It's okay. I am a doctor.

WOODLAND, Calif.— The attorney for a Woodland dentist told jurors that his client massaged women's chests as part of a medical treatment. Defense attorney Michael Rothschild told the six-man, six-woman Yolo County jury that Mark Anderson was treating his female clients for temporomandibular disorder, or TMD. The attorney says the condition affects the muscles of the upper body.

Anderson faces 19 felony charges for skin-to-skin contact and one misdemeanor for touching a patient's breasts over her clothing. The incidents occurred between February 2005 and his arrest in August 2007 and brought complaints from 14 women.

I was just discussing this with my hairdresser. "I don't get why people have to be so suspicious," he said, shaking his head sadly and warming the speculum.

Stop Alien Abductions, and also slightly muss your hair

Here, I thought serial killers were my number one concern, but it seems I had not fully considered the possibility of the alien mind control and subsequent abduction threat, nor that posed by the alien-human hybrids among us. That's two big worries right there. If those lazy-assed killer bees are any closer (Finally! Hello, one major obsession of my youth!), don't tell me this week, okay? February has proven to be a very busy month.

Okay, if you are my boss, totally don't read this, but for the rest of you? I lost two work hours reading every. single. word. on this web site, trying to figure out if, pleasegahhh, it was tongue-in-cheek.

I had a friend all through high school and college, John, who was charming and sweet and very very dry/funny, so dry/funny that more often than not, I had no idea if what he was telling me was a joke. So, this whole stopping telepathy with wire mesh hats thing? Could be a "John," right? Sadly, I think it's an Earnest.

It might be a joke, and for one simple reason:

If -- if -- one were to design a [thought screen helmet] chapeau in order to better block out alien mind control, you'd be better damn sure it would have ear flaps.

Why I am in the closet

I moved. The house into which I moved? Eez Just Wonderful. I don't think, objectively, that it's the best house ever, but up until a few days ago, where I hung my hat included such atmospheric additions as my trash regularly picked and strewn about by a dead ringer for a young Charles Manson (foreshadowing!) and the commuter bus's last call at 2 a.m. I would wake to the air compressed brakes releasing and the clang-clang of automated "next stop" announcements, and sometimes drunken, violent monologues on the sidewalk. In my new home, for nice contrast, there are people who bring over cookies and make eye contact, and there are many actual birds in the trees (and there are trees!), and also I note a glaring lack of fifteen-year-old boys getting arrested in my driveway (see: last summer).

And then . . .

Oh, yes, "And then." Of course, "And then." Jaysus. Where did I think I was, Oz? No, I am in a town once known as the murder capital because of all the murder. So is it any wonder that a previous dweller of this, my new fine home, was completely and utterly killed?

No, she was not killed in this house, and yes, I went kind of freaky anyway. I am thinking about it a lot. A LOT. First, because we are all fascinated by serial killers. And then, I am thinking about it because it's a reminder that life can be pretty damn scary, even without serial killers. But, you know, no diss intended; they do add a lot. And then, okay, there is the whole we-are-divorced-from-the-life-and-death angle. And part of me is relieved because this lowers my own death-by-serial-killer odds quite a bit.

Unless, it -- uhhh, well, increases them.

Oh, crap.

How, you ask, did I deal with this information? I smudged.

My New Englander friends have no idea that A) "smudged" is a past-tense verb, and B) can be verbed. My California buddies, however, are all "Oh, yeah, you gots to smudge and also cast widdershins and maybe get a chant circle."

Also? Drag over something really goddamn heavy to block your front door.

My bitterness needs more letters

I celebrated Valentine's Day Eve by watching "Leaving Las Vegas."

On the cusp of that weekend

No, you'll never have him, but guess what? A friend of mine met him and says Depp is barely four feet tall. And smells like grandma face powder. True story!

We'll get through this Valentine's Weekend, you and me, but by that, I don't mean together, because that would be weird. Besides, I plan to be busy walking the streets of my town looking for Lance Armstrong to ask him for directions to Jake Gyllenhaal.

Let's be quiet now and ponder sweetly his tan line.

Valentine's Day and you're drunk again, and alone

Two Good Movies to Rent When the Rent Boy Has Left:

• "Ghost Town" is a movie made in same-sex heaven. Why Gervais didn't end up with Kinnear after the chemistry they shared is a mystery to me.
  
  
• "Truly Madly Deeply:" He's dead, she's not. Like "Ghost," but with acting.

Once upon a time, I was crazy about a fellow who was crazy about me and so, of course, we both dated and then broke up, over and over and over.

It was one of Those.

So, in a last-ditch attempt to reconnect, he took to me to a movie. A real date!

"Scarface."

Thank God he moved away before "Howard the Duck" was released.

If you want to utterly avoid some disturbing and anatomical duck porn, I suggest you go do not, for any reason, click here.

There. You have been duly warned.

5 Things Improved by Whipped Topping

1. The water fountain at my gym. The water there tastes like tuchus, and, with whipped topping, it would at least taste like dessert tuchus.
   
