All plumbing problems have been resolved for the moment, and somehow I managed not to get third-degree pinkeye after having my ocular cavities baptised in crapper-water. So I can sit back and relax knowing all is well on the home front, right?
Noooooooooope.
Because if I stay in one place for too long, I will be carried away by the legions of miniature ants who have invaded my townhouse.
Why all of this? Why all at once? Did the ants wait until I was distracted with another home improvement nightmare to mount their attack? The timing is just unbelievable. The toilet water in my hair hadn't even dried when I noticed that someone had spilled an entire box of chocolate sprinkles in my foyer and had magically given said sprinkles the ability to move around.
I wasn't in the mood to be reminded that I'm a college-educated girl and I can handle this, so I opted to not put in a call to Dad. Instead I simply grabbed a broom and a dustpan and proceeded to sweep up an entire civilization of mini-ants. Then, for poetry's sake, I marched upstairs and drown them in the very toilet water that had just assaulted my face.
Of course, by the time I got back down to the foyer, a few straggler sprinkles were ambling about, searching for their lost brethren. "Your friends are on their way to Lake Erie after I gave them the ol' Swirly of Death!" I boomed, daintily squishing them one by one with my shoe. Sure, I know they make sprays and traps and all sorts of other ant control products. But there was something very therapeutic about personally executing the critters, especially given the week I'd had. Hell, if the sun ever came out in Cleveland, I'd burn the little bastards with a magnifying glass while cranking an old Enya cassette.
So now I'm left wondering--what plague is next? First floods. Then bugs. Dead livestock? Fiery lightning? Boils?
God, I hope it's not boils. I hate when my face breaks out right before the weekend.
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