So I really, really, REALLY can't complain about my life. Sure, some stuff really blows wind up my skirt, but then the wind dies down, y'know, it's all good.
So the wind this time is ants. Lots of them. Teeny, tiny ants eating a perfectly good wooden wine rack thingy. Now, who's to say that this doesn't happen elsewhere. Not me. I recall my father using superbly creative forms of the F word to describe the damage done by termites to a wall in the tv room.
THE TV ROOM.
It is strictly forbidden to do harm to this room at my parents house. In fact, now that I think of it I recall my father using even more creative forms of the F word among other four letter words (some three) to describe what was happening to the area of the rug where my mom would do aerobics ala Jane Fonda in front of the tv. Sacred space.
So, the ants. These freaking ants were marching from the sliding glass doors to the top of the cabinets. Couldn't for the life of me figure out why. Nothin' up there. So, I got up on the counter to peek at the top. Eeeeeeeeewwwwwwwwww. Then I left the nest for the Pirate to clean when he got home. Ain't love grand?
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