Stress relief and more insurance.

I need to come clean.

I have ... fantasies.

They usually overtake me while I'm spacing off in traffic. Minding my own business, thinking about work, or how much peanut butter I have and how that equates to how long I can avoid going to the grocery store, or whatever, and suddenly I'm there. I'm in the fantasy. Living the fantasy. And loving it.

You see, when I'm in traffic, I often find myself fantasizing about ... rear ending cars with stupid bumper stickers.

This happens even more than I fantasize about giving makeovers to other drivers. So, you know it happens a lot.

My favorite targets are cars with anti-choice bumper stickers. Particularly old Buicks with anti-choice bumper stickers. Especially Buicks with anti-choice bumper stickers driven by men.

Now, I'm all for freedom of speech and freedom of religion. I'm for freedom of choice. And when I see an old guy driving a Buick plastered with anti-choice bumper stickers? Well, it seems like the equivalent of me wearing a t-shirt that says "Ask me about my vasectomy."

So, there's that. There's also the bumper car aspect of it. Wouldn't it really make your day if you could just rear end a car just to make yourself feel better? If it was a socially accepted way to burn stress - like going to the gym or hitting happy hour?

"How was your day, dear?"

"Well, my boss is a total ass and our quarterly report is going to warrant pay cuts. But I rear ended a Olds Cutlass on the way home, and now I know everything is going to be ok."

Of course, there's this classic bit of cinema for inspiration.



I really think this is a solid idea. And, it will help the economy by sending more business to body shops. It's the American way. A total win-win.

Remember: not rear ending that car in front of you means the terrorists have won.

Lifestyles of the rich and famous.

Last night, it was Sabrina and a Cadbury creme egg. Tonight? Skittles and ... a made-for Hallmark-TV movie starring ... Jaclyn Smith.

Except! Except a good-looking guy just came on the scene, and a quick imdb.com search shows that it's none other than C. Thomas Howell.

Work with me. I'm trying to pretend C. Thomas makes my watching the Hallmark channel a little less lame.

But really? It's lame. Laaaaaaame. Especially since I started watching The Jaclyn Show because I was watching The Golden Girls before that. Again, on the Hallmark channel.

I'm scared.

Yeah, I'm scared of accidentally turning 70 when I'm not paying attention. But mostly? Mostly I'm scared of ... everything.

Online dating is scary. Meeting new people is scary. Opening myself up means setting myself up for rejection. I'm scared of not being good enough. Of not being whatever enough.

And I'm scared of being invisible.

I got called Dorothy at Corporate Behemoth today. In a fit of inspired passive aggression, I wrote on my wipe board:

Hello! My name is ... Cha Cha

Number of times I've been called Dorothy since 4/15/09: I
Number of times I've been called Zsa Zsa since 4/15/09: I

At least Jaclyn never calls me by the wrong name. She loves me just the way I am!

And, I swear I'm sober. I'm just tired. Really, really tired.

Why I'm watching Sabrina and eating a Cadbury creme egg.

We're doing some testing on our language at Corporate Behemoth. For the last several days, I've been listening to folks going through all sorts of text that I carefully, painstakingly crafted.

Today, one of our test participants gave us a lot of feedback. A lot of feedback.

"Oh, I just don't like that at all."

"Check the box? What does that even mean?"

And, of course, my favorite ...

"Who WROTE this?"

I think I'll go take a bath.

Nobody puts Baby in a corner.

Last night I went to a Big Stoopid Gala to support my friend L., who was on the event committee. I knew no one. But it was fun and a great event.

After dinner, I made a pit stop. As I exited the ladies' room, the DJ started playing "I've Had the Time of My Life" from Dirty Dancing. The people? Went nuts. There was much dancing. And as I walked past the dance floor, a man grabbed me and started twirling me around and dancing.

I embrace life. I went with it. I'm not a great dancer and my shoes were killing me, so it took me a moment or two to realize that it wasn't just my lack of moves that caused me to feel on the verge of falling - it was Mr. Dance Guy's lack of balance. And his total, complete inebriation.

I went with it. And never have I realized how frickin' long that song is. But then Mr. Dance Guy put his hand on my rear and all bets were off. I pushed him away. "Watch it, buddy."

"Hey!" he replied. "Sorry - you are just so attractive. Would it help if I told you I'm a doctor?"

Seriously? Did I come here for dinner or a pap smear?

"No, it wouldn't help," I said. "I'm not impressed."

"You're a smart girl," he leered. "What's your name?"

Oh, hell no. "My name is Lola."

He nodded and smirked. "Lola. Yeah. My name is Rajesh. Are you a doctor too?"

Uh? Sure. "Yes. Yes, I'm a doctor."

He smiled. "Yeah, I thought so. Smart, good girls are doctors or lawyers. What sort of doctor are you? Pediatrician? Or gynecologist?"

Oh, shit. It's been a long time since I've mindfucked a drunk. "I'm a psychiatrist."

He appeared nonplussed. "Where do you practice? What hospital? I'm at St. Joseph's."

So, obviously I'm not at St. Joseph's. "I'm not at a hospital - I have a private practice."

He nodded. "Do you know what kind of doctor I am? I'm a gastroenterderlerologist. My mom would like you. She doesn't like the girls I date and wants to know why I'm not married. She wants babies. But I go to the gay bars all the time because I get so much (word I'm not going to type on my blog) there. The girls? Their defenses are down and I get laid all the time!"

I could not buh-lieve that I was having this conversation, and that this guy considered this conversation flirting. I tried to remove myself from the situation, which was sort of like looking away from a car crash. Or Rock of Love Bus.

