Two-legged creatures we are supposed to love as well as we love ourselves. The four-legged, also, can come to seem pretty important. But six legs are too many from the human standpoint.
Joseph Wood Krutch

Ants in the Crevices, Ants in the Cracks…

June 10, 2008

Tuesday

Summer is lagging about two weeks behind this year, and so is the annual Ant Invasion. This is perfectly fine by me, because I don’t like ants. And by “I don’t like ants,” I mean that I really. Don’t. Like. ANTS. Once there was an ant in our car while we were driving, and I made Tony pull over and look for it until we were sure it was gone, because I was wearing a skirt and I just KNEW it was going to crawl up my leg and bite me or tickle me or… pee on me, or whatever.

Which makes it that much harder when that inevitable summer morning comes: I get out of bed, walk out to the living room, and shriek like my hair’s on fire, because OH MY GOD THE WALLS ARE MOVING. Giant black carpenter ants, everywhere at once! Dozens and dozens! Billions and billions! Carl Sagan standing in the middle of my living room, all “Billions and billions!” and I’m all RUN CARL RUN THEY ARE CRAWLING UP YOUR TURTLENECK.

Okay, maybe I exaggerate. But only on the Carl Sagan aspect. I would never lie about finding a dozen ants on the wall at one time, because that is a nightmare I could not dream up.

But this year, everything is running super-slow—the seasons and the ants. Instead of the usual ant blitz, we have had a sort of subtle ant infiltration—an ant here, an ant there, an average of about two ants a day. Some days we get three, or four. Some days we get none. And they are usually all in the same two areas, where they are very easy to catch.

This easy-to-catchness is excellent for everyone, because as a card-carrying Goddamned Hippie, I am strictly forbidden to squash an ant. Ever. For any reason. Even if it is crawling on me. Even if it is trying to crawl in my ear while I am asleep. Even if I am camping in the Australian outback and I walk into my tent and see one menacing my baby. Centuries from now, after I have become a legend, people will tell their children that I once said, "I cannot squash an ant," much as George Washington could not tell a lie.

With this bleeding-heart, insect-hugging notion in mind, I have become very adept at ant-catching. I have a vast collection of saved pickle jars, which are the best for bug-catching because they have wide mouths. I wash them out, put little stickers on them to remind me what they’re for (I need to be reminded, or I might use them for spittoons or whatever), and hide them in handy places about the house. Whenever I see a bug, I have only to scream and reach for the nearest bug jar. This system has worked flawlessly for years. (Flawlessly, except for those giant, fast-moving centipedes that are too big to fit in the jars. If something is too big for the bug jar, I immediately vacate the premises for at least three days, and only come back after the apartment has been fully exorcised.)

This is how you catch an ant:

  1. Something small and black scurries along the windowsill/wall. Grab nearest pickle jar (empty, you fool, EMPTY) and make a beeline… er, antline for it.
  2. Get close enough to see the whites of its antennae. Hunker down and wait for it to venture into the open.
  3. Ant stupidly ventures into open area, where the pickle jar can be put over it. Put pickle jar over it.
  4. Ant freaks the hell out, all WHAT WHAT WHAT OH NOES I IZ IN PICKLE (JAR), and scurries all over the place until finally it scurries up onto the glass of the jar.
  5. Quickly lift up pickle jar and close with lid.
  6. Laugh maniacally. I’ll get you, my pretty, and your little exoskeleton too!.

And then I take it outside and let it go on the lawn, and my neighbors peer out through their blinds and wonder what that crazy lady is doing on the lawn saying, “Get out, get out, this is not a hotel!” to an upturned pickle jar.

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