The ants in the Love Shack are taking no prisoners

I decided to take the day off. From what, you ask? I know, it's not like I'm working. But I spend a lot of time working toward getting work. In fact, it's all I think about, especially this time of the month. Rent time, I mean. Usually I try to fit the various non-work parts of my life in and around my marketing activities. I feel guilty when I take work time to replenish my larder, or wash my clothes, or construct poisonous ant traps and deploy them in strategic locations. A person can't work all the time. That would qualify me for yet another Twelve Step program, and I'm maxed out on recovery programs, thank you.

So, today's Monday, and I spent the day getting stuff done. I have a list. Every day, I try to see how much I can do. Today I checked the PO box (empty), and stopped by the credit union to get quarters for laundry. I hunted and gathered (at Fred Meyers). In addition to a slab of wild salmon and heads of organic broccoli and cauliflower, I bought some 20-Mule Team Borax (bwa-ha-ha-ha), as well as some sticky black tape to repair the leaking pipe under my bathroom sink. Lots of projects going on at the Love Shack.

Before I started the indoor projects, I put on my grubby shoes and carried my clippers, garden knife, and broom out to the front garden to do a little weeding. A little weeding turned into a lot. (And I use the term garden very loosely.) Luckily, the ground is loose and lush, damp from yesterday's rain, so the stray grass and dandelions were easily uprooted with a little prodding from my garden knife (which is really a small, serrated tree saw). In an hour I had created a dozen piles of weeds and dirt. My back was aching, the sun was getting warm, and I had had enough. I dragged the big green rolling compost bin out to the front sidewalk. I filled the whole thing up, swept up the dregs with my decrepit straw broom, and wheeled the bin to its home on the gravel road, not far from the three metal pylons which are positioned to block drunk drivers from missing the turn and driving their cars onto the front porch of the duplex next door. (Long story.)

Then I took a bath, fixed the sink, and started brewing the poisonous concoction that I hope will rain destruction on the ant nests in the vicinity of my kitchen.

I know I said I wouldn't talk about the ants anymore. But I must tell you that I'm re-reading the few books I have from David Gerrold's the Chtorran series, and it's giving me serious pause. The Chtorrans are alien invaders, shaped like very large and voracious pink worms, who are not friendly neighbors. In fact, they are taking over Earth. Humans are hard pressed to survive. All their attempts to control the infestation are failing, and things are looking bad for the human race. Are you seeing any parallels here? Substitute small ants for large pink worms, and you get my drift.

A few days ago, I really thought I had the ant problem licked. I sprayed the kitchen counters with white vinegar (as suggested on someone's blog), and after an initial spurt of interest by roaming marauders, within a few hours, the counters were clear of ants. Amazing! I was feeling optimistic. Maybe I don't need the Borax bomb option.

Then I opened a cupboard, spotted a marching trail of ants, and followed them to their destination—the plastic bottle of honey that has stood quite innocuously in my cupboard for at least two years, probably longer because I rarely use honey. For some reason—and it's probably the same reason that prompted this years' crop of ants to seek out my old bottle of mouthwash and my stale menthol cough drops—the honey was suddenly a desirable target. Then I realized, these ants are way smarter than me. They had me fooled, they lulled me! False sense of security! Trojan horse! They disappeared from the countertops to fool me into dropping my guard. Then the pesky little guerrilla soldiers found a hidden path to their objective, weaving above my tea cups, out of sight. Argh!

After I nuked them and dusted their trail, I cleaned off the honey and put it in the fridge, vowing to turn their love of honey against them. All I needed was a tablespoon of Borax...

And then, suddenly, the counters were clear again. For two days, the kitchen was miraculously free of armies. A few scouts, easily sniped with my dusty paintbrush... once again, I was sure I had somehow gained the upper hand. Had they finally given up? Had the rain driven them away? Or the dust? Or the fact that there is nothing left for them to eat except well barricaded cat food and composting scraps in my bucket? (And my neck, of course.)

I actually bought the Borax today as insurance, thinking I probably wouldn't need it, that the ants had moved on, they were once again just doing their thing, scouting the premises and reporting back to their generals, no, nothing here, sir. All clear.

And then today...