"Listen, I'm not the girl you're looking for. I have to go find my friends."

"You think just because I'm Indian that I'm not a good lover?"

WHAT? It was also about this time that I realized he was so drunk he was almost cross-eyed.

"Listen," he said, as I continued to back away from him, matching his advances step for step. "I went to a Catholic school in India. Do you know how we started every day? Dear Lord, in heaven, hallowed name, thy kingdom on Earth as heaven, daily bread ..."

Evidently, in Catholic schools in India, they teach an abbreviated version of The Lord's Prayer. Who knew?

After he finished his "prayer," Mr. Dance Guy leaned in. "I bet I have a better vocabulary than you do."

And this is when I couldn't help myself. I laughed in his face. I almost fell down I was laughing so hard. I know enough about the English language to know that gastro - whatever docs deal with bile. And Mr. Dance Guy was obviously well suited for the job.

I just walked away. And about 20 minutes later, security kicked Mr. Dance Guy out of the event.

Bea as you are.

The other day, I passed a church sign that read, "God truly lives. Do you?"

At the time, I was driving home from a blind date, so I thought, "Yes, yes I do truly live. Thank you."

And I figured I got extra credit because the date was with a guy from the Internet, a guy who had berated me for not e-mailing him back in a quick-like fashion. Upon receiving my "Seriously? That doesn't fly" e-mail, he asked if we could cut to the chase and just meet. He was nice enough, but I think we would probably kill each other. And, I'm not down with someone who has the potential to be all, "Uh, you said you'd be here 20 minutes ago and you're late and I'm mad and will be mad instead of asking why you're bandaged head to toe and escorted by the police."

You know?

He sent me an e-mail asking if he could see me again. My response? "You are awesome. But you're probably more awesome for someone else, although I'm a member of your fan club."

Sigh.

Speaking of fan clubs, Poochie is totally a member of The Golden Girls Fan Club. And really, who isn't? We used to watch it every Saturday night at our grandparents' house. As an adult, I now realize there was a lot that I just didn't get watching it as a youngun' - there's actually a lot of blue humor. And it's brilliant.

I felt real, honest sadness today with the passing of Bea Arthur. She was The Coolest Woman Ever. And she was always in on the joke. Good for her. Good for us.

Hey jealousy.

I think I've snapped out of my "I can't believe I'm here (aka single, never married, no kids, giant loser)" funk. I'd like to thank:

1. Take Your Child to Work Day. This morning, the lobby at Corporate Behemoth was filled with nervous young lads and lasses accompanying mom and dad to work. I was on the elevator with an earnest boy of about 9 and his dad. The boy was carrying a Corporate Behemoth bag and looked at his dad for confirmation that they should get off at the 15th floor. I wanted to just eat him with a spoon.

By lunch, the cuteness had ... faded. The cafeteria was filled with slightly frazzled parents and their hyper offspring who couldn't believe that pizza and pop were available for lunch EVERY DAY!

By about 3:30, the parents were easily identifiable: haggard, short-tempered and sporting paper-clip necklaces. They left early.

2. My shrink. We talked - again - about I Can't Believe I'm Here, and she said, "Honey, you are so lucky you didn't marry Ex-Ex! You could have Baby Number One, and Baby Number Two, or maybe Baby Number One and then Twins, and you'd be with that loser or you'd be alone with all those kids! Be glad you're eating cereal and a chocolate chip cookie for dinner."

I lurve her.

3. Poochie. Because he is my friend, always makes me laugh, and has agreed to help paint my house. Who needs a boyfriend when you have a brother who is A Man?

No pictures today. You're welcome.

So, I was being a good doggie mama. Really, I was. I was indulging Lil' Frankfurter in yet another round of his favorite game, Frank Pushes The Tennis Ball Under The Couch And Barks At A Deafening Pitch Until Mama Retrieves It.

Perhaps you've heard of it.

Last night, I even placed rolled towels around the couch, so as to prevent the tennis ball from rolling under the couch. All to no avail. Lil' Frank is really good at Frank Pushes The Tennis Ball Under The Couch And Barks At A Deafening Pitch Until Mama Retrieves It, and so no mere towels could match his mad skillz.

Today, I am evidently a little too slow to drop what I'm doing every 30 seconds to drop to all fours and fish the tennis ball out from under the couch. I'm lazy like that. Obviously.

And so when I handed the ball to Frank, he grabbed it a little too ferociously. And took a good portion of my finger along with it.

You ever have those moments where you stare at a body part (yours) and wonder, "Where's the blood? I know there's gonna be blood. Let's see how much. That's a good test of how awful this injury is. But all I can see is white light! The pain! Gah!" And then you run into the bathroom, cursing your dachshund, and stick your hand under the faucet, and see the blood, and your first reaction is "Oh, shit. I'm not old enough to handle this. I should call my mom." And then you realize that your mom lives four hours away?

You ever have those moments? No? Just me? Oh. Ok.

So, basically, sweet Lil' Frank ripped a good portion of the skin off the top third of my middle finger. I thought I was going to pass out as I stood hunched over the bathroom sink, letting the hot water run over my hand. And then?

Lil' Frank brought the tennis ball into the bathroom. And he nudged it. Carefully. Under the vanity. And then? He started to bark.

At which point I became Mommy Dearest.

In an effort not to incriminate myself to the ASPCA, I'll just state that all three of us are now hanging out on the couch. We are all still alive. Because of the blood loss (or general laziness), I've determined that we really don't need to take a walk tonight.

I've also determined that God just provides, you know? I had no idea what I was going to write about today. And then? Opportunity, like an oozing wound.