2006-03-17 - 10:03 p.m.

3/13/06

"I fixed Mortimer's butt with a Sharpie," I announced to Poindexter last night. Mortimer is our pet ant.

When my in-laws first moved to southeastern Florida, my MIL learned all about the fire ants and informed us when we came to visit. You know, they live in the grass there, and if you stand on the grass, like on a median in a parking lot even, armies of fire ants will climb up your legs, and then the fire ant general gives the order to attack, and all the fire ants bite you at once. I heard a poodle was devoured in this manner once.

Ever since, Poindexter has made a big fuss over avoiding the grass and pretending to be terrified of fire ants, and if he sees any ant at all, anywhere, in any location, he'll point and yell "FIRE ANT!!" It's a running joke.

So this past Christmas, Poindexter's mom bought him a "decor" ant from the garden section of Target. We named him Mortimer. He's a heavy little fucker, really meant to be used outdoors, but we keep him in the house where it's warm, like Florida. Here he is on the cafe table next to the napkins:

Mortimer got a little damaged in transit, so the black paint on his posterior had chipped off and there was metal shining through. I took a Sharpie to it and it does a decent job of making his color look fairly uniform.

Last week one of my coworkers was visiting with his wife. Said wife is something of an amateur entomologist, so I brought Mortimer to the dining table so she could check him out. She reported that, unlike many ant reproductions, Mortimer is anatomically correct: his six legs are joined to his middle abdominal segment, like they should be. Is that nifty or what?

3/17/06

So earlier this week, Poindexter was down in the garage discarding some debris related to the total household upheaval we are inflicting upon ourselves in the form of painting, floor installations, ripping out drywall, and trying to donate some hand-me-down furniture that is too big for the new, smaller guest room.

He came upstairs with a squicked look on his face and said,

Poindexter: We had a ... visitor.
Evelynne: What kinda visitor?

[I'm imagining an irate neighbor or some kind of tree-hugger with a clipboard.]

Poindexter: A rodent.
Evelynne: Oh shit. How do you know?
Poindexter: They pooped on the floor near the garbage cans.

[There was a full bag outside the garbage cans because we were overflowing with the aforementioned debris. He assumed the alleged rodent was trying to get into that.]

Evelynne: UGH. At least they weren't in the house. Mouse or rat?
Poindexter: How can you tell?
Evelynne: Mouse poop is the size of sesame seeds.
Poindexter: Rat, then.
Evelynne: Oh SHIT.
Poindexter: What should we do?
Evelynne: Well, if we make sure to keep the bags inside the cans from now on, maybe it won't come back. There's nothing for it to eat in there.
Poindexter: OK, I'll clean it up and we'll see.
Evelynne: Thank you, perfect husband. That's very sweet of you to deal with the rat poop for me.

A little while later I hear the garage door open so I go down to deal with the recyclables. He is just beginning to sweep around the garbage can. I look down at what he is sweeping and I start to laugh.

Evelynne: Oh ... honey ... that's not rat poop.
Poindexter: [completely confused] What? What is it then?
Evelynne: [Leans over and picks up a piece of "poop"] It's morning glory seeds. I knocked over the container of seeds when I was trying to plug in the extension cord for the contractor, and I was too lazy to sweep it up then, figuring I'd get it when we organized the garage this weekend.
Poindexter: [incredulous] MORNING GLORY SEEDS!?!?!?!!? I'm going to BEAT you!
Evelynne: What? Aren't you happy? Aren't you relieved it's not rat poop?
Poindexter: Yes, yes, it's a big relief for Mr. Cratchit.

Later that evening, he came into the kitchen where I was doing dishes and looked at me with his eyes narrowed.

Evelynne: What?!
Poindexter: MORNING GLORY SEEDS.

(EDIT: Here's a picture if you've never seen the seeds.)

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