I was lounging on my green shag carpet with my cat, competing for the little bit of sunlight that came through the window in the front door. Suddenly I spotted movement over by the wall. Oh, no! I ran for the dusting bucket, brandishing my paintbrush like an AK-47. My cat sat some distance away and watched curiously as I daubed the ant brigade with diatomaceous earth powder. Then I lifted up the edge of the carpet. A trail! Where are they going? What the—? and then I found the neat pile of cat barf, just under my dusty exercise bike, where the cat had left it, probably sometime during the night, judging by its color and condition. The ants were loving it, an indoor picnic on a green shag carpet.

I heated up the honey in a pan with a tablespoon of Borax and some water (and yes, I washed the pan well afterward). I poured the mixture into plastic tubs, poked holes in the lids, and taped the lids on tight. I used a marker to draw a little skull and crossbones on each container. Poison! Danger! Then I deployed one under the sink. The other two I placed outside in the dirt under my kitchen windows. Just in time to be diluted by a huge rainstorm, now that I think about it. Oh, well. I have more of the poison, in a jar in the fridge. Chemical warfare has commenced at the Love Shack. Enter at your own risk.

Tomorrow I'll get back to work. Right now the war is on. When I started this post, I found an ant on my monitor. Just now I found one on my keyboard. They are after my passwords, I imagine. It's only a matter of time before they drain my bank account. Leave me. Save yourselves. These ants are taking no prisoners.

Win a battle, lose a war

Are you sick of ants yet? One last post, and then I'm done with the ants, I promise.

After finding ants in every room, in places I've never seen ants before in the ten years I've lived in the Love Shack, I realized that extraordinary times call for extraordinary measures. What do you do when you are faced with possible extinction? I don't know about you, but I turn to the Internet. Yep. A couple days ago, I threw myself on the mercy of the Google gods and queried the Oracles for a remedy for ants.

I've done this before, lest you think I'm a total slacker. I may be past middle age, but I am not from the middle ages. I'm quite adept at looking up stuff on the Internet. Periodically I've sought remedies for ant invasions. That is how I found out about diatomaceous earth, which is rarely mentioned on ant remedy sites, I've noticed. Some people reported luck with a spray of vinegar, some sprinkled coffee grounds inside and out, or dribbled lines of cayenne pepper or scrubbed the floor with lemon. All great ideas. In my limited experience, however, the smell-good remedies don't smell bad enough to drive the ants from my kitchen. I can hear them laughing. Or maybe that's the cat.

This time I went online looking for some bigger guns. Instead of passive deterrence, I wanted a more aggressive weapon, something decisive, but preferably non-toxic to everything but ants. I want to win the war. I found a variety of suggestions, a few of which (very few) made me cringe. Pouring boiling water in the ant nest? Really? Ugh, I don't think I could do that, even if I could find their nest. The only ant nest I've ever seen was a plastic-covered ant farm when I was about seven. Hell, knowing my luck, the ant farms that are sending soldiers to the Love Shack are located directly under my bathtub. And my kitchen sink. And my bed. There might even be an ant nest in my hat, now that I think about it. I certainly find scouts on my neck often enough.

I decided to try the vinegar spraydown, since I have a bottle of white vinegar and a sprayer thingie. There were a few scouts reconnoitering the counter. I mowed them down using a wide-angle spray. The ants stopped moving, submerged in vinegar, which would probably be my response, too, were I subjected to the same indignity. Ouch, I imagine. I sprayed the splashback behind the sink and waited to see what would happen.

An hour later the place was swarming. What the—! Did I use apple cider vinegar by mistake? I know these guys love apples. I checked the label on the bottle: nope, white vinegar, the cheapest kind. Good for soaking the fungus from your fingernails and toenails, in case you are so plagued. What's with the vinegar fest on my counter? I theorized that the ants had dissolved into the vinegar, creating a kind of ant-flavored...uh, salad dressing? Tasty to other ants, perhaps? I don't know. I wiped the whole thing down with a sponge and walked away in disgust.

This morning I swept up a few scouts with my dusty powdery paintbrush with callous disregard for ant well being. I was ready to deed the kitchen to the ants and walk away. I got busy doing other things, and this afternoon, when I went into the kitchen... there wasn't an ant to be seen.

You know how things seem darkest before the dawn? This isn't one of those times, I'm pretty sure. This is more like that eerie moment right before the tsunami hits, when the water in the bay rushes out to the ocean and you can prance with the starfish next to the high-and-dry boats. While you are dancing, the water comes rushing back in and sweeps your village out to sea.

