Two hours ago there was a spider on my living room ceiling approximately the size of your average dinner plate. And me, being not the size of your average NBA player, couldn’t reach it. No way was I going to bat at it this thing and risk knocking it down on top of my head where it would surely sink its hypodermic needle-like fangs into my scalp, turning my liver into so much Ghostbuster goo. This was a killing shot-only situation. Don’t shoot until you see the whites of its eight little eyes. So, like any good soldier, I retreated from the room, waiting for it to come down from the high ground where I could squash it repeatedly with my husband’s shoe until it’s reduced to something less than protons and quarks.

Two hours have gone by, and it does appear it has come down off the ceiling. The snag being I don’t know where it’s gone, which means it’s probably hanging out in my underwear drawer or burrowed into my favorite box of mid-writing snack treats, waiting to shoot me up with nerve toxins and roll me into a cocoon-shaped, brown-bag spider lunch.

So in preparation, it is my last will and testament to leave everything to my husband who should feel free to liquidate my book collection and give everything to the UCLA biology department’s anti-venom research lab. It should be just enough to spring for pizzas if the undergrads throw in their pocket change.