My Little Golden Book of Phobias

For some reason, I subscribe to Poets and Writers, where the fancy writers live. I read their ads for low-residency writers schools, contests for poets who will then go on to achieve success and fame and $$, and articles about finding the right editor.

Meanwhile, the generator drones on in the horror house across the street. What are they doing over there? Constructing a meth lab or a grow basement for marijuana? The siding is falling off and the hedges continue to flourish in the yard, obscuring their illegal activities.

A mom is in early labor, has taken her boys to the park where she'll count contractions and call me when 'her back begins to ache'. My equipment is in the car and I've showered. So much for Friday therapy and a pool swim. I'm on alert. When she calls again, I'll speed over the West Seattle bridge and haul my 100 pounds of stuff into her house. There we'll wait for her third boy who'll be as pretty and rambunctious as her other two.

In the interim, I've noticed that my magnolia has some dead branches so I'll get the saw and loppers and whack away. By the time the birth is happening, I'll be covered with dirt and branches; looking like scary mother nature. O, and some slugs. Slugs are part of nature's plan. I don't know which part. They're in the same category as snails, raccoons and wharf rats.

Must I pray for ALL of life?