I think this is the calm before the tsunami. I'm trying to enjoy it. I've seen a few scouts today, just a handful. I peer at them. Did the vinegar leave a residue that is keeping the army at bay? Is it the rain? Did the landlord come round and surreptitiously nuke the ant nests with agent orange? I don't know. I'm afraid to question, for fear this calm will evaporate under a tsunami of ants.

Hey! While I'm blogging, what is that thing running around the edge of my glasses? What! I'm going to trash this entire post. I just found an ant on my glasses. I think the honeymoon is over. The final invasion is starting. Tomorrow I am going to buy some Borax and some sugar, mix them together, and put the resulting poison in plastic containers covered with plastic lids. I am going to poke little holes in the lids, and then I am going to put the deadly little tubs under my sink, in my cupboards, and outside below my kitchen window.

Watch me press the red button. Here I go. Five... four... three... two...

If you can't beat 'em.... eat 'em

The ants in my kitchen discovered a flaw in the security system I devised to protect my compost bucket from marauders. I did not realize that the lid of the bucket, open to the back of the bucket, extended past the dike of diatomaceous earth I had erected. Thus I inadvertently left a convenient drawbridge for the army of ants, who wasted no time exploiting my carelessness. I entered the kitchen in the morning, bleary-eyed, to find a long trail of laborers marching from the bucket, to the wall, along the bottom of the cupboards (out of my sight), to some tiny opening behind the microwave a good ten feet away.

I made coffee and drank it, mulling over my strategy. For some minutes, I watched the trail and considered doing nothing. I felt like god must feel, watching the little critters trooping along the edge of the bucket. I could almost hear them gloating to themselves: Apple cores galore! Banana peels! It's the motherlode. We're rich! Our children are saved! Even as I imagined raining carnage down on their tiny heads, I admired their relentless persistence. I am pretty sure these little buggers will outlast me. Long after I'm gone to the big compost bin in the sky, the ant armies will be industriously scouring the earth for apple peels and rotten bananas.

Humans are bigger and (arguably) smarter, but we don't play a long game. We get distracted by the day-to-day, we lose our focus. Once you lose your focus, you lose your drive. Forward momentum dissipates along myriad pointless paths. The ant blows by you while you are gaping at the stars. And that is why ants will inherit the earth. Hmmm. Inherit? They already own it. We are just renting month to month.

Eventually I went with the nuclear option and rained carnage on the unwitting trail of ants. First, I took the compost bucket out to the green rolling bin and dumped the startled diners out on their heads along with the kitchen scraps. Then I moved everything off the counter, napalmed the trail with alcohol which I keep in a handy sprayer bottle for just this purpose (why else would you put rubbing alcohol in a sprayer bottle?), and wiped up the carcasses with paper towels.

Since then, my strategy is to go Hannibal Lecter any time I spot something moving. I hunt the nooks and dig into the crannies. I stand vigil with the rubbing alcohol AK-47. After shooting intruders, I carpet bomb with the diatom dust. I told my friend V. about the episode. She shared some similar experiences. For an insane moment, we cackled like a pair of Hitlers.

Do I sound like I'm having fun? I'm not. I don't want to kill ants. If there is a hell, I'm going there. After the most recent Ant Armageddon, I'm sure there's no hope for my soul. My karma is ruined for a thousand lifetimes. I used to care. I used to try to save scouts if I could, or at least try to flick them in a direction that would save them from drowning or frying. I strive to live and let live. I rescue flies, spiders, moths, and yellow jackets. With ants, however, I admit I'm engaging in size discrimination. Ants are just too damn small to save. And when they congregate, which is sadly their nature, it triggers a fear that I will lose my living space to tribes of tiny squatters. And I go ballistic.

Now I don't care anymore. I'm overwhelmed by sheer numbers. And it's frustrating to discover they don't go gently into the good night, these ants. They petition me constantly, in protest for my heavy-handed Hitler management style. They climb up my shirt (never down, always up, aim for the head, get her!). They bite my neck, they self-immolate on my stove, they sponsor tours to gaze at my toothbrush. I swear they dive-bomb out of thin air to infiltrate juicy targets. The only safe place is in a tub of hot water, and even then they rage at me from the shore.

