Readers, I'm addressing you with a heavy heart. For I know my death is imminent. Either the scorpions are going to kill me, or I'll worry myself to my demise.
Tonight at 7:10 p.m. (maybe earlier, maybe later, I wasn't really watching the clock) I flipped on the light in the guest room just in time to catch Mr. Scorpion number 212 headed for the closet. This is now scorpion number four since Thanksgiving and number 212 overall. (Okay, not 212, but it's over 10 now, so what does it matter the exact count? The point is, there are FAR TOO MANY DEADLY LITTLE SONS OF A GUN LURKING IN MY HOUSE.) This was also the second scorpion to be discovered upstairs, a venue I previously (wrongly) assumed was safe because if it wasn't for that assumption I couldn't sleep at night.
If questioned, I'll admit, reluctantly, that my bug lady extraordinaire did do a little checking in the attic, and did take note of the ceiling fan position over our bed. At the time, she said something like, "With really bad infestations, they'll sometimes come in around the base of the ceiling fan and drop right to your bed." You can see why I'd try to forget such information.
Anyway, tonight I screamed for Kevin. Praise the Lord I have yet to discover a live scorpion when he isn't home. He appeared with a glittery pink flip-flop belonging to my daughter - (too pretty, if you ask me, to serve as a weapon of death - but I'm not going to risk the scorpion escaping while another more suitable shoe is fetched) - and proceeded to squash the varmint while I tried to keep from having a stroke. I wish I could say all is now well, but it isn't. I still have to deal with the reality that these guys think this is their house. Well, I'm not going down without a fight. Me and my sneakers and my flip-flops and yes, my boots, are poised and ready to defend our lives.