Snakes are a plane

Here's the worst nightmare for those of us who are afraid of snakes: A few Asian species that fly through the air.

Today's Washington Post has an interesting article about the gliding snakes here. Warning: The article has an accompanying video of one of these "mildly venomous" snakes wriggling its way through thin air. Brr.

Only thing more terrifying? The U.S. Department of Defense is studying the snakes in search of new flying machine designs.

I won't be getting any sleep tonight.

Lessons learned

The used SUV we bought for our sons came with a lugnut-style lock on the rear-mounted spare tire. But no key.

A special type of star-shaped key was needed to unscrew the lock. We couldn't find a matching one anywhere. I tried auto parts stores, hardware stores, tire shops. Nobody could help. The advice I universally got was to hammer a socket onto the chrome lugnut lock, then ratchet them both off. I tried this several times, buying expensive jumbo sockets each time, and could never get it to work. I showed the lock to friends with power tools. I hit it with a hammer. I tried anything to avoid an expensive trip to the locksmith.

This went on for months and months. Always, somewhere in the back of my mind, was my losing battle with this lock. If I forgot about it, the car promptly got a flat, which required a full emergency rescue and served as a reminder that the spare was useless as long as that lock was in the way.

Finally, I broke down. Yesterday, teeth clenched against the expected expense, we took the car to a locksmith. The locksmith used an expansion socket, which is tapered inside, and had the lock off of there in minutes. The cost? Eight bucks.

I'd spent three times that much on sockets that I subsequently ruined with a hammer. Not to mention the hundreds of dollars spent on antacids and headache remedies and booze. All trying to avoid that expensive trip to the locksmith. Duh.

Two lessons here that we've all heard before, but bear repeating:

1) Use the right tool for the job.

2) Leave it to the experts.

It's much easier to write a check than to jury-rig a solution that probably won't work and may result in personal injury. Often, the experts don't cost as much as we fear. Besides, you can make up the cost with savings on booze.

Gab bag

Got fear? Odds are, if someone wants you to make a little speech, you're feeling anxious and afraid.

Fear of public speaking is the most common social phobia, experts say, affecting 75 percent of the population. More people fear public speaking than fear spiders, snakes, scorpions, toddlers, you name it. Some people are so afraid of speaking in public that they get actual physical symptoms, such as nausea, stuttering or trouser dampness.

There's a name for this fear: Glossophobia. You'd think fear of public speaking would be Podiaphobia or something melodic like that, but no, it's glossophobia, from the Greek "glosso," meaning tongue, and "phobia," meaning fear. Fear of tongue! Those wacky, fun-loving Greeks!

I give a lot of speeches in my job. Fortunately, I'm one of the lucky 25 percent of Americans who do not fear speaking in public. I'm afraid of everything else, but not public speaking. In fact, I'm so comfortable at a podium that I've been diagnosed with Hypo-Anxiety Modality, or HAM, which means that, once I start talking, the only way to shut me up is to send everyone home and turn off the lights.

But I recognize that not everyone is lucky enough to be a HAM. Nervous public speakers find that any kind of talk, from a short presentation at work to a commencement address to an extended eulogy, can be cause for alarm. For you glossophobics out there, we offer the following tips:

DO be prepared. Write out your speech ahead of time rather than trying to "wing it." Last time we looked, you had no wings. A little rehearsal never killed anybody.

DON'T read directly from the written speech the whole time. Look up occasionally. Try to act as if you're talking to a friend rather than droning on from some printed document.

DO speak slowly and clearly. You are not an auctioneer.

DON'T speak so slowly that you hypnotize the audience.

DO make gestures for emphasis and to keep the crowd's attention, but keep the gestures subtle and gentle. Jerky, broad movements make people think of Hitler.

DON'T wink and give a "thumbs up." Former President Clinton ruined that one for everybody.

DO pause for effect. Also, if you're lucky enough to get applause or laughter, give it time to run its course. Don't talk all over applause; it makes the audience unwilling to offer any more.

DON'T pause in expectation of applause. The audience will let you know when. If you look around for someone to start clapping and no one does, you will embarrass yourself and others, and you might actually melt into the floor.

DO find a friendly face in the audience. Tell yourself you're talking to that one person, not a multitude.

DON'T, however, stare at that person the whole time. Staring gives people the creeps, and may cause the recipient to run screaming from the room.

DON'T picture the audience members in their underwear. This feat of imagination is often recommended to anxious speakers as a way to help them relax, a reminder that the audience members put their boxers on one leg at a time, too. But this doesn't work unless the audience is extremely attractive. In most cases, picturing the audience in its underwear will produce giggling or mild nausea.

The main thing to remember is that, in most cases, the audience is on your side. They want you to succeed in your presentation. They want to be entertained and informed. They're there because they're interested in what you have to say.

So relax. Probably very few, if any, audience members are picturing you in your underwear. Really.

Second thoughts

Here's an ugly little secret: We parents sometimes look at our children and ask ourselves this question: "What the hell were we thinking, having kids?"

