This blog chronicles my life as I try to balance healthy lifestyle habits with my husband's penchant for pizza rolls and my daughter's desire to watch iCarly 8 hours a day. It contains a mostly humorous, kind, and somewhat spiritual look at everyday life and the people who live it.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Survival of the Fittest
We have ants.
I don't mean just your ordinary-run-of-the-mill-picnic-ants, we have ants the size of cats roaming around here. They are big, black, and they bite. They fearlessly stroll along the counter tops, leisurely munch on the cat's food, and while they scurry away when they see Steve coming, they laugh when they see me.
You see, they know my weakness...
...I am unable to kill them. I say this with great shame, not pride. No humanitarian (insectitarian?) award for me folks because I really, really wish I could just smash the little buggers, but I can't. Every time I try to kill a bug at the last second something inside me says "you're bigger, you know better!" and I end up finding a tissue, capturing the bug, and taking it outside. I call it my catch and release program. Steve calls it stupidity. "Just smash those little buggers!" he yells at me as he watches me wrestle one into the tissue. I can't. It makes my stomach hurt to think of deliberately killing anything. Oh I admit, when one was biting me on the leg the other day, I smashed that little guy to kingdom come, but that was a reflex action, not pre-meditated murder. I'd get a lighter sentence for that one or could even claim self defense.
I keep hoping that Princess, our cat, will take over bug patrol. Not used to exerting herself any further than moving to a sunnier patch on the couch, the cat doesn't seem interested in her role as exterminator. I have no problem if the cat kills the ants, that's nature. If I kill the ants, well, that's murder. I don't like it when Steve kills the ants either, but I especially don't like it when he uses one of my shoes! It makes me feel like an accessory with the bug guts all over my soles to prove it.
Now Steve wants to bug-bomb the house. Even if I could get past the mass-murder aspect of this plan I still would refuse on the grounds that I don't wish to breathe, or have my child breathe, bug-bomb-residue-laden air. I like to suck in my pesticides the old fashioned way, through my food.
So here we are: currently at an impasse. I tell the ants that I rescue to get out, stay out, and tell their friends to stay out too. They come in greater and greater waves each day. We move in 24 days. It is a race to the finish line: who will survive the age-old battle between human and nature? I can practically hear their little antennae buzzing as they plan their attack. Up through the dirt floor in the basement. Under the ill-fitting basement door jamb. Once they hold the kitchen, they've taken the house.
I hope I have enough tissues...