I’ve been thinking. I’m not sure I have enough irrational fears. I couldn’t sleep last night because I kept going over in my head, “do the Smiths have more irrational fears than I do? Does that make them a better modern person? Is that a spider on my leg? Get it off! Get it off!”

Once there was a time when people were supposed to be fearless. Enter a dark, scary cave, search out a bear, kill it, eat its liver, skin it and wear the hide back to camp? No problem! Why I’m sturdy pioneer folk. I eat rotten meat! I can do anything!

Not me. I’m a slovenly, fat suburbanite. There might be trilobites in that cave. Or meaner, now extinct arthropods hell-bent on trying to take over my brain and turn me into a member of the Reform Party supporting Jessie “The Mind” Ventura’s bid for Uber-Sexy Bald Guy Leader Person. Besides, I’ll get my Haggar slacks dirty. Seriously, they are nice pants.

And, to be honest, being brave takes so much . . . work. If it weren’t for the work, I’d be willing to do it. Besides, I’m a very delicate person. I don’t agree with wildlife.

To survive in suburbia, you have to be a little effete. You have to be a member of the semi-pseudo-elite. Otherwise they eat you alive. Dig in your garden without gloves?

My god! You’ll get dirt under your fingernails. Gasp! Do you drive a truck for a living?

No, of course not. I’m a writer and editor.

Gasp! Are you a heathen artsy type hell-bent on sodomizing my azaleas?

No, probably not. The Kings have a much nicer azalea bush with a truly bodacious, sweet stem that really gets me going.

The Kings do NOT have nicer azaleas. Mine are raised by professionals in the Appalachian Mountains. One of them is even named Zephaniah! The Kings buy theirs from a local nursery. Anyone knows if you want truly beautiful azaleas you have to buy straight from the source.

Crap. You see? That was a subversive little joke I made there. How can I possibly survive this jungle?

Which brings me back to my irrational fears. I need more. I’m positive the neighbors are out-fearing me by at least two to one. Currently I’m afraid of the following:

· Guys named “Joe”
· Platinum blonde hair
· Puerto Rican Cleaning Men
· Spider eggs
· Romanian Chickens
· Tofu dogs (actually gets me two points off)
· Dogs larger than a Bichon Friese
· A Bichon Friese who hasn’t been groomed in at least a week
· Lesbians with pitch forks
· Domestic cars
· Bottled water from the Eastern US.
· Rabid Marmosets
· The Gap

I have more, but it’s not enough. Just the other day I was talking to the Smiths and they told me that they just invested in an alarm that indicates when there is only 80% potpourri saturation in their living room air. “After all,” Mrs. Smith told me, “one never wants your house to smell, well . . . plain.”

Does my house smell plain? What are houses supposed to smell like? I don’t have potpourri at all. I need to invest in something that will make my house smell less plain. I wonder what flavor my house is? Good! I have a new irrational fear! That my house has not been properly matched to this season’s in fragrances. I need to come up with a master fragrancy plan.

I don’t think frangrancy is a word. I’ll bet the Smiths wouldn’t use a word that isn’t documented in the Oxford English Dictionary.

Still, I worry. I hope I can sleep tonight. I tend to toss and turn when I’m worried. I’m concerned that all this worrying is going to give me insomnia. That’s just what I need!