Back when I was an ant, I probably was residing somewhere in France. I think that being an ant in France would have been a sort of romantic existence. I’m thinking sunny summer days, fields of giant sunflowers with their enormous golden-yellow blooms bobbing in a gentle Parisian breeze. Lots of fancy human fodder to bring home to the colony in the form of baguette crumbs, smelly cheese bits, and red wine dribbles.
Perhaps, I was some kind of fierce, pissy-tempered Amazon warrior ant living in South America. Along with my warrior ant buddies, I would swarm through the rain forest kicking bug butt and freaking out the regional natives. Mr. Dave thinks that it is more likely I was this sort of ant.
In all my incarnations as an ant, I was probably one of the embittered, duty bound ones. I hatched and was put on a work detail immediately thereafter. Probably, I spent the rest of my antly lifespan toting stuff, taking orders from dullard, higher ranking ants with no vision of what could be, and wondering how come I wasn’t the queen ant. I’m sure I would have made some pretty good executive ant decisions if I had been given a chance at being a Royal.
This is why in my present incarnation as a grumpy human senior citizen, I have very little tolerance for any sort of ant that comes inside my house.
Yep, I believe that I was once an embittered ant and that I never got over the unfairness of my situation. Rather than “ohhh” and “ahhh” over the dedicated work ethic being portrayed by the little rat bastards presently crawling across our kitchen counter in search of something edible to bring back to the colony, I do everything I can to destroy their confidence in their superiors.
Mr. Dave appreciates my dedication to ant destruction. He even listens patiently to my nonstop anti-ant rantings, and almost always doesn’t roll his eyes as I describe my next plan to drive them away.
As regular readers of my ramblings will attest to, I have carried out this ongoing war with the ants of Oregon for many years. Each spring, they keep returning to the inside of my house. I spend a couple of weeks warring with them, and then they go away. I declare myself the victor, pat myself on the back for a job well done, and then enjoy the rest of the year ant free.
I expect that the mild winter weather as well as an early warm spring seems to have increased their numbers significantly. Maybe, they look forward to coming back just to irk me.
If I was one of them, I would like to think that by now I would have questioned my leader ants about the wisdom of sending us worker ants into the mean ladies’ kitchen. I expect the conversation would have been sort of like this:
“I don’t want to go into her kitchen, she will kill us all!” I would have tearfully protested to my ant superiors.
“Why would she want to kill you? You guys on the front lines are a sterling example of what an outstanding work ethic looks like. I am sure she appreciates your team spirit and dedication to our colony,” my supervisory ant would reply.
“No ways,” I would retort. “I’ve heard about her from veteran ants. You know who I’m talking about. All those guys from last year who came staggering back home with major post traumatic stress issues and a zillion horror stories about us worker ants being smacked, squished, and wiped away by cold soggy Lysol scented sponges. She laid some major chemical damage on us front line guys towards the end. She’s crazy brutal!”
“Your job is to go where I tell you to go and bring edible stuff back to feed the colony,” tuts my superior.
“I don’t wanna go!”
“You will go and you will forage. It is your destiny. Besides, you’re just a worker ant. No one here cares what you think.”
Yep, I was probably once an ant……