Mine mine mine, all mine: pestilence

I have ants.

Large, black, eerily fast ants.

In my house.

Now generally when we get ants, they're the pinprick-sized ants that form neat, orderly lines from the outside to whatever it is in my house that has attracted their attention - usually where Drew spilled juice under a chair or behind a couch where I couldn't see it. These ants are easy to deal with. I clean up the juice, follow the line to their nest and destroy them mercilessly.

My current ants, however, are another story entirely. These ants, which are about the size of my thumbnail, are directionless and, dare I say, somewhat scatterbrained? They don't form orderly lines. They scamper about, willy-nilly, in all directions. They seem to have no purpose for being in my house, other than to annoy me.

I can't tell from whence they are coming, nor can I surmise, based on their activity, what they're after inside my house.

After smushing about the 10th one underfoot yesterday, I found myself standing in the middle of my dining room and yelling, "What do you WANT from me!? Just TELL me! I'll give it to you, whatever it is, and then you can GO!"

My mood was not improved when Drew caught on to the "game" and, every 10 minutes or so, hollered, "Uh-oh Mama! 'Nother ant!" About two times out of five, there was actually an ant. The other three times it was a dustball or a leaf or something non-creepy-crawly.

He redeemed himself, though, when I found myself sprawled on my bed upstairs (where, mercifully, it was still bug-free) muttering curses about the ants and he patted me gently on the arm and said, "Mama. I go down and get dose ants. I get dem."

My brave, brave warrior.