I don't always notice their protests, which must be so frustrating for them (and maybe why they feel they must bite me.) For example, I'm usually unaware of the brave volunteers who infiltrate my salad bowl. My cat won't eat ants: He knows they bite. But my nose is useless and my eyesight is terrible, so I don't see the ants in my food, waving their little protest signs at me. Freedom from tyranny! Stop the bombing!

Should I abandon my kitchen to the ants? Well, do we really own our kitchens? In a metaphysical sense, you could say our kitchens own us. I mean, I don't know about you, but I spend a lot of time worshiping at the big white box. Whatever. Anyway, it would do no good to abdicate and let them have the kitchen. Because they aren't just in the kitchen. As I've noted, they are in the bathroom, the bedroom, and the living room. Last night they were mining something on the couch. If I looked real close, I bet I could see them wearing tiny helmets equipped with flashlights and waving little pickaxes. I guess I should be thankful they are happy to clean up after me. I just wish they would do it at night, after the picnic, and then fade with the light, like some of their insect brethren.

Well, if given a choice, I'll take ants over cockroaches or bed bugs. Any day. I guess I should count my lucky stars. One....two....I'm counting now.

Once again we wait for news of the end of the world

When huge airplanes go missing, it gets my attention. Despite continued attacks by the ant hordes in my domicile, I find myself distracted, riveted, mystified, and perplexed, along with the rest of the world. It's hard to concentrate on my marketing tasks when the fate of those passengers is unknown. I especially grieve for their families. The not knowing must be unbearable. Yet, moment by moment, I assume they bear it. Living hell.

Until the authorities find wreckage, those passengers exist in an in-between state, sort of like Schrodinger's cat... not exactly alive, but undead, until proven otherwise. It's the not knowing that makes us crazy. Disasters happen all the time: we express our shock and horror, we grieve, we move on. But in this case, there's nothing to move on from, just a great big hole in our sense of rightness. This isn't how disasters are supposed to be.

There are always insights to be gleaned from bizarre events. Call them lessons if you want, I'm not sure I would go that far: It implies somewhere there is an inept supreme instructor sending us vague homework assignments. Not unlike online learning, now that I think of it. Having just finished an eight-year stint as an online learner, I can say with some authority that some of my so-called mentors were dispensing vague assignments as if they were omnipotent supreme beings. Whatever.

Anyway, what insights are we to glean from a missing jumbo jet?

I guess the first thought that comes to mind is that this unfolding tragedy is a reminder we aren't in control. Duh, you say? Maybe you—you wise adult, you—get that we control very little in life. But how were you as a two-year-old? Maybe you were content to go with the flow, but I remember feeling bat-crazy if I lost for one moment my sense of autonomy and self-determination. No, I won't eat my damn peas! Stop trying to tell me what to do, what to think, how to feel! (Which of course explains my compulsion to DIY or die. But that's another story.)

After a while I grew up and (sort of) assimilated the disappointing reality that bad stuff happens and I have no control over it. I say sort of, because I'm embarrassed to admit how often I cruise through my day thinking if I just do A-B-C, then I'll be rewarded with X-Y-Z. As if I have the magical power to control outcomes. I guess I assume my ability to influence the world around me means I am in control. I mean, I've certainly created my share of chaos in my time... doesn't that mean I have power? Time and again, I fall into the trap of cause-and-effect: Do this, get that. Time and again, I'm shocked when things don't unfold as planned. As I planned. X-Y-Z doesn't happen, no matter how much I try. Or complain. Or weep. I get something else instead, something better, something worse... the point is, I delude myself that I have control.

So in the case of this missing jet, my brain, wrestling with the unacceptable pain of not knowing, tries to pretend I can do something to help. My brain becomes obsessed with solving the mystery. I haven't gone so far as to try to access satellite pictures, as I hear some people are doing...I imagine the crowd-sourced search that is going on right now, people staring at images of open seas, shot from 100 miles above the earth. Amazing the technology, but more to the point, how hard to accept the fact that we may never know what happened. I didn't know anyone on that plane. If I did, how would I be able to live with not knowing?

I'm sure there are more insights from this mess, but I'm too morose to find more words. Everything seems pointless when the world is poised on the fine line between dead-undead, waiting.

