Ant Man

My husband is a strong and brave man. Lots of things that bother me never seem to even phase him.

Like a science experiment—that was once some sort of food—in our fridge. It doesn’t bother him at all. He just dumps it out and washes the goop from the storage container. Easy peasy.

Or like gross dog stuff—if a dog barfs somewhere in our home, Brad doesn’t flinch. He cleans it up, makes sure the dog is okay, and then comes to whatever bathroom I’m gagging in to make sure that I’m okay.

(I’ve got a weak stomach, all right? So did my Dad. Don’t judge me.)

And even bugs—all types. If they come into our home, he’ll catch them if possible and put them back outside. But if they’re the stinging type, all bets are off, and he chases it down and gets rid of it so that it doesn’t hurt anyone. Again, easy peasy.

But we recently discovered that there are even some life experiences so horrific that they will even freak out my Type B, laid-back husband.

First, let me set the scene:

My husband has set up his office during COVID-19 in the in-law suite where my late stepfather used to live with us. Brad has an office chair, but he works at the kitchen table, and it’s been quite nice for him. 

We’re also far enough apart in the house that we can’t hear each other—we both have to be on the phone quite often for our work—and so we haven’t wanted to throttle each other. That’s been a good thing as well.

Mild-mannered Brad had just finished a work-related call. He turned around and noticed crumbs on the kitchen counter. He got up, swept the crumbs into his hand, and walked over to the trash can to deposit them.

But when he looked down at his hand, something was amiss. The crumbs were…moving.

That’s when Brad realized that they weren’t crumbs, but rather, ants. And lots of them.

AAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!! My brave man yelled as he ran back to the counter and began to hit his hand against it—albeit to crush the ants which were now crawling all over him. After washing off his hand and watching the bodies of his foes circle the drain, he glanced at the countertop again. He realized then that this war was just beginning.

The first time we had ants in our home, I thought I was going to a.) pass out, b.) die in place while ants slowly crawled all over my frozen-in-a-death-scream corpse, or c.) run out of my home and screaming into the streets where I would eventually be picked up by mental health professionals who could help me with my trauma.

That morning in our kitchen, there were no ants. Everything looked just as it had the night before. After making breakfast, I noticed that there were some dirty dishes, but I thought “I’ll just deal with them later.”

This was my greatest error…

When I came down for lunch, I got a plate out of the cupboard, and turned around just in time to see the dishes in the sink. I will never forget the abomination in front of me: ants—hundreds, thousands, perhaps even millions (there could have been—you weren’t there!) were crawling all over them. But they didn’t stop there…

Ants were crawling all over the stove, the countertops, the floor—seemingly everywhere. It was as though someone has snuck in with a 55-gallon drum filled to the brim with ants and just shook them like pepper all over our kitchen.

This was the day I discovered what it felt like to be a deer in the headlights.

When I broke free from my terror trance, which probably lasted just a few seconds, but seemed like hours, days, months (you don’t know—you weren’t there!), I got the phone and called my husband.

After I told him about the chaos in the kitchen, he calmly responded, “It’s okay. I’ll be home in about four hours, I can take care of them then.”

Four…hours…

I knew I wouldn’t last that long. 

In marriage, there are times when one spouse gets a “gimme”—something that will get the other to just do whatever needs to be done in the moment, no questions asked.

Loudly, through gritted teeth I said (okay, well, I may have screamed), “I. Need. You. Here. NOW!”

Shortly after, Brad arrived home. After checking to make sure that I was still alive (as I was, unsurprisingly no longer in the kitchen), he put down ant traps, bravely battled the live ones, and took away their power source (um, the aforementioned dirty dishes).

By the next day, they were gone.

But during this most recent ant encounter, when brave Brad realized that he had swept a ton of ants into his hand, that was his tipping point.

Armed with paper towels, he began squishing all the ants he could—on the counter, the sink, the cabinets, the floor. He put ant traps down. He washed his hands and got ready to get back to work.

I knew, though, that this encounter had left its scars. Because for the first time in all the battles he had fought—whether they be gross food, dog barf, or previous bug battles—he didn’t just go back to life as though nothing had happened.

No, dear reader, this time, he needed to share all the gory details with me. That’s when I knew he would never be the same.

It’s also when I knew that I had a great tale for this week’s column…

 Michele “Wojo” Wojciechowski, when she’s not beating a crumb or a piece of fuzz to death because she could have sworn it was an ant, writes “Wojo’s World®” from Baltimore. She’s also the author of the award-winning humor book Next Time I Move, They’ll Carry Me Out in a Box. You can connect with Wojo on Facebook or on Twitter.

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