What are you afraid of?

Jann Arden tweeted today "NEVER tell people what you're afraid of."

Well, I certainly couldn't tweet it because 140 characters even times 400 wouldn't take care of everything that I'm afraid of.

Brooke Shields: I have recurring nightmares in which she's chewing on my shoulder. CHEWING, not nibbling. And I can feel her eyelashes.

Fork in the neck: Just what happened to that frog in Grade 7 in the sadistic science teacher's insane classroom of horrors. I have to sit with my back to the wall wherever I go and airplanes are a constant upset. The fact that its spleen juice shot into my eye upon puncture, necessitating a trip to the emergency eye wash station on the very first day I ever in my life wore mascara? I think that was karma announcing itself. What if it is not yet done with me??

Bug under pillow: All pillows, everywhere, even hospitals. Even when stoned on morphine because of a broken kneecap, I squirmed up and around, upsetting the bedpan, to make sure that there were no bugs under the pillow. In Alberta. In the winter.

Pee dye: When you get to be of a certain age, continence is no longer a guarantee. I don't think I'm there yet, but it's coming. I would never EVER on purpose pee in anyone's pool, but what if a little happened and I was trailed by tell-tale green dye, letting everyone know I might be the sort of person who might just pee in someone else's pool. The smell of chlorine now fills me with a sense of criminality sort of like crossing borders with nothing to declare does.

Banana shortage: WHAT WOULD I DO.

Snake in midnight toilet: Obviously.

My dog knows when I'm lying: And is judging me.

"Tell me another one, sugar."

That this look of aloof disdain has nothing to do with his essential houndiness and everything to do with being disappointed in me. That he writes things down and one day everyone will know that I often do not walk him as often or for as long as I should.

The chair will collapse: In the restaurant and everyone will laff and I will have guacamole in my hair. Only Mexican restaurants affect me in this way.

My fingernails are just waiting to shatter, right up to the elbow: I believe this requires no further comment.

I will run someone over without realizing it and then everyone will think that not only am I a killer, but I am a heartless killer: So let me just try to clear that up right now. If I run you over, I'm really sorry about that and I really truly didn't do it on purpose. It's probably just that Leonard Cohen came on the radio and I had to make an emergency swiping gesture or put my fingers in my ears.

There you have it. And that's just what I could come up with in the last 5 minutes. We should totally grab a drink and talk more about me (or, I guess, you) one of these days. But not in a Mexican restaurant. Gracias.

Confession: I Hate Cuddly Pup

Every 25 school days, Kid comes home from kindergarten with a cow-themed satchel containing. . . . nope, not a cow, but "Cuddly Pup," a small stuffed dog who spends overnight at each child's home and brings with him a math book, some spelling and reading exercizes and a journal in which each happy child is to draw or describe the thrilling adventures had with Cuddly.

We had CP for six days over the holiday and had not a thing to share with the class come Tueday morning when school was back in. I desperately flung him into the red vehicle on the way to swimming lessons and then stuffed him, it, whatever, into the locker while Kid was in the pool and then tried to make it look like we'd been to the pool as a family, remembered to take CP and carefully documented the whole madcap go-round of gaiety. Kid was having none of it. "Dude," he says to me he says, "we COULD write that we imprisoned Cuddly Pup in a dark locker with only my Spiderman underpants to keep him company while we had fun. That would be the truth."

This whole taking care of Cuddly Pup thing is kind of the last straw with me. I have enough to do without worrying about the wellbeing of an understuffed toy that, frankly, smells kind of yucky and wants me to do math with a five-year-old. Five year olds should do math only to the extent that it enables them not to know how much things cost, whether five jellybeans is less or more than eight jellybeans and that clocks do sometimes run backwards, meaning that bedtime tonight is at 7 and not 8 because 7 really is 8 just for this once.

Teachers. I can tell they're going to be a problem already.