This time it's ants and dogs... well, one dog

Last night after blogging, I enjoyed an evening of network TV and congratulated myself that I'd won the ant war that has left the Love Shack in a dusty shambles. After some desultory surfing between Letterman, Fallon, and Kimmel, I turned off the TV and converter box and went into my bathroom to take a bath. When I turned on the light, I discovered to my horror another trail of ants, this time leading to the medicine cabinet (which is nowhere near the cabinet that held the half-empty bottle of mouthwash that was the center of the previous ant battle).

I howled. My cat came running. “I can't believe it!” I cried in anguish and ran for the bucket of diatomaceous earth powder. My cat watched as I daubed the loaded paintbrush into the crack that seemed to be spewing little ant soldiers. Then I gingerly opened the medicine cabinet door.

I don't store all that much in this shallow cabinet, probably because it isn't over the sink, like most medicine cabinets, but opposite the sink. I peer into the mirror occasionally when I'm trying to extract a recalcitrant whisker, but I don't really open the cabinet door that often. I yanked open the door to let in the light. The ants continued their industry. I leaned in to see the damage.

The jittery trail led up the side of the cabinet to one of the top shelves, where there was an opened package of cough drops, the menthol eucalyptus kind. (Hey, weren't those the same ingredients in the mouthwash?) I watched for a moment, paintbrush poised. The ants were marching in an out of the package in smart regimental style. Ho Weeee oh, yooooo-oh. You gotta admire the little f--kers, they really know how to get sh-t done.

I eighty-sixed the cough drops that were attracting the crowd, plus two other bags of herbal cough drops that were getting no attention at all. You can't be too careful. These cough drops have been stored in that cabinet for at least five years. If it took them that long to find the menthol eucalyptus goods, then it could be a while before they find the herbal stash. I'd rather jettison all attractive nuisances. I figure safe, not sorry.

So, maybe now I can do a tentative victory dance in the bathroom. I'll let you know.

I tell you, I need something to be glad about. Today I witnessed a sad event: the passing of the neighbors' dog, Mojo.

Mojo was a medium-sized skinny white dog with a big smile. He was shaky and mostly deaf, but always had a tail wag and a welcoming grin for me when I'd get out of my car. Old age came on him fast. Today I looked out my kitchen window and saw a small crowd crouched around something white lying on the grass in the neighbors' front yard. From the looks on all the faces, I could guess what was happening. I could just make out white fur between the rhodies that divide our two yards. People took turns patting the dog's side and fondling his ears. They were saying good-bye.

An hour or so later, I looked out my window again. Mojo, unmoving, was being attended by two people in scrubs. The vet, a hefty woman, sat awkwardly on the ground, efficiently assisted by a young bearded technician. They worked together to shave the dog's leg and insert a needle attached to a plastic tube. In a few minutes, some white stuff flowed through the tube. My window was closed: I couldn't hear any sobs but my own, but I could see that the women were weeping. The men did their best to look sad but stoic (although I noticed one guy couldn't watch while the needle went in.) Only Mojo's dad was unashamedly crying.

It was over in a few minutes. The doctor checked for a heartbeat. The bereft parents bestowed their final kisses. The tech wrapped the body in a blanket and put it in the back of their Mini. That was the end of the brave and kind dog named Mojo. I presume he will be brought back in a small cardboard box, or maybe an urn, and placed on the mantel to preside over the fireplace he used to doze in front of.

I've had allergies all day. I'm surrounded by piles of soggy white tissues. What's a few more tears?

Who does networking better: people or ants?

As I recover from the minor trauma of having my breasts squashed between two plastic plates by an overly enthusiastic technician, I reflect on two topics: ants and people.

First, people. Last night was the monthly meeting of the Organizational Development Network Oregon chapter. It was a lovely evening, by Portland standards: mid 60s, clear blue sky (in March! I know!), a slight breeze scented by growing things instead of perfume... It doesn't get much better than that this time of year. The meeting room in the multistory NW Portland Con-Way building wasn't quite ready when I arrived at 5:30 p.m. The earlier arrivals had commandeered the chairs in the security lobby waiting area. Other folks stood by the security desk, talking. I didn't know anyone by name, so I got my visitor pass and went back out into the sun.

