Something Wicked This Way Comes . . .

A week ago, I could have died.
Or at least been writhing in agony, maybe in the ER.
Could have.
But I'm not, I'm sitting here having Supernatural marathon with the hubs (The "Live Free or Twi-Hard" episode? We DIED. My gosh. Best Twilight mockery EVER), and typing, recovering from a lazy weekend to celebrate the end of the school year (more on that later).
But, anyways, last week, death came a-knocking.

For all this to make sense, however, we have to rewind a tiny bit further to the invasion that happened in my back yard.  A demonic invasion, in my personal opinion. As things became warmer, they became wetter, and the bugs flourished.
That's the thing about the woods/swamp in Florida: it's freakin' bug heaven. They spawn in bloody swarms, take what they can, and give nothing back. So, Chris comes to me one night and says, "So, um, I've been doing research on those little beetle things that keep swarming the dog poop?"
"Gross."
"Yeah, um, you're not gonna be happy."
"And why is that?"
"Well . .. they're um . . . baby German Cockroaches."
"No."
"Yeah."
"You're kidding."
"No, I'm not."
DEAR GOD!!! NUKE THE BLOODY YARD!!! I want freakin' WWII out there! I want them writhing in agony! And then I want them to look over with their beady eyes and see their relatives writhing in agony! And then I want them to die slowly and painfully! AND I WANT THEM SENT STRAIGHT BACK TO THE HELL THEY CAME FROM!!! I WANT THAT YARD NUKED, MAN!!!"

No, I'm not at all dramatic. Why do you ask?

I'm not even going to put up a link to the bloody suckers because they're just that gross. Palmetto bugs are the big roaches, my mortal enemies, but German Cockroaches . . . they're small, they're spastic, and they get in EVERYTHING. Once they're in, good luck getting them out. You might as well sign the lease over to them.
Then I had this moment where I was cursing Germany for bringing the little suckers over . . . and Chris had to explain they're not technically German. They have dark marks that look like Swastikas or something . . . I don't get close enough to look. Yes, I'm a bit of a blonde, and, yes, this only proves that cockroaches scuttled out of hell.Because, you know, they're insect Nazis.

Anyways, all that to say, weeks later Chris and his dad finally sprayed the yard.  While doing that, Chris called me onto the screened back porch. "I need you to see something."
Usually, when Chris calls me outside, it's for something fun like a frog, a lizard, a bird, or a skink. This time, it was not fun. It was a spider. A large dark, spindly spider. Something that looked like it crawled out of a horror film.  It was about the size of a quarter and black. I hadn't seen anything that truly dark--deep brown, yes, but this thing was void of color. Except for one, tiny, hourglass mark. No, that was vibrant orange.
"You see that? That's a black widow," Chris says.
No freakin' kidding.

They killed it. Chris's dad ground it to dust under his heavy boot. But it wasn't over. We had unknowingly just declared war.

Two days later, I'm grabbing our mail, and I notice movement out of the corner of my eye.  I peer into the mailbox, and see a dark, skinny spider the size of a quarter scuttling back and forth over the strands of a web that looked like it had been sent through a wood chipper. In the back of my mail box.
Just to be clear, the beast was LIVING IN MY MAILBOX.
Still, the inside of the mailbox is black, the spider, if it wasn't black was pretty darn close to it. So I send Chris a text to ask him to check out my wicked little squatter.
He did.
And, you know, before he left, he armed himself with a can of WD40 and a lighter.  Just in case.
Personally, I think it was just an excuse to play with fire, but I can't blame him. Fire goooooood.

He returned, chest thrust out and big grin.
"Was it a black widow?"
"Actually, yeah, it was. I looked in the mailbox, and didn't see anything but a weird looking web and egg sacks. Oh, and dead roaches. See? You and this thing were kindred spirits."
I didn't know whether to laugh or scowl. Frankly, I was just trying not to gag at the thought that I had been retrieving mail previously embraced by roach carcasses.
Chris continued: "Checked the back side of the mailbox, and it was COVERED in this shredded looking web. I didn't see a spider, though. Until I looked down. It was sitting at the foot of the mailbox. I killed it. Then, I took a stick, covered it in the web, and lit in on fire. They're all dead."
"The witch and its spawn? Burned to ashes, yes?"
"Yep."

You know, it only took me about two hours to have a freak out session realizing that I was four inches from a black widow bite . . .

And this is life in the Florida woods. In the words of a young, previous occupant, "We live with bugs."
No kidding.