More stuff I'd rather not do

Hey, here's something I'd rather have my husband around to do - kill poisonous arachnids that I find in my yard!
It was Labor Day, and my friend Wendy and I were hanging out in my townhome's small backyard, grilling chicken and listening to our sons argue with each other over who got to play with the big Tonka firetruck.
I thought I had the solution when I suggested that Drew play with his big Tonka dump truck. Unfortunately, the dump truck has been living outside for several months, so therefore a nasty, evil black widow spider had decided to take up residence in its undercarriage. When I saw the spider, I calmly and quietly freaked right the heck out.
"Spider!" I yelled at Wendy. "Poisonous spider! Bad! Very bad!"
Wendy surveyed the scene and nodded.
"Yep. That's what that is."
"Kill!" said I.
"With what?" replied Wendy, rather too calmly. (she's a mental health counselor, too, so she's used to over-the-top displays of emotion)
I thought about it for a minute, and remembered that I had some spider spray in the outdoor storage closet. As I opened the door, Wendy remarked, "Gee, I hope there aren't more of those spiders in there."
That was helpful. Immensely. Calmed me right down.
I located the spray quickly and handed it to Wendy.
"Kill," I directed.
And she proceeded to spray. And spray. And spray.
"Wow, this is quite a resilient little spider," she said.
"It's not dying?"
"Well, she looks sort of sick."
"So, she's about to die?" Because, you know, I don't want a spider in my backyard at all, much less a sickly, cranky one.
"Oh, she fell into the water. (that had collected in the underside of the toy truck when I was hosing it down, prior to noticing that it was inhabited). So, she'll probably drown."
See, the thing is with me and spiders, "probable" death just doesn't cut it. I need to see a corpse before I can truly rest easy.
I went inside to check on the boys, who were still arguing over the fire truck, but since they weren't actually exchanging blows (yet), I returned to the yard, hoping to be presented with evidence of one dead venomous spider.
"Wow," pondered Wendy. "I don't know how she can still be alive after spending that much time under water."
The saga finally ended with Wendy grabbing a stick off the ground and viciously poking the spider until it was nothing but a jellied lump of ooze.
Then she presented me with the stick - spider guts still clinging to it - as proof that the deed was done.
Now I have to go call an exterminator, and tell him in no uncertain terms that he needs to do whatever he can do to ensure that I never find a nasty like that in my backyard again, even if it means spraying chemicals that will render sterile everyone in a four-block radius.