A woman whose name escaped me (I know I am connected with her on LinkedIn...Don't get me started on the uselessness of that social network) was standing nearby, checking her smartphone. I greeted her. She responded politely. I said something about the weather. Her reply was terse. From that I surmised she was probably conversing with an invisible someone else via text and had no extra bandwidth to devote to a conversation with me. I was fine with that. I walked over to a bush covered with white blossoms and sniffed a flower. Heaven. The off- and on-ramps from the Fremont Bridge soared in the near distance, buzzing with rush hour traffic.

Time out while I brush an ant off my monitor.

Pretty soon another person arrived, a tall young woman in luscious cream pants and high-heeled shoes. She went in, got her visitor pass, and came back out. I greeted her. She responded politely and pulled out her electronic tablet thingy. She began poking at it intently, clearly not interested in talking with me. I leaned on the cement wall and watched as another person came outside, holding her smartphone in front of her. Now there were four of us standing in the sun outside the building, not talking. I couldn't help smiling, thinking how ridiculous, how strange, that four women who all belong to the same networking group are ignoring each other while standing no more than ten feet apart.

It occurred to me later, after we'd all gone inside, that if I were a paranoid schizophrenic, I would have assumed they were all texting one another about me. Who is that weird woman who always wears a hat? And those pathetic fingerless gloves... does she know they are just cut-off socks?

Time out while I flick an ant off my desk.

I don't care what people think about me anymore. I used to care deeply. Age has cured me of that particular malady, lifted it right out of me. Age has also transformed the mammogram from a dreaded, painful reminder of my femaleness to a slightly annoying, completely painless inconvenience in my day. I guess age has its uses. Deflated funbags being one I sometimes forget to be grateful for.

At the meeting, I sat at a table up front, where I connected quite satisfactorily with the younger-than-me woman on my left. She reported her status as “in transition.” At first I thought she meant she was dying. Then I realized she meant she's unemployed. (Although dying and unemployment could be perceived as similar conditions, with a little shift in my perspective. I fear I may find out for myself in a few months.)

Time out while I scrape an ant off the back of my neck.

The topic of the evening was brain-based coaching, also known as results-based coaching. Odd that two very different monikers name the same coaching process. I know squat about coaching, but I really enjoyed the workshop. Sadly, the trainer ran out of time and felt compelled to rush to the closing. As we were applauding, she tossed off a comment about how she learned that chasing the money instead of serving her clients got her neither money nor clients. And eureka, there was my nugget for the night.

Last night after I got home, I inadvertently located the hidden treasure of the ant hordes high up in a cupboard in my bathroom. They apparently weren't expecting me home so early. When I turned on the light, I found an ant caravan leading to a half-empty bottle of mouthwash I didn't know I had. The ants knew I had it, though. The random scouts had come back with the loot. The gold rush was on. It was a simple matter to nuke the mouthwash and dust the trail with diatomaceous earth. That should take care of the bathroom. (And by the way, don't you worry just a tiny bit about what ants would be attracted to in a bottle of mouthwash? The same thing that dentists are attracted to, I wonder?)

I had similar luck in the kitchen, where the ant generals got cocky and revealed the doorway to their underground cavern. I would have had to have been blind to miss the pack trail going into a tiny cave by my vitamin cupboard. I swooped in with the dust bomber (a paintbrush dipped in diatomaceous earth) and plugged up their door.

I thought that might be a turning point in the war, that I might finally be getting the upper hand. But earlier today, I was folding tee-shirts after laundry, and found ants roaming the stack of tee-shirts in my dresser! Wha—? There is no food in my dresser. The only food in my bedroom is carefully wrapped and stashed in my bugout bag (in preparation for the earthquake, coming soon). I checked the bag: no ants. So what the heck are they doing picnicking in my tee-shirts? I'm confounded. I admit it. I don't understand ants. Or people.

I just found a caravan of ants trundling along the bathroom door jamb. I ran to get the diatomaceous earth bucket and paintbrush. Suddenly I felt something crawling on the back of my hand. Some things. Ants! Crawling from the dust, making a break for freedom, via my hand! The resilience (and nerve) of these tiny creatures is astounding. If I had half their persistence, well, I leave it to your imagination.

Excuse me while I pull my ant helmet further down over my ears. Clearly, this siege is not ending any time soon.

Turn here

I spent a couple hours today working on my first lesson plan for the Marketing course that was supposed to begin tomorrow evening. That's right. Was supposed to begin. I got a phone call from the Dean late in the afternoon: Sorry, the class is cancelled due to lack of students. I made all the appropriate noises and so did she. After I hung up the phone, I shocked my cat by bursting into song. Wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles! The universe has spoken!

