A Mom, A Boy, and A Carpenter Ant

A carpenter ant as big as a lobster crawled across my kitchen floor.

"Ack!" I said  "Ack, ack!  Get it!  Kill it! Stomp on it!"  I don't like carpenter ants.  Regular ants, no problem.  I'll sweep them up and brush them out the door with nary a shiver or screech.  But those carpenter ants are so huge they make my palms sweat.

So my big strapping teenager, hearing my cries and instantly not caring, insouciantly looked down at Antzilla, stepped over him and started to walk away.

"Ack!" I reiterated.  "He's coming toward me! Step on him! Why didn't you step on him?"

C. Peevie looked at me like I was over-reacting.  Which I totally was not.  "I don't want to step on him with my new flip flops," he said.  "I don't want ant guts sticking to the bottom of my shoe."

I backed up slowly, but the gerbil-sized monster ant kept coming toward me, the ground shaking each time one of his six feet took a step.  I could feel the malice rolling off his tripartite torso in waves.

"Quick, C. Peevie!" I said urgently, "Before he gets away or goes under something!"

C. Peevie looked around for an appropriate ant-disemboweling weapon.  He opened the cabinet and pulled out a melamine dinner plate.  My eyebrows joined together in confusion. 

"You wouldn't step on him because it's too gross, but you can use a dinner plate to squish him?" I asked.

"Sure," he said, unconcerned.  "I'll wash it off."  He smacked the ant with the plate, and left the carcass quivering on the Pergo.  He then WIPED THE PLATE ON HIS SHIRT and started to put it back into the cabinet.

"You are NOT going to put that plate back in the cabinet!" I said in my most horrified tone, and I wasn't even hyperbolizing.  If that's even a word.

"What?" he said, "I wiped it off first."

"On your DIRTY SHIRT that you've been wearing all day!" I pointed out in a slightly less- than- calm voice.  "And without actually washing the ANT GUTS off it first!"

"What do you want me to do with it?" he asked.

"Either wash it, or put it in the dishwasher," I said logically.  Sheesh.  What do they teach kids these days?  I mean, I am THE WORST housekeeper ever, but even I know that if you use a dinner plate to squish a carpenter ant, you have to wash it before you eat off it again.

C. Peevie shrugged, put the plate on the counter, and started to walk out of the kitchen.  

"You're forgetting something," I said.  "Please don't forget to perform your aftermath clean-up."

He walked over to the insect remains and drew his foot back -- "Wait!  Don't!" I hollered -- and kicked them under the refrigerator.

"Oh, gross," I moaned.  "That is just wrong."  C. Peevie just laughed evilly as he walked through the doorway.

Clearly, I need to trade him in for a new son.