"This is the noise that keeps me awake…"-Garbage

Phobia.

I believe that's what they call it. A strong dislike or fear? Phobia? Or is that Tom Cruise?

I can never tell the difference. Well then whatever. I'll work with phobia. I have one of those. Well, actually a few, but lets talk about one for the moment.

I'm afraid of flying bugs with stingers. Not mosquitoes. They don't have stingers, and no, not even horseflies. They bite. I know my fears intimately; it's just bees, hornets, and such. I currently have a problem with the "and such." I have wasps. No, not a collective of Caucasian protestants. There's only one of those living in this house, and he's not a problem.

The flying things? That's another issue. And yes, they are stinger endowed. Just look at my nests

I think I'm the wasp Howard Johnson's; I house all the neighborhoods wasps. This will not do, especially with my love of said creatures. Now, to help you understand my fear, let me tell you a little story. When MyUnwife and I started living together, we had a little apartment in the desert. One day the wasps showed up with their little furniture and suitcases and hung a small cottage from our porch light. We might not have minded, but it (being a porch and all) was next to our front door.

As the man of the house, I was elected wasp-slayer. I suggested sacrificing a few virgins instead (I thought I'd seen some down by the pool), but MyUnwife wouldn't have it. Handing me a can of Raid, she patted me on the back, grabbed a Pepsi and some popcorn and prepared for a show.

The problem was, there was no way to spray the nest that wouldn't put the offended guests between me and the safety of my own home. I'd be trapped outside, with my stingered friends. Now look at my nest picture from this house. The porch nest was nothing like that. I think it may have housed 2 wasps--4 if they were real Bohemians.

But wasps don't lose their stinger, they just go and go until you kill them. I've seen the movies. The other thing is that I will have filled them with toxins which they will transfer into me with every puncture of my flesh. Once again, I've seen the movie; this is a recipe for death.

What could I do to keep from getting stung? Well, being related to Wiley Coyote, Supergenius, I formulated a plan. Our kitchen had a window that overlooked the porch. If I opened the window, I could spray the Raid through the screen and hit the nest.

Call me Lionheart.

It seemed to work. I mean I sprayed the can, it hit the nest. I saw one wasp, and he fell to the ground. The kitchen stank, but there appeared to be limited collateral dish-damage. The food did taste funny for a week, but my problem appeared to be solved.

I went outside to investigate.

Now this is MyUnwife's favorite part of the story. So you might listen up. She'll stop strangers in the street to tell them what happened next.

Surveying the battlefield, I smiled at the death and decay at my hands. That's when a survivor buzzed my head. It wasn't happy.

It's hard to explain what happened next, but I'll try: I ran for the door. It was an apartment, and as I remember it, it had a self-locking door (or did we lock it? Those wasps are tricky you know. If one overpowered me, he could open the door and go after MyUnwife. I was the protector, I couldn't let that happen.) I'm trying to get in without getting stung. You remember the old Flintstone's close where the cat locks Fred outside and he's banging on the door? Well cross that with a frightened 8 year old girl, and you have me, banging on the door, screaming "he's got friends." MyUnwife finally let me in, after she stopped laughing from the kitchen window.

See? And that was only a small nest. This one (or 3) is huge! Luckily my can of Raid has a 20 ft nozzle, my door doesn't self-lock, and my neighbor always has screaming targets—uhm, kids in his pool.

I know that sounds harsh. I love kids, I really do, but there are these little girls visiting the neighbor little boys, and they're always screaming. I'm not sure if it's the girls or the boys, it's just this high pitched shrill thing. It's worse than my fire alarm, and since it's attached to a teen libido, it has an unlimited power source. I think vengeful wasps ought to even things out.

"You killed my father! Prepare to die!"

I have another Phobia. I recognized it last night while grocery shopping: repeating mistake, mine or anyone else's. There was this married couple wandering the vegetable aisle. Both of them talked and laughed, having a great time as they gathered lettuce and onions. Cell phone sealed to an ear, while their spouse, an invisible afterthought, following the other throughout the store.

I've seen these people in restaurants too. Enjoying the presence of whoever is on the opposite end of the phone line, while phoning-in their presence to the person at the opposite side of the table. Why did they bother coming together at all? Did they need a token presence to not feel alone? The could have stolen a cardboard cutout from the 7-11, it would haves served the same purpose.

I don't want to be that. I never was, but being out there again, I have to look out for things again. I want to be part of a relationship where both partners are present. Both partners are in there for each other. I'm not looking to be a father, and I'm not looking for a mother. I want a-well, partner. And yes, one who spends more time with me, than the cell phone.

But I'm slowly learning, you don't know what you'll get until you're already in there. It's like ordering stuff from the back of cereal boxes as kids. It's never exactly what's pictured, but by the time you figure that out, you've already collected the box-tops, and spent the postage. It's too late.

Last time I thought I did alright, that was more of a time-bomb issue.

"Surprise!"

I don't want that again. I don't want the cyber-cell people either.

I suppose I should be happy so long as I don't walk into a wasp's nest of crazy.

Yeah, that I can live without…