The Ants Go Marching And I Lose My Mind

He said it as if he was saying, "Water is wet" or "Puppies are cute." The words were completely lacking the appropriate amount of panic and disdain, disgust and horror.

"Did you see that there are ants in the kitchen?" my husband asked as he swept an ant off of the kitchen counter and onto the floor.

When I was finally able to shove my eyeballs back into place and find my voice, there was questioning about the appropriate way to deal with an ant WHO HAS INVADED MY HOUSE.

The correct answer involves fire, a sledgehammer, poison, and possibly the entire Steelers defensive line.

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Every year, without fail, the ants invaded our prior home. We actually lived in that community in two different townhomes and yet both locations had the exact same issue. Every spring the carpenter ants invaded. Huge, ugly, persistent carpenter ants. We went through months and months of battling to get rid of them, only to have them return each and every year without fail.

The last spring that we lived there was the worst. That was the year that the ants weren't just visiting. They moved into our walls. Every single time I see an ant, I think of the time that I stood in the hallway with a vacuum in my hands sucking up hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of ants. I wish I were exaggerating, but truly, they were POURING out of the wall.

It. Was. Horrifying.

I ended up winning the war that year, but it truly was a war.

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As I scurried across the kitchen floor looking for the ant that had just flown across the room, I realized these are not the same sort of ants I have battled in the past. While that ant survived his free-fall, he was too tiny to survive a little squirt with Method spray.

It's really very satisfying to watch an ant drown and die in something as mild as Method, especially after you've poured poison on ants and watched them laugh at you. Really. Very. Satisfying.

These new ants are after Penny's puppy food. Once it had been moved, the ants became scattered and unfocused. They became easy targets for me and my Method.

The Good Stuff is on hand. I'm waiting to see if it's needed. If the ants aren't completely gone by the weekend, it'll be time to go Chuck Norris on their asses.

Hiya, Sam!

That's Sam up there being all squishy faced as he hopes for a Pens turnaround. His mom, Rachel, blogs at Scientific Nature of the Whammy.

An Ode to Hotwings

North Dakota is a weird place where kids are allowed to be grownups entirely too soon. I personally thought it was fantastic when I was a teen, but looking back, it was a catastrophe waiting to happen.

You guys, I've had my drivers license since the week of my 14th birthday. Legally. Those of you who have 14-year-old kids go ahead and ponder the thought of them being allowed to drive right now. Nightmares, right? Right.

Another thing kids who are practically still babies are allowed to do is have a job. If you can drive, you can work. You might need a work permit (which back in the olden days was essentially permission from your school), but there was nothing else stopping me when I decided to start working for a concessions company when I was 14. It was actually a pretty cool job that entailed working at the fairgrounds for the State Fair, concerts, hockey games, rodeos, dirt track races, bingo nights, and every other hick thing that North Dakota is known for. I actually ended up working there all through high school and returned to the job when I was home for the summer during college.

There are lots and lots and lots of stories I could tell from working for that concession company, but there is one that has been front and center in my mind ever since Kennywood announced it was going to have a beer garden.

I've done the beer garden thing. I wasn't impressed.

You had to be 18 to serve alcohol back then (which may very well still be the case--I'm too lazy to research), so when I was too young to shove beer in the faces of drunk people, sometimes I had the pleasure of being The Wing Girl.

As in hotwings.

Go ahead. Laugh. It's all good.

I imagine there are two reasons why I was consistently assigned Wing Girl duties. It sure does help profits if your workers aren't eating the food, and who better to have selling wings than a vegetarian? The fact that I am and have always been pretty good at working independently is probably the other half of the equation. I didn't need anyone to tell me what to do or when to do it, so I could be left all alone in that booth that was stashed just to the side of the stage in the middle of the beer garden.

So. Picture it. The beer garden was surrounded by a fence and had a steel building off to one side. There were windows in that steel building where beer was sold. Way over on the other side of the enclosed area was me and my little 10' x 10' booth with hotwings. There was a stage to my side where the very worst in wannabe country musicians played nightly during the State Fair. Every single inch of space between those structures was filled with drunken cowboys and girls with big hair and even bigger mouths. Nobody went into the beer garden to enjoy the music. They were there to drink. A lot.

And then there was me. Stone-cold sober, sarcastic, and surrounded by stupid.

My absolute favorite night EVER at the North Dakota State Fair took place one of those nights when I was surrounded by drunks while pedaling wings. Some crappy band was on stage screaching "I'd Be Better Off In A Pine Box" (I am so not kidding. I wish I were.) when suddenly a 20-something in tight Wranglers, a black button up shirt, and a hideous cowboy hat jumped up on stage and grabbed the microphone.

"I have something really important I need to ask," he told the band. A hush fell over the crowd as everyone waited for security to show up and toss him out. Before they could work their way through the crowd, however, the guy drug what I assume was his girlfriend up on stage with him. He wobbled as he tried to kneel down on one knee, but somehow managed to string together a bunch of gibberish about loving the blond with the big hair and plaid button-down shirt.

And then he proposed.

If he hadn't been so obviously drunk, it might have been sweet. Sort of. I'm not entirely sure because I had the stench of hotwings all up in my business. That tends to make your brain do weird things. One thing is does is cause you to howl with laughter when the blond with the big hair and plaid button-down shirt doesn't quite manage to answer the question because WHOOPS! She puked all over the poor wannabe cowboy.

Seriously. She opened up her mouth seemingly to say "Yes" and instead blew chunks all over the guy.

Best. Night. Ever.

And also one of many reasons why I'm thinking having a beer garden next to Alexis' favorite roller coaster at Kennywood is probably not a great idea.

(I think I had that same hat right around when I was playing Wing Girl. Heh.)