From the Sh*t That Only Happens to Me file.
Disclaimer: A lot of ants were hurt and/or maimed in the making of this blog post, and I don’t really care.
I’ve been so busy with all this back-to-school crap, all the driving and choreography and hunting down of extracurricular gear like dance shoes and health forms and people’s gym socks – so I went to the salon to get a pedicure. I was determined to relax.
I don’t relax much. What I like about getting pedicures is that I am forced to sit still for about an hour – which means I can actually read a book, and relax.
I couldn’t find my purse, so I tossed the book that I’m reviewing for Blogher, Lunch Wars: How to Start a School Food Revolution and Win the Battle for Our Children’s Health, into Ella’s pink backpack and went to the salon. I had just plonked my arse in the automatic massage seat (I call it the Surrogate Husband Chair, for obvious reasons) and put my feet into the tub of water, when I saw an ant crawling across my forearm.
I flicked it off.
Then I saw another ant. This one was marching across my chest. I flicked it off, hoping nobody saw, and looked over at Ella’s Suspicious Pink Backpack. Ants were streaming out of it and onto the empty Surrogate Husband Chair beside me, singing!
“The ants go marching two-by-two, hurrah! Hurrah!”
I suddenly remembered that Ella had been playing Botanist-meets-Veterinarian-meets-Farmer-meets-Archaeologist in the garden or whatever it is she plays out there, and had asked for a bag to carry “some nature.” I was reading my book and – okay, I admit it – I wasn’t paying attention. When she asked if she could put “them” in her backpack I probably waved my hand at her or something and nodded. That must’ve been when she secreted the ant hill or whatever Mother Nature thing it was into the backpack, when I wasn’t looking. So really – I deserved what happened to me in that salon.
The ants came marching, and all told, I counted about 30 of them. I’m pretty sure there were a lot more.
I was no longer relaxing, not by any stretch of the imagination. I needed to move the backpack off the Surrogate Husband Chair before someone saw the ants and realized that I had brought them in. I quietly put the backpack on the floor. But then all I could do was watch helplessly as they made their way up the ankles of the nice people who worked there, and headed over to embed themselves into someone’s freshly painted pedicure.
I did not get any reading done, Blogher, because I spent the whole time counting ants as they crawled out of Ella’s backpack, and (sorry PETA!) squashing them with my paper slipper.