Yeah, yeah, we love our children more than anything. They bring great joy to every day. And if, God forbid, something ever happened to them, it would leave a hole in our souls that could never be filled.

BUT . . . once in a while, their behavior is such that we can't help but have second thoughts about the whole parenting deal.

These unwelcome thoughts usually come as we witness our children do something so incredibly goofy or disgusting or downright dangerous that we parents can do little more than stand there slack-jawed, poleaxed by the foolhardiness of youth.

Kids feel compelled to try everything, no matter how hazardous or filthy it may seem. They're experiencing the world first-hand, and they must push the limits. It's their job.

The fact that we parents have gone there before, that we can warn them of the possible results of their actions, means nothing. We didn't listen to our parents when they told us get down from there/sit down/shut up/be careful/don't put that in your mouth/stay away from the "wrong crowd." Why do we expect such warnings will work with the next generation?

Yet we try to warn them. It doesn't work. They do it anyway. And it's then -- and this step often occurs on the way to the emergency room -- that we secretly think, "We could've lived our lives child-free. We could be sipping daiquiris on a beach somewhere, unfettered by worry and fear and impending college tuition. What the hell were we thinking?"

Take, for example, tree-climbing. If there are trees within 30 square miles of your home, your kids are climbing them. You may have told them to stay out of trees. You may even think they've obeyed. But somewhere, right now, your kid is up a tree, hanging on for dear life.

We parents know tree-climbing is dangerous; many of us have the scars to prove it. You don't see adults climbing trees and hanging from the branches like chimps, not unless they're professional tree-trimmers who get paid to do it (and you have to wonder about those guys). But a kid sees a tree as a challenge, a gangly Everest. It must be climbed because it is there.

Before you know it, you're outside with a ladder, trying to get a frozen-with-fear child down out of the high branches. Or, worse, calling the fire department. And those dreaded second thoughts come to the fore.

Another example: Sock-skating. We adults know that if you spend enough time sliding across hardwood floors in your sock feet, you eventually will bust your butt. But to a kid, it's irresistible. Why? Because it's fun (and there's an alien concept to a parent if ever there was one).

We parents may say we're all for having fun, but when we're standing over a squawling child, examining the injured area for any sign of a broken tailborne, we might secretly question our life choices.

And that's just the dangerous stuff. There's a whole universe of behaviors that are simply annoying: bickering, slamming doors, talking back, breaking stuff, spilling, bed-trampolining, crying, more spilling, wheedling, nose-picking, midnight upchucking, homework avoiding, yet more spilling.

We wouldn't put up with such behavior from another adult. If, say, a co-worker came to your house and started jumping on your bed while spilling his Big Gulp and shouting the taunt, "Neener, neener, neener," you'd toss him out on the street.

But when our kids do the same thing, we sigh and tell them -- for the thousandth time -- to cut it out. And they respond by running outside and getting stranded up a tree. In their sock feet.

Why do we put up with it all? Because they're our kids and we love them. Because they're so damned cute. Because we know they must learn some lessons for themselves. Because we believe that, with enough patience and fortitude, we can eventually teach them to behave like humans.

But, on the inside, unknown to the kids, we sometimes wonder, "What were we thinking?"

Hunker in the bunker

In these troubled times of international saber-rattling, missile-wielding madmen, rising gasoline prices and daily "booga-booga" terrorism alerts, nobody could blame Americans for wanting to spend all their time at home.

Our homes are comforting hidey-holes, quiet sanctuaries where we can shut out the tumult of this crazy, mixed-up world. They're the only places where we'll feel relatively safe for the foreseeable future or, at least, until the next presidential election.

But there are dangers to hunkering down at home. Chief among these: You can become a hermit, cut off from friends and relatives and fellow citizens.

The isolation hazard is especially severe for those of us who work in home offices. If we don't have to leave the house to go to a job, why leave at all? Next thing you know, we're indoors all the time, unwashed and ungroomed, fearfully monitoring CNN and mumbling to ourselves.

It's a fine line between cautious "cocooner" and full-blown paranoid, crazy-as-an-outhouse-rat hermit. But how to tell the difference? If you spend all your time at home, how do you know you haven't already crossed the line?

What follows is a handy quiz for determining whether you've become a wartime hermit. Ask yourself the following questions:

--Do you spend more than 22 hours a day inside your home?

--Are you afraid to fly? To drive? To walk in any position other than a crouch?

--Is your only form of human interaction via e-mail?

--Do you remember the names of your neighbors? Your friends? Your children?

--Can you use the term "cocooning" without smirking?

--Do you carefully monitor the federal government's indicators of terrorism danger? Can you recite the color code by heart?

--Do sonic booms make you "duck and cover?"

--Do you watch so much television news that you've started referring to the anchormen by their first names? Do you find yourself harboring a "crush" on Wolf Blitzer?

--Do you consider television to be a "weapon of mass destruction?"

--Do you keep careful written inventory of your duct tape, flashlight batteries and canned goods?

--Does your idea of "casual wear" include a gas mask? Kevlar pajamas?

