A lament on living with ants

We've been invaded by ants.  Just when we think we are winning, more show up in the dishwasher, in the  kitchen sink,  in cabinet  drawers, on the back of my hand. Out of nowhere!

In late March, we sprayed the entire perimeter of our house.  Guaranteed control, the label on the big  plastic container  said. Good for a year. Whoopee. Which meant we resprayed in mid-April.  And again a week ago.

At this point, my late mother would have been hysterical.  No damned ant was going to coexist with the family.  Damned was her word.  And often worse. Especially when her house was under siege.

Though born in America shortly after her parents arrived from the Old Country,  she sustained their dutiful work ethic.  She kept an extra supply of Chlorox on hand, and remained a willful threat to any uninvited intruder, and ants were high on her enemies list.   Spiders didn't get off easily, either.  On hands and knees, and with a strong bristle brush  she scoured the kitchen floor.  On one occasion when she visited us, I caught her doing the same thing in the basement.

I don't think it made any difference, but she was strong-willed, and wouldn't hear any of it.   No way would she give up if there were a couple of drops of Chlorox at her fingertips.

Well, Mom, they're back.  Wish you were, too. At least it would be a fair fight.