I am a pretty anxious person by nature. I'm also a pitbull. I refuse to give into fear, so via exercise, writing, prayer, healthy food, and never to be underestimated - thrift store shopping - I somehow manage to tame the beast.

What I can't control for some reason, though, are bees. I am their honey, their nectar and their pin cushion. A few years ago, at a lovely outdoor birthday party, one found its way into my shirt and stung me on the boob.

Last Friday, while chugging up a hill and breathing in the invigorating Fall air, a yellow jacket landed on my face, stung me on the ear, then died in my hair.

Then there's my neighbors' home. If we are The Cleavers with our 1950's two story, replete with roses, a rocking chair, geraniums and a red door, they are the Munsters with the plywood of their roof exposed, crab grass, broken fireplace (never fixed from the 1994 earthquake), unfilled pool (minus a shallow pond...those poor mosquitoes need a home, too!) and massive BEE HIVE.

I am fine with this joint looking like a storage unit for hermits. I am not fine my kids dying from West Nile Virus, slipping into his cement eye sore of a swimming hole, or STEPPING ON BEES. The last part has happened twice.

Here's how much of a peacekeeper I am - I have yet to call the city. But my fingers, like the President over the red button during the Cold War, are feeling trigger happy. Then again, with our winds and rain this winter, perhaps Mother Nature will take care of the problem herself. Then Rex and I can buy the lot, bull doze the house, and buy a flock of goats. Then WE can be the irritating neighbors! Baaaaaahhhhhhhhhh!

Happy Thursday.


More of my writing can be found daily at BabyCenter and Good Housekeeping.

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