--Have you drilled your family on how to respond in case of an airborne bioterrorism gas attack? Have the drills included seeing how long you can hold your breath? Have they included the phrase, "Pull my finger?"

--Do you have a backyard bomb shelter? How about an "entrenching tool?"

--Do your neighbors describe you as "a quiet person who always kept to himself?"

--Do your neighbors provide such descriptions to the FBI?

--Are you afraid of strangers? Arabs? The French? All foreigners? Men with mustaches? The Avon lady? Teen-agers who wear their baseball caps backward? Your mother-in-law?

--Do you answer to the term "shut-in?"

--If you encounter a stranger and he smiles at you, is your first reaction: "What's wrong with that guy? Maybe I should call the FBI!"

--Are you so lonely that you welcome calls from telemarketers? What about obscene phone calls?

--Do you fantasize about visiting the airport, just to get a strip-search?

If you answered "yes" to any of these questions, then you're in danger of becoming too isolated, also known as "Hermit Code Orange." You should immediately get up and go outside and breathe some fresh air. Maybe have a chat with your neighbors.

If it goes all right, signal to the rest of us hermits that it's safe to come out. Send word via CNN.

Triage for parents

It has come to our attention here at the beehive-like corporate headquarters of The Home Front that you, the unwashed public, know as much about first aid as your average honeydew.

You may feel confident that you could handle any emergency, but how much do you really know? For example, could you adequately perform STP or the Heineken Maneuver if a loved one's life was in danger?

Of course you couldn't. You'd be crying and running around like the proverbial headless poultry. Serious emergencies are nothing to fool around with, and they're the reason we put up with telemarketers calling us 17 times a day. For real emergencies, we have phones. We dial 911 and professional live-saving types come running.

No, first aid is not for amateurs. But then, most household emergencies don't require a professional. Most fall into the category of (and we don't want to get too technical here): "Owies."

Parents by necessity become household doctors, performing triage on burns and bites and scrapes and bruises several times a day. By the time our children are grown, we have spent as much time taking temperatures as your average veterinarian.

But it takes a while for parents to learn how to make the treatment age-appropriate. When ministering to scrapes and other minor wounds, emotional comfort is as important as actual physical pain relief. Some parents overdo it. Others, especially those with older children, sometimes require actual pools of blood to make them get up off the couch.

What parents need are standardized triage procedures, so they'll know how to react when faced with minor injuries among children of all ages. We here at the Home Front propose the following:

FOR CHILDREN UNDER AGE 3:
Step 1 -- Parent should panic.
Step 2 -- Run around crazily.
Step 3 -- Take deep breaths and get a grip on yourself. Child will be screaming until red in face, so don't try to quiet him yet. Steel yourself and examine wound.
Step 4 -- Feel faint.
Step 5 -- More deep breaths. Tell anyone who'll listen, "It will be all right. It will be all right."
Step 6 -- Get out handy first aid kit. Carefully clean wound while child howls. Apply the following: spray-on sunburn reliever, antiseptic, petroleum jelly, mercurochrome, iodine, aloe vera, ginseng, diaper cream and various ointments.
Step 7 -- Bandage wound.
Step 8 -- Give wound several kisses.
Step 9 -- Comfort child. Bribe with cookies until quietly hiccuping. (The child, not you.)

FOR CHILDREN AGE 4 to 6:
Step 1 -- Parent should panic.
Step 2 -- Run around crazily.
Step 3 -- Shush child until he stops squirming and screaming and lets you take a look.
Step 4 -- Say, "Aw, that's not so bad."
Step 5 -- Find first aid supplies. Carefully clean wound while child howls.
Step 6 -- Bandage wound.
Step 7 -- Give the wound several kisses.
Step 8 -- Comfort child. Bribe with ice cream until quiet.

FOR CHILDREN AGE 7 to 10:
Step 1 -- Sigh heavily and say, "Not again."
Step 2 -- Grunt up off the sofa and trot around crazily.
Step 3 -- Chase child until he'll hold still long enough to let you look.
Step 4 -- Examine wound. Say, "Is that what all the caterwauling's about? That's nothing."
Step 5 -- Tell child, "We have bandages somewhere. Go look for them."
Step 6 -- Assuming child returns, give wound a kiss.
Step 7 -- Bribe with Pokemon cards. Return to sofa.

FOR CHILDREN AGE 11 to 14:
Step 1 -- Parent should wake up.
Step 2 -- Walk around crazily until fully awake.
Step 3 -- Make child limp to where parent is waiting.
Step 4 -- Examine wound. Say, "Aw, I've had worse than that on my eyeball."
Step 5 -- Blow wound a kiss.
Step 6 -- To make child be quiet, bribe with money.

FOR CHILDREN AGE 15 and up:
Step 1 -- Parent should open one eye.
Step 2 -- Grunt knowingly. Say, "Walk it off."
Step 3 -- Pucker up, knowing child will respond, "Gross! Haven't you ever heard of germs?"
Step 4 -- Bribe with car keys.
Step 5 -- Close eye.