Like her father, Julia is a very picky eater. Because she turns food down so often, when she makes specific requests I almost always oblige, which means several days a week she eats peanut butter and jelly sandwiches or cheese and crackers or yogurt covered raisins for breakfast.
This morning she wanted apple slices. No problem. I got an apple, peeled the skin off, cut it into wedges and went to get a bowl from the cupboard. I was just about to toss the wedges in the bowl when I noticed it was full of crumbs.
Crumbs that were moving. Crawling. Crumbs that weren’t crumbs but instead, ants. Teeny, tiny little brown ants that were so small that they were almost transparent.
Upon further inspection I realized that my cupboards were fucking teeming with them. They were crawling in long lines up and down the crevices in my cupboards and had gotten into my already-opened non-perishables, like the goldfish crackers, Oliver’s cereal and my beloved Triscuits. They were crawling around in my dish rack and running up and down my toaster. The little fuckers were everywhere.
For the next two hours I pulled everything out of my cupboards and on to my dining room table. I wiped down canned goods and unopened boxes of food and threw out what had been opened. I pulled everything off of my counter and washed it. I pulled my dishes, wine glasses, sippy cups, big-people cups and mugs from the cupboards and once I ran out of room for them on the table I started piling things on any surface available. I bleached the shit out of the cupboards and counter and wiped everything down twice. The contents of my kitchen cupboards and drawers are now piled in my dining room and living room and I’m out two and a half garbage bags worth of food.
I then packed the kids in the van and went to Home Depot, where I spent almost thirty bucks on ant-killing powder, liquid and traps. The thought of preparing a meal for my children in a kitchen crawling with ants and stinking of bleach didn’t really appeal to me, so we stopped for lunch on the way home. While I take the kids to Julia’s soccer game this evening, Dave’s got a date with some chemicals and a bunch of ants. We’ll have to leave the food and dishes out of the cupboards while we try to get rid of the ants, which is going to make my life all sorts of interesting. I’ve never realized just how dependent I am on cupboards until now.
You know, above and beyond the fact that I find tiny ants swarming my kitchen disgusting, I’m taking their presence personally. The three rooms that I am absolutely fastidious about keeping clean are the bathrooms and the kitchen. I’d eat a meal off of my kitchen floor any day – I sweep it several times a day and mop it at least twice a week. I wipe down my counters on a daily basis and bleach them and my sink regularly. In short, I keep the kitchen clean. Or so I thought.
Sometimes it feels like the harder I try, the worse it gets.
Your love is like bad medicine
When I asked Dave if he would mind me posting a picture of his bad Bon Jovi Beethoven Jim Morrison tattoo he said it was fine as long as I mentioned that he is well aware that it’s not the most professional looking tattoo and is planning on getting it covered up with the Hulk. Dave was twenty-five when his best friend, a die-hard Hulk fan, died very suddenly and he wants to cover his grandmother Jim up with the Hulk in remembrance of Andy.
Even his grandfather asked “Who’s that lady?” when he first saw it.
Lesson #398 learned the hard way
When someone says to you, “Does (insert your child’s name here) like those yogurt drinks? I’ve got a bunch in the car that my kids won’t drink”, it’s a good idea to confirm that the drinks were kept in the cooler you spied earlier in said vehicle before allowing your daughter to suck one back…you know, in order to avoid having her paint your bathroom with vomit mere minutes after getting her out of the bath.
Perhaps I should’ve bought that red bowl after all.