We thought we could save a little money, by doing the move
ourselves. How hard could it be? We were moving from a townhouse
that was literally a mile and a half away. It would be a piece of
cake.
We thought we could save a little money, by doing the move ourselves. How hard could it be? We were moving from a townhouse that was literally a mile and a half away. It would be a piece of cake.
A piece of cake that was now a month old and stale. Not only were we moving stacks of boxes (whose height never seemed to diminish) and furniture, we were also painting rooms, in our “break-out-of-apartment” rebellion, from bright white to vivid shades of reds and even a shade of blue that I nick named Gilroy High Blue, in The Girl’s room.
I was looking forward to our first night in the house and a good night’s sleep, after I did my last bit of clean up for the night in my new kitchen.
Spotting an ant here or there, I barely took notice. It was late summer, and they were probably looking for a drink, anywhere they could find it. I wiped them up and was done with it.
Ah, bliss, snuggling deep down into bed that night, dreaming before my head hit the pillow, with what I’m sure was a dopey smile on my contented face.
Usually, nothing short of the blaring alarm clock or an inpatient bladder could rouse me from unconsciousness.
The Husband isn’t as fortunate. He is out the door for work before my alarm clock gets belted by me for the first round of Snooze Swipes. I hadn’t even heard him close the bedroom door to begin his day.
There was no impatient bladder and the alarm hadn’t even scared me once yet, but something was going on. I was vaguely aware of a tickling sensation on various parts of my body. With my eyes still closed, too tired to even contemplate opening them, I would periodically brush or slap at the tickle.
Finally, the alarm made its presence known, only to be swatted by me, aiming for the snooze bar for what would normally be the first time.
All of the half-conscious slapping and smacking had eventually annoyed me to the point of total wakefulness, with the final whack on my right cheek. I open my eyes to greet the late summer day. And to the swarm of ants that had not only taken up residence on my bed, but on my entire body.
I am reasonably sure that I set the record for the fastest vault out of a full-sized bed, while still tangled in ant-infested bed clothes. What confused me was that the ants didn’t seem to think any other part of the house was interesting. Our bed was an island, inhabited by a (very fast) human and a colony of ants.
Forgetting about the perfectly good cordless phone two feet away, I ran down the stairs, shaking ants from my jammies and out of my hair, squealing, all the way.
Who to call first? The exterminator or The Husband? I thought it might be a good idea to have The Husband listen to what the exterminator shouldn’t.
“I was sleeping, and there were these ants and I was itching and slapping , and…”
“Oh … yeah … about the ants … You know, I woke up, slapping myself silly. There were tons of ’em, huh?” He chuckles.
“Wait. What?” I can feel my eyebrows raise. “You … knew there were ants? You … left me with the ants?”
“Uh … well, yeah. You were sleeping so soundly.” He sounds nervous. “They weren’t bothering you, then. I figured when it was time for you to get up, you’d …”
Click.
The exterminator heard the rest of what The Husband shouldn’t.
Kelly Sinon can be reached at [email protected]. She lives in Gilroy with her family.
