The other night, I reclined in my favorite chair, watching television and absently reached for the half-eaten banana on the table to my right. As I brought it to my mouth, something fell from it and I thought it might be a bit of the peel. I absently brushed my hand across my shirt and to my horror, it was not a piece of blackened banana peel that scurried down my lap and off my leg, but a huge hairy spider that I must have disturbed as he ate my abandoned fruit. I screamed appropriately and despite the Househusband’s incontrovertible testimony that the arachnid had fled the scene and no longer dwelt in the living room, I continued to feel his eight furry legs whispering across my appendages throughout the evening. I would only have been calmed by said Househusband brandishing said villain incarcerated in an empty peanut butter jar on his way to banishment in the garden. As that didn’t happen, I can only tell you that residual feelings of discomfort remain despite the ever-vigilant four legged, black, furry protector perched across my abdomen.