Me: (wiping down the kitchen after dinner) “Ant! Ant!” (a flurry of paper-towel death rains down upon it from the sky)

Husband: “Huh. I saw one over in the living room earlier.”

Me: (shocked and horrified) “You saw an ant, and you didn’t tell me?!?”

Husband: (head cocks to one side in confused puppy look – I have done something wrong, but what?) “Um. It was just one ant.”

Me: “Two! It is now two!”

I race to the bathroom and pull from my secret stash bug-plague-in-a-bottle. Not the earth friendly stuff. Not the plant-based, organic, hippy bug spray. I pulled out the skull-and-cross-bones, warning-label-longer-than-the-Magna-Carta, poison-control-center’s-worst-nightmare bug spray.

Husband: (eyes the can warily) “They could be just a couple of stray ants, you know.”

Me: “Or they could be the scout platoon for an entire invading army.” (holds out the can) “Prepare yourself.”

Husband: “You don’t even know how they got in. We live on the third floor.”

Me: “Operation Hail of Fire shall begin by building a bug spray moat around all egress points, followed by a perimeter spray of the mess hall. At 0800 hours, we shall convene and review progress. Further instructions at that time, soldier.”

Husband: “You’re scaring me.”

Me: “War is a scary thing.”

Husband: “Bug spray smells bad.”

Me: “I love the smell of napalm in the morning!”