I'm Lindsay Ferrier, a Nashville writer with a passion for family travel, exploring Tennessee, and raising kids without losing my mind in the process. This is where I share my discoveries, along with occasional deep thoughts, pop culture tangents and a sprinkling of snark. Want to get in touch? Use the CONTACT form at the top of the page.
May 9, 2009
When I think back to your ridiculously naive optimism on the warm, sunny day of our first meeting, I feel a little sorry for you.
“Darlin’, I can take care of them ants,” I remember you saying, brushing aside my concerns with a wave of your bug spray wand.
“Don’t be so sure,” I said. “I’ve tried everything to get rid of them,” I said. “Nothing has worked. Nothing. I’m telling you, these ants have evolved. They’ve… they’ve..” I looked around nervously and lowered my voice to a whisper. “They’ve grown brains or something.”
“Well,” you qualified, after looking at me like I had just offered you a Gary Coleman sex tape. “I might have to come back once-et, maybe twice-et if they’s real bad. But I will get them ants.”
Little did you know, Bugman, that you had finally met your match.
When you glibly sprayed my house with your supposedly lethal insect cocktail, you may have won a small battle, but you most certainly did not win the war. In response to your maneuver, the ants simply changed tactics, abandoning my kitchen countertops in favor of a nearby window, trading the guest bathroom for the den. They continued their endless march by the dozens, acting as if your poison were nothing more than a small inconvenience.
“Bugman,” I said breathlessly on the phone a few days later. “Whatever you did didn’t work.”
“Are you seeing fewer ants, though?” you asked, unconcerned. “Because it takes a week or two for the-“
“I’m seeing more ants,” I interrupted.
“More,” I confirmed. “I tried to tell you these ants were bionic or something.”
“I’ll be over tomorry,” you promised grimly.
The next day, you appeared at my door. This time, the smile was gone from your face. “Tell me again where you’re seeing them ants,” you said.
“Well, let’s see,” I replied. “They’re in the kitchen, the playroom, the kids’ room, our bathroom, the foyer, the dining room, and the sunroom.”
You muttered something under your breath and began spraying. When you left 15 minutes later, I sighed, knowing better this time than to expect a miracle.
What I do expect, Bugman, is that you will get rid of the damn ants, no matter how many times you have to come back.
That’s why I called you again yesterday.
“They’re still here, Bugman,” I told you.
“But are you seeing an ant here and there, or are they trailin’?” you wanted to know.
“Ohhhh, they’ve pretty much built their own superhighway,” I responded.
You grumbled a bit and showed up at my front door 24 hours later. This time, you saturated the perimeter of my house with your insecticide.
“I’m gonna work hard for ya, Mrs. Ferrier,” you promised, with a grimace that I could tell you hoped would pass for a smile. It was clear from your expression that you finally had some idea of what you were up against.
And it’s not pretty, is it, Bugman?
I paid you $110 dollars for Total Ant Annhilation, and you’re coming back until the ants are gone, you dig?
And at this rate, I think it might be time for you to bring over a toothbrush and a change of clothes.
Here’s hoping for an ant-free 2010,
This post originally appeared on Parents.com.
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