant for a sliver of basil and EAT IT? Aack!

Clearly the ant traps I bought aren't working, so I researched alternatives. Borax, said the internet. Bleach, said the internet. Vinegar, said the internet. Baby powder, said the internet.

Baby powder being the least toxic and smelly of those choices, I dug out the bottle left from Sasha's infancy. I sprinkled a line of powder across the kitchen. I sprinkled some where I thought they were entering the living room.

That was three hours ago. I don't want to declare victory too soon; but?

THEY'RE GONE.


(Can I return to my lazy ways in the kitchen now?)

The first frost can't come fast enough

My kitchen is immaculate. That's not usually the case. I tend to leave dinner's pots and pans until morning; and because the kids and I forage all day – sitting down to breakfast or lunch is such a waste of time, don't you think? – there's almost always dirty cups or plates on the counter. I store fruit in a bowl on the counter. I keep the bletch bucket there.

No longer. I wash dishes immediately; I store all food in the refrigerator; the bletch bucket is emptied 10 times a day. My kitchen is immaculate, I tell you.

It's the bugs. I can't stand it anymore. Fruit flies! House flies! Earwigs! Spiders! Moths! The other day I found a gigantic, black beetle in my bowl of strawberries. I've never seen such a beetle. How did it get in the house, never mind in my bowl of strawberries? Eeee-uck.

Also, we have ants. Sugar ants, they call 'em. They're mostly in the living room. The kids and I followed them to try to find their nest; we didn't see evidence of one, but after awhile we realized the ants were entering and exiting from the floorboards near the front door. I bought little ant houses with poison inside. It was an interesting science lesson for the children – kill the queen, kill the colony; but how do you kill the queen if you can't see her? – although I must say it's a lesson I'd rather have taught them theoretically than experientially.

So, yeah. My kitchen is immaculate. At least until the first frost.

The good life

It's been so blasted hot that we spent all Sunday in Lake Creek, the mint-lined stream that runs through a meadow near my in-laws' place. Lake Creek isn't shocking meltwater anymore, and it's not overflowing anymore — when I floated it with Sasha, our float bumped the bottom. It was pleasant. It was calming. My husband and I lounged on aluminum lawn chairs we set in the creek, drinking PBRs while the kids splashed about.

Does that sound hopelessly white trash? Well. So be it. I shall teach my children noodling.