Thursday, June 24, 2010

Progress, At Last!

What kind of progress? Progress in that our client's son - the one who has refused to say "Hello" to me, shake my hand, etc., has finally acknowledged my existence. I'm going to chalk this up to the fact that I was infinitely less intimidating in my amazing beauty since I was sweating like a hog and slowly growing a lovely shade of pink under the influence of the Texas sun.

The fact that I looked like a condensation covered glass of Guinness (I was wearing a black shirt) was the son's fault, in fact. He decided that a meeting to discuss the project at 3:00 in the afternoon was an excellent idea.

I disagree with him, but he is - or rather, his parents are - the client. So I spent my afternoon sweating and my skin decided to thumb its nose at my SPF 60 sunscreen by getting rosily red anyways.

So there.

I ended up leaving work early, to head home to work, because 1) I felt disgusting and was in dire need of a shower, and 2) I'd been bitten by ants six times since I'd returned from the meeting at the job site.

I was not bitten by ants AT the job site. I was bitten whilst sitting in my cubicle, typing project specifications. With my feet off the floor.

Why are there ants in my cubicle? I can only presume that the combination of scorching heat outside, cool air inside, and errant blueberry muffin crumbs are to blame.

Tuesday evening, I had dinner with my mom, and she bought me a blueberry muffin to eat the next morning for breakfast (thanks, Mom!). I dropped a crumb. And I didn't realize I'd dropped the crumb. And then I felt a sting on my finger.

The ants had scaled my desk and were crawling across my hands. I touch-type, so I don't look at my hands when I type, and hadn't noticed the ants crawling across my fingers as they searched for more nourishment.

The crumb was on my desk shelf, 18 inches below my desktop. Those were some hungry ants. I cleaned the area around my desk, got rid of all errant crumbs, and continued working, assuming the ants would be gone by morning.

I was incorrect. The flow of ants from the crack in the brick wall by my desk had gathered strength and was a veritable storm surge. I abandoned my sandals and put on my boots and asked Mrs. Robinson to please call the building manager to request an exterminator's services, ASAP. She did so.

While I was at the job site, slowly roasting in the Texas heat, making sure I rotated rotisserie-style so the juices would baste me evenly, the building manager came and put out some ant traps with bait in them around my desk to kill the ants, and said someone would spray in the evening so I wouldn't be exposed to the chemicals right off the bat.

Guess what? Ant bait makes ants want to be around you even more. The flow of ants increased, and whether or not they died inside the little traps or not, I don't know, but the conga line of ants in both directions didn't seem to abate any.

I was bitten six times before I informed Pacman - my only remaining coworker at this point - that I was leaving, because I kept being bitten, and it hurt, and it sucked, and I was going home. He gave me a half-hearted "Cheerio" and I flounced out the door.

Hopefully, the next opportunity I have to flounce won't involve ants.

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