Raindrops on Roses and Raid Sprayed on Insects

Holy thunderstorms, Batman.  Was anyone else in Chicago thinking about grabbing pairs of raccoons and alley cats to throw in an ark Wednesday night?  This was not a typical hour-long storm I'm talking about.  This was epic.  All three boys woke up terrified in our un-airconditioned upstairs (we're waiting on some part that starts with the letter "c"...convector? conveyor? compressor?).  Naively, my little offspring sought solace from their mother sleeping in her new Tempur-Pedic bed that will be paid for in full as early as 2062. 

As each son entered my room shaking and hysterical, I gave them a stern lecture on the rules of sleeping in the bed that cost more than my first year at Eastern: no talking, no moving, no peeing, no drooling. If anyone feels like they might have to throw up, GET OUT NOW.  After I scared them worse than the storm, I felt a little guilty about not channeling Julie Andrews and breaking out into "Favorite Things."  But I bet Julie didn't have a Tempur-Pedic.

When I woke up, I was holed up in the corner of my bed.  There had been a coup. They had somehow taken over the entire bed and relegated me to a 7"x7" box.

I loved how Joey fell asleep as though he'd been shot.  My comforter and  pillows were strewn aside.  The boys resembled little refugees seeking asylum via their Tempur-Pedic raft. 

After the skies cleared and morning came, I witnessed an endless parade of  Shop-Vacs being hauled in and out of houses.  Several neighbors asked what kind of flood damage our basement got.  I told them I was choosing to be happy and ignorant until Joe got home from work - at which time he could inspect to see if our Christmas tree survived the deluge.  After all, I had errands to run -  Target, dry cleaners, supermarket, post office, and the sporting good store all required visits that day.  Sure, they were all places I should have gone earlier in the week but I like to keep things exciting.  How many destinations can I fit into the 4 hours I have between getting the last one off to school and having to leave for the first one's carpool?

Once the kids got home, I went into the pantry to retrieve some instant oatmeal for their after-school snack (okay fine, for dinner) and spied a flurry of ants scurrying around.  They were apparently seeking a new home once they got rained out of my backyard paradise (made worse by the Slip 'n Slide we played with the day before).  I hate bugs.  My husband encouraged me to just spray the baseboards and have done with it.  I insisted we empty all the contents of our pantry and go balls to the walls.  If the cops for any reason were to come over while we were doing this, I'm sure they would have taken instant custody of the kids.

After spraying enough ant spray into my pantry to wipe out ten generations of these nuisances, I closed the door feeling righteous.  This was my turf.  I don't step on them when I'm outside.  I'm courteous.  I have respect.  But come into my home? I will go gansta on your ass.

Three hours after I caked the floor with Raid, I opened the pantry door.  After nearly passing out from the fumes, I held my shirt over my nose and inspected.  Legions of ant carcasses littered my pantry.  I grabbed the Dust Buster and went to town.  As I turned to put my Dust Buster away, I noticed one last living ant making a desperate run for freedom.  He had escaped the pantry and was crawling towards the kitchen cabinets.  For a moment, I almost felt bad for the little guy.  But that was only for a moment.

(please note the following video contains graphic images that some viewers might find offensive):

And that's how Mariane went all Jersey Shore today.  By the way, I forgot to tell Joe to check the basement for flooding and he's working again tomorrow. Seriously, what's the worst that could be down there?

Don't answer that.