Cathy Hamilton: Some kind of Godzilla phase?

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I’ve got ants. They’re not in my pants, but God only knows what could happen if the kitchen infestation spreads to the laundry room.

The ants are swarming all over my counters, cabinets and drawers in what is best described as a horror movie in extreme miniature.

Remember that song: “The ants go marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah…”?

Well, I’m here to tell you, that song is inaccurate.

Ants do not travel alone. And they don’t march, either. Or, maybe they do and I don’t realize it because they’re so little, I can’t see their tiny militaristic treads.

For all I know, they could be goose-stepping to some Third Reich Nazi war tune as they invade my pantry. The point is, the song’s wrong and should be stricken from play lists of preschool and kindergarten teachers across America.

I have heard ants are running rampant all over town. This gives me absolutely no comfort because, in my book, “misery loves company” only pertains to insomnia, hard-to-dress apple body shapes and boomerang children.

The fact that my neighbor is dealing with ants, too, leaves me no less grossed-out or sleepless.

The little critters seem to be drawn to the sink — no doubt thirsty from all that goose-stepping — and to the vinegar in my cupboards.

I’ve always thought you could catch more ants with honey than you could with vinegar. But, apparently, that rule only applies to flies.

Do you know how many godforsaken bottles of vinegar I have in my cupboards?!

Balsamic.

“Good” balsamic.

White balsamic. Red wine. Pomegranate. Tarragon. Champagne. Apple cider. Elderberry. Blueberry basil. Habanero dill. Walla Walla Onion. Wildflower Honey.

My husband has always poo-poo’ed hiring an exterminator. He’s a spray-it-yourself kind of guy, but will use chemicals only if personally threatened by bodily harm.Unfortunately, ants do not meet the criteria.

That’s why I employ the wet dishcloth method of eradication. Simply wipe them away with one fell swoop. Bada bing, bada boom. Ants be gone!

(Yes, PETA people. I am killing living, breathing animals by the score. But, hey! I don’t wear fur, I’ve never beaten a baby seal and I don’t eat meat from animals with four legs more than once a week.

I still worship K.D. Lang and thought her “Hallelujah” killed at the Winter Olympics. So, please, no emails.

As I dab and wipe, rinse, and dab again, I wonder whether this is karma coming around for my childhood when I had what psychologists might call an obsessive-compulsive ant hill disorder.

I was never otherwise cruel to animals. I never kicked the dog or gave Bailey’s Irish Cream to a cat (this actually happened; I won’t name names).

But, for some reason, I couldn’t pass an ant hill in the backyard without destroying the entire colony with one crushing stomp of my navy blue Keds with rubber toe guards.

Maybe it was some kind of Godzilla phase, who can say?

Could the ancestors of those ants, innocently killed decades ago in Prairie Village, Kan., finally have found me 40 miles away? Are they exacting their revenge for the senseless violence that occurred, at my hands (er, feet) on 79th St. Terrace during the summers of 1960 through 1964?

I wouldn’t put it past them. Ants are tenacious. And they never forget.

This weekend, I may have to shore up my defenses and bring out the heavy artillery like, you know, soap and water.

Admittedly, the wet dishcloth method isn’t really working. I may have gotten a little lax where kitchen housekeeping is concerned.

With the remodel, those old cupboards will be out on the curb soon. Why bother to clean them now? That’s like bleaching your man’s hole-ridden tighty-whities before you pitch them in the trash.

Am I right, ladies?

What I need is some kind of Pied Piper. A PETA-friendly minstrel who could magically lure the ants from my kitchen, out the door and down the street into somebody else’s life.

I wonder if K.D. Lang is available for hire. Because when she sings “Hallelujah,” I’d follow her anywhere.

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