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.
