My first instinct should have been to protect my poor, leprous, postpartum rectum from being penetrated by pointing to a shadowy corner and screaming, Tarantula! before making a mad dash for the master bathroom. Then, while Ken dutifully looked for an imaginary spider to protect me from, I could have been loudly rummaging through all the drawers and cabinets while shouting through the door, Honey? Have you seen the Pepto? That spicy chili you made is tearing me up! But, before my wine-soaked brain
