I don't mean to make light of the horror that has occurred in my and other fair cities, the fear and trauma -- both physical and emotional -- that occur when someone forcibly enters another person's abode. When I write about the home invasion that I have recently experienced, I am referring to an inter-species attack that many of you, dear readers, will no doubt have dealt with in as many unsuccessful ways as have I. You, at least those of you who've lived in or between the four corners of the earth, probably have guessed what I mean: ants.
My house has become their home. They are making themselves right at. They are a constant parade, a swarm of marauders, eating me out of house and.
Up in arms, I have fought them with every weapon at my disposal. I have stepped on them, wet-paper-toweled them, vacuumed them up, sprayed them down. I've used baking soda, cinnamon, Windex, and roach, ant, and insect killers. They march on, undeterred.
I could look at the bright side: They are an army of Merry Maids, scouring the floors and counters for stray crumbs. When they have mopped up, they will head on back to their own, well-tended nest ... or on to your place.