   
2. Salad.
   
   
3. Puppies - but not cute puppies, just the weird, gooey, cyclops ones no one plays with at the shelter.
   
   
4. My President, Barack Obama. But please don't tell Michelle Obama I said so, because that woman will so, too, cut me.
   
   
5. Tuesdays. Tuesdays really need whipped topping.
   
   

Also --

I think about the Coldplay song, "Viva La Vida," which by the title alone sounds like it should have been sung by Ricky Martin but with less bonbon shaking (Remember the heady, sexy late nineties? Yeah.), and if I were the head of a small country, I would so export something easy like cootie catchers because middle school kids could make them with their chubby, yet wily fingers (and that, my friends, is matching task to talent), and I would import something too obnoxious to deal with on our own, like sheep, which you think would be fun, but actually are terrified by everything and plus are covered in ticks and not glittery ticks, either, but matte ticks. And poop.

6. Sheep would benefit from whipped topping.

Don't Worry, Be Happy

Why I am not here

There is a point in one's pregnancy when everyone thinks you are fat and slovenly. No one knows you are carrying the next Savior, because all they can see is your swollen jaw line and your hideously inflated bazoom region. It is astounding more pregnant women don't start randomly smacking people with long black umbrellas not unlike Mr. Banks, the grumpy father in "Mary Poppins."

Look at him. He knows his away around a good thwacking. Grim old thing. Now, imagine him four months pregnant. Unstoppable.

Well, my house is currently not unlike a bloated, hemorrhoidal woman starting her second trimester. You cannot tell I am moving -- it simply appears, if you were to peer in the front door and see the piles of clothes and the bits of cardboard and the grimy rug (because who vacuums while packing? Even if packing takes two weeks? And is that a dessicated black bean under the table or something much worse? Are there actual gnomes poohing on the rug?), as if I am Disgusting.

I am having a terrifically hard time with this move -- in my mind. On the outside, I cheerfully throw even more junk into boxes and wield a mean tape gun. The last time I moved, I was somewhat underfunding my life and I wrote about it and then strangers called me to talk about Reaganomics and anarchy -- apparently, there are some folks out there who know where Father hides his computer and go right to it when home on a day pass.

So, this move, this time, without the Crazy? Much better. But I still cannot find my pants.

25 Things Improved By Adding Glitter

1. Poop. Yes, I said it.
   
   
2. Ticks. I personally have a somewhat unnatural total freaking loathing of ticks and I know that's only holding me back in all the ways of my life. Woods? I sense lurking ticks! Not going in there. Grasses? Tick heaven! But now, I am thinking, What if ticks were glittery? A). I could spot them more easily and then run away even more effectively, and, B). Pretty!
   
   
3. Bills. How about if every time you open a bill from your dentist, glitter flies out? Yay! It's like having your own Rip Taylor right in your living room. But with glitter. And, no, he's not dead and yes, I, too, was surprised.
   
   
4. Ghosts. seriously, who would be afraid of a ghost if it was all sparkly? You'd be all, "Hey, Ghost. Can I braid your hair?"
   
   
5. Sex. Just at the end, because that would be teh awesome.

And then!
Someone just wrote in to point out that I am missing some 20 more things that should involve glitter and I am all, hello? I am not a mathematician! It's time some of us lower our expectations, don't you think? And also, the glitter/sex thing? It could backfire (no pun intended). What if you "glittered" and your partner did not? Right? Like throwing a parade and not inviting someone, but with genitals. So now I am thinking, what if we redid this whole idea, with balloons?

Get Your Shop On! Day [hot and sweet, with a side of cold milk]

Okay, folks, we're in the home stretch here. It's almost Valentine's Day and if you plan to order a gift and have it mailed, rather than buy it in the old-school/stand-in-line/wave-your-rapidly-thinning-wallet-around fashion, you've almost run out of time. But, hey, a perfectly chosen, last-minute, lolcats e-card is supercrazyhawt romantic, too, and sure to get you laid.

Not really. You are pretty much screwed.

But not the way you like, with the boots and the yelling.

For those of you who need to buy that one perfect thing and are willing to spend extra on "I screwed up by not preplanning and am admitting it to myself" Amazon shipping? Well, for you, my friend, I feel the need to change the mood. Just a little.

That's right, Baby. Dim the lights And get ready to go a la mode.

The Cookie Sutra

Get Your Shop On! Day "Let's Give Up"

The ol' V Day can be grim - you think I don't know? I know from grim. Valentine's Day was once dubbed by me "Black Thursday." (It was, that year, you will be horrified to know, on a Thursday.)

And yet, how could one soak in a tub, even a tub filled with one's own bitter, hot tears, with this below the surface?

Mr. Suicide Bathtub Plug.

Get your shop on! Day [apathy].

Mr. Poops, a squeeky toy.

Get your shop on! Day Hungover.

It sticks to the underside of your toilet with suction cups!

In the water!


Surprise!

It's Tinkles the Toilet Cat.

The theme song is the best part:

It's Tinkles! It's Tinkles!
The cat who can hold his breath!
It's Tinkles!
It's Tinkles!
Your streptococcus, staph-covered,
Salmonella and
feces-saturated cat!