We’ve been having a problem with ants. We’ve always had a few here, a few there, but they’ve moved from light brigade to wholesale invasion force. The kind you need an Act of Congress to approve.
I can’t remember when it started, but we’d see their little scurrying bodies sneaking in a neat, orderly line from the leftover birthday cake to the door. Touche, ants, touche. We cleaned and caulked and moved on with our lives.
Then, there was the infestation in the bathroom medicine cabinet, drawn to grape-flavored Child Tylenol that had been left in a cup. They were everywhere, even the threads of the bottle, each little body wedged in there. If it hadn’t been for the writhing, we would have looked like a poppy seed factory. We cleaned and caulked and did a little gross out dance and moved on with your lives.
And then, today, arriving home, the kitchen sink is more black than white, teeming. No more orderly line, they’ve gone rogue. There’s too much to clean, no place to caulk, and I’ve moved from gross out dance to heebie jeebies!
I don’t suppose it would appropriate to swear off moving on and just MOVE?