the ants come marching forth in hoardes, hurrah. hurrah.

My home has become in insect petting zoo.

It's completely disgusting. I don't object to creepy crawlies in the outdoors; I consider that "their" territory, and while I don't shed a tear or lose any sleep about stepping or sitting on, or swatting, a few here and there while walking or picnicking or what have you, I'm much more content to leave them alone, or observe them from my gigantic height with interest.

Inside, though, they transform into the insidious stuff of nightmares. And my little house -- which I've christened The State of Denmark -- having been built in a slipshod manner to serve as a summer cottage, seems to invite them in. Welcome! Come, occupy my corners high and low, bring all your relatives, bring a friend. Here there are damp dark spaces in plenty which no invention of human hands can clear. You shall live long and prosper in the baseboards and around the sinks. Your children's children's children shall look upon the weatherproof tiles and countertops and be glad.

So I am set upon from all sides.

But the good God has sent me a weapon forged in the groves of Florida: Comet. (Not just a bathroom cleaner, it turns out.) Last week I flipped on the bathroom light to start the bedtime process, and what met my eyes drove all thoughts of sleep away and sent gooseflesh crawling over my skin: two dozen enormous black carpenter ants just starting to scurry nervously in the sink. Two. Dozen. They were in my drinking cup. They were on my toothbrush. They were beginning to swarm over the lip of the sink.

I shrieked and rushed from the room, trying to think in a blind panic what I might have on hand that would kill them. I couldn't flush them down the sink until they removed themselves from the faucet handles. I ran in a little circle in the kitchen, then grabbed the 409. Once in the bathroom, however, the 409 failed me; too close to empty, it sputtered at the ants a little bit and subsided. I cursed and threw it from me. I scrabbled in the bathroom cupboards and my hands fell upon the bottle of Comet.

I rose from the floor brandishing my ally in what, to an ant, was probably the equivalent of Ursula emerging, huge and roaring, from The Little Mermaid's stormy waves. Only I didn't get close enough to let them dangle from my crown; I let loose a cannon spray of cleaner, shouting, Die!

They did. Quickly. I began reinforcing The State of Denmark's defenses by spraying down the walls and corners behind the sink where I suspected they had retreated upon seeing the ranks of their sistren fall.

I've been on the warpath ever since. It's sadly a losing battle -- the wet chilly summer has contributed to their flocking in droves away from the rain and into my living space. No matter how much I vacuum, however spotless the kitchen, however regularly taken out the trash, they reaccumulate at a horrifying rate. I've taken to wearing OFF! in the house and moving from room to room with the Comet clutched in hand. (The weird thing about Comet is that its active ingredient is citric acid. Not ammonia or bleach. Bizarre.)

This morning I finally picked up a can of atmospheric spray which promises to kill everything. I'm going to overhaul The State of Denmark to free myself of these ghoulish pests.

It all just underscores my decision -- my need -- to move out of this freaky little house when my lease runs out. If I don't, I'll have to a.) spend another stuffy, dreary winter in a tiny dark abode, and b.) pay another ten dollars a week for this already outrageously priced dwelling. (Dwelling? I don't actually call this dwelling.) And THAT's an idea that can take itself somewhere very hot.

But yes -- in the meantime, Comet has become my best friend. I think it's undermarketed. And it's less ghastly in the lungs than Raid.