"It is not enough to be industrious; so are the ants. What are you industrious about?"
Henry David Thoreau

We have a problem with ants. They have made their homes in the wood under our floor and they are not leaving. Our kitchen is clean, and there is very little for them to feed on, but they prefer the pottery room to the kitchen and seem to thrive on the Borax we've scattered - hoping to kill them. I see them marching alone past my pots and run for a rag and a bowl of bleach-water, its the only thing they fear these daring ants. They smell the bleach before it hits them, and scatter, but when the water has dried they're back marching to the borax which hurts them not at all.

My husband laughs at the ant problem and accuses me of hating nature. He laughs when I accuse him of not caring about the ants; he laughs when I tell him they're ruining everything. He wonders what everything they could be ruining, since they seem indifferent to food, and all of ours is safely stored anyway. The war of the ants is amusing for him. He knows when he hears a clang, mumbled curses, and then "ANTS!" yelled from the pottery room that I'm running for the bleach, the lavender oil, and an old rag. Another battle has begun.