I'm not surprised the class was cancelled. This is the world of for-profit career education, after all. Vocational students say one thing and frequently do another. And when you push them toward a deadline, they balk.

Am I sad? Not even slightly. I took a few minutes to calculate the financial return I could have expected from the 11-week course (lest I be deluding myself that I was doing it for the money). By the time you factor in a couple hours a week of prep time, an hour of commute time, and a couple gallons of gas, what looked like a reasonable hourly rate dropped by two-thirds. I might as well be paying them.

What other reason besides earning a few dollars would I have for teaching at a dreaded for-profit career college? Other than the relatively minor joy of teaching marketing, the only solid reason I can think of is that it would give me stories to blog about. I never lack for stories to blog about. But students are so.... ripe for skewering. It would have been a rich source of material for my pen-like sword. Sword-like pen. Whatever.

I'm not unhappy with this turn of events. In fact I'm relieved. Tonight I used my sudden sense of freedom to finish stuffing and stamping my first batch of direct mail marketing letters. I know the recipients will toss them in the recycling bin, but that's okay. If I don't take action, then nothing can happen. That much I know. I'm taking each day as it comes. These days I stay pretty close to the present moment, and that keeps me fairly serene. If the universe says turn here, I turn. In this case, it seems the universe has recalculated my personal GPS.

Tomorrow, though, I wouldn't be surprised if I get another phone call from the Dean, saying the student(s) have reappeared and would I still be willing to teach the class? That's the crazy world of for-profit higher education. This institution appears better than the one that laid me off last year—regional accreditation makes everything seem shiny. But look under the hood and you see the same engine driving the operation: the profit motive. Even regional accreditation can't make a for-profit institution be something it isn't. The more I think about it, the more I suspect I just dodged a bullet.

The chronic malcontent gets on with the business of living

I'm pleased with myself tonight. If I weren't so tired, I'd be typing this dancing. Well, maybe not dancing, but shuffling. Why am I pleased? I figured out how to give a special gift to the wonderful folks who register on my website. No, it's not a box of chocolate, sorry, in case you were thinking of signing up. It's just a boring white paper about a topic I fear only I am interested in. But whatever. I'm dipping my timid toe into the raging current known as content marketing. So, kudos to me.

That's my technological victory. Not terribly impressive, I know. In a few months when I want to offer a different gift, we'll see if I'm able to remember how I did it. That's the problem with technological victories. They don't come with handbooks my brain can retain. I have to start over from scratch. Thank god for the Internet.

Any other victories to report? No progress on the ant situation: I continue to battle for space in the kitchen, and I'm not above eating them (although fear of being dinner doesn't seem to faze their industrious foraging).

I can report a little forward motion on the networking front. I went to a marketing event on Wednesday evening. Once again I braved the rain to join the unwashed masses on mass transit. The vent was at an independent theater near the famous Powell's bookstore. The event was a lecture by a marketing research guy. The topic: writing effective survey questions. I went to find out what I don't know. You know, the holes in my knowledge. As it turns out, I know a lot, which is nice, and (almost) worth the $40 it cost me to attend.

There weren't many people there, maybe 30 at the most. Not surprisingly, almost all of them were much younger than me. They're so attractive. And they talk so fast, these young marketers. So energetic. Where do they get their energy? Oh, I know, don't tell me. Red Bull. Mountain Dew. Well, I wasn't born yesterday. Obviously: I remember when Mountain Dew was a hillbilly beverage. Now Mountain Dew's former tagline is the name of my email provider. What the f—?

I managed to participate in and even instigate a few conversations, but failed the next day to convert anyone into a LinkedIn connection. I've lost steam on my quest to gain connections. I haven't even hit 100 yet; I'm bogged down in why bother? I get the idea in principle, but in practice, it seems like a futile bit of ego-stroking. Look how many connections I have! Nobody cares.

I wish life were only full of victories. But I guess I have a defeat to report. Victory... defeat... who is to say? It feels like a defeat to me. My mother thinks it is a victory. What am I talking about? This week I agreed to teach one two-hour marketing class per week for the next 11 weeks at a for-profit university in the Tigard triangle. That is the area of the city that has become a hub, a mecca, a swamp of higher education. I won't name the place I signed on with. Who cares. The gig starts Tuesday.

The good news is their rate is more than twice what I was paid at the career college that laid me off last year. The bad news is the class is only two hours a week. The good news is I'll be teaching marketing! (Instead of keyboarding, or Word, or Excel...) The bad news is that it could take me almost an hour to get there if there is traffic. The good news is my car gets pretty good gas mileage. The bad news is... there are only four students in the class. Argh. But the good news... and why my mother is pleased: it's money. It's postponing the moment when she feels compelled to swoop in and rescue me. And more good news: it's blog fodder.

So... victory or defeat? Who knows. It's like any situation: It has pluses and minuses. After a while, when your head stops spinning, you slow down and realize it really doesn't matter. In the end all we have is right now, this moment. Tomorrow is out of our control. Time to stop judging and get on with the business of living.

It must be spring! The chronic malcontent has been swarmed by ants

It's that time of the year again: the season when I subsume my own needs and desires to the whims of the insect overlords who inhabit the Love Shack. I once thought I was something special because I'm descended from cells that figured out how to escape the primordial ooze. Now I know I'm nothing but a transport device for my ant masters to move from one part of their domain to another. And if I forget it, they do not hesitate to punish me by biting the back of my neck. Bad human!

It's hard to imagine creatures so tiny could have such a profound impact on something as large and powerful as a human (I claim god-like qualities because it's true: I'm bigger than an ant and capable of raining serious destruction on their tiny heads. That makes me large and powerful.) What impresses me is how relentless they are. And sneaky. (If I were half that relentless and sneaky, well... you can imagine! I probably wouldn't live in a place overrun by ants!)

In my efforts to defend my turf, I periodically reinforce the barricade around my compost bucket with a wall of diatomaceous earth, which I understand for an ant (or any crawling insect) is quite painful, like swallowing pins while walking on broken glass. White powder runs the length of the counter and surrounds the microwave. The place looks like a debauched baker got carried away with the wheat flour. Of course, if you know me, you know that we are gluten-free here at the Love Shack. So it's more likely to be anthrax than wheat flour. (Kiddding.) In any case, once it gets wet, the diatomaceous earth is no longer effective. Then it clumps into handy little stepping stones for ants to more easily forage among the tasty detritus around my sink.

Last night I found a dozen ants congregating in my bathtub. The cabal broke up when I swooped in with a sponge. Now, I don't mind sharing my space with well behaved critters. I'm all about live and let live (as long as you stay out of my bed). I'm sorry to say, some of them ended up floating in the soap scum. I don't like to see any creature suffer, but let's be realistic. It's pretty damn hard to save every drowning ant, especially when they are hell bent on invading my bathtub. What can you do? Well, the good news: So far they have avoided my toothbrush. I take that as a sign that I've finally found a toothpaste that doesn't appeal to ants (and dentists).

While I was on the phone today with my friend V., two ants skittered across the back of my neck. I assumed they got on the mass transit system (my fleece shirt) in the kitchen, planning to get off in the living room, where they no doubt intend to watch television or surf the Web. However, V. said something that led me to believe that ants are dive-bombing onto my head from the ceiling! I can't see them, but they are sneaky, as I have already pointed out. I wouldn't be surprised if they have little cloaks of invisibility.

Desperate times call for drastic measures. (Coincidentally just in time for Easter) I'm in the process of inventing a hat shaped like a wide flat bucket. I have plenty of cardboard. I intend to fill the hat with diatomaceous earth. The stuff isn't heavy, so that won't be a problem. It's a bit dusty, though, so I might have to wear a face mask. Small inconvenience if it keeps the ants off my neck. Have I mentioned, those little f--kers bite!

While patrolling the kitchen, I captured two scouts exploring the cat food area. I don't know how they got through. They must have had inside information. I've got the whole cat food area diatomaceously dusted... under the rug, around the edges, all along the window sill, and under the elevated platform on which the cat food dishes are placed—in water filled dishes that serve as moats. (We aren't kidding around here at the Love Shack.) And still the ants have infiltrated my defenses. They are either kamikaze sky-divers, or they are spirit ants from a parallel universe. Either way, I'm fighting a losing battle. If I don't post again within the week, send in the fumigators and save my cat.