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I've always been an uneasy flyer. I'm just not that fond of any mode of transportation that may require an oxygen mask or bobbing around in the Pacific Ocean hanging onto a 1" inch-thick seat cushion praying that the flight attendant wasn't yanking my chain when she said the damn thing would float. I also don't like sharing the onboard port-a-can with 143 strangers whose toilet habits often leave something to be desired.

Given my flying history, I have perfectly legitimate reasons to get queasy whenever I'm standing in my stocking feet being felt up by a TSA agent with latex gloves and a facial tic. I indistinctly remember traveling overseas in the 60s in what seemed to be a cargo plane, surrounded by crates of oranges that were also making the trek to Frankfurt, Germany. Of course, there is a possibility this was just a dream I had, but it definitely shaped the way I feel about air travel, so I'm counting it as real one way or the other.

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A long time ago, I learned CPR and the Heimlich Maneuver. As a child I had dreamed of becoming a superhero, but by then it was clear that that wasn't going to work out (perhaps because my fair skin prevented me from flying close to the sun). So I opted for the next best thing, and for years was happy with the knowledge that if anyone around me were to choke on a pickle or go into cardiac arrest while trying playing naked Twister, I could come to their rescue. I never told anyone, but I secretly referred to myself as Rescue Girl.

Back when I was trained, CPR required a certain level of math skill. You had to give some number of breaths (five? fifteen? x - y = 3z?) mouth-to-mouth, then compress the victim's chest a bunch of times, then repeat until either the paramedics arrived or passed out from the effort. The whole activity required a slide rule and a Tic Tac, which may have been the reason most people hesitated to sign up for training. In fact, if my class was any indication, most of the people who did sign up considered kissing a vinyl mannequin named "Manny" just kinky enough that it beat out playing Dungeons and Dragons all afternoon.

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Every other week, I do stand-up comedy in a spot that when it is not a comedy club, is a place for people with fetishes to congregate. According to www.dictionary.com, a fetish is "any object or nongenital part of the body that causes a habitual erotic response or fixation." According to my experience hanging out in a fetish club, a fetish is "anything you can dress in or do that will freak out your parents when you take a picture with your cell phone and send it to them for their anniversary." According to the photos along one wall of the place, rubber suits, thigh high boots, studded dog collars and bustiers made completely of used license plates stolen off cars in the parking lot all fit the bill, costume-wise. As does dressing like a Peep, but that only works at Easter.

Let me try to describe this club. First, the walls are painted in a Dante's Inferno theme (you never see that on HGTV!). There is a giant stuffed swordfish mounted on one wall, as if leaping from the flames. I guess if I were a giant swordfish, I'd also leap if I were on fire, but the sight of the thing creeps me out. I'm fine with a satanic paint scheme, but the incongruity disturbs me.

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I do not want to know about your sex life. Really. I mean it.

If you had a mistress for two years because your marriage was falling apart and you figured after all that nagging, you deserved a little something something, please keep it to yourself. If you somehow scraped together $80,000 from the office petty cash fund so you could pay for hookers half your age because you're an almost 50-year old man who is rapidly losing his hair, kindly zip it. And if you've just had a penis extension and now all the ladies are happy in bed, please, please don't feel the need to e-mail me and let me know. (What, by the way, is a penis extension? Is it like a hair extension and you clip it on? And how does that work to make the ladies happy?)

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I pity Moses. He had to drag two heavy stone tablets down from the mountain top (so I've heard, it's not like I was actually there), only to have the Pope keep creating his own Top Ten Sins list. Last year, road rage, alcohol abuse, and rude language were added to the list, and just this week, we're told that pollution, drug abuse, genetic experiments, and wearing Spandex if you're over 50 are all now no-no's of biblical proportion.

If you think about it, it makes perfect sense to keep adding sins. Let's face it, Moses' original list isn't working so well. Just ask Elliott Spitzer (thou shalt not commit adultery with a high priced hooker named Kirsten). Or Simon Cowell (thou shalt not make for yourself an idol). Or Dick Cheney (thou shalt not worship false gods, including Satan, aka, yourself). Or George W. Bush (thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's property, even if said neighbor is in a country far-far-away and you can't pronounce his last name.)

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I'm really not an old fuddy duddy (OFD). Statistically speaking, I'm just a youngish thing (thank you Baby Boomers for skewing the curve!). And I don't believe either a fuddy and duddy would be caught dead in a lime green bra like I'm wearing right now.

But today I feel like an OFD. All because I decided, finally, to get an MP3 player. I've held out this long because I really didn't have a reason to have all my favorite tunes at my fingertips 24/7. I have a radio and CD player in my car and when I'm outside walking around, I actually - I know this will come as a shock to some of you - enjoy talking to people and, like, listening to stuff that's going on around me. Weird, right?

However, since I recently joined a gym whose music would make my ear drums bleed if I didn't stuff sweat socks in my ear canals, I decided that now was the time to go high tech. So I headed to Radio Shack. Okay, yeah, I realize that the only people who shop at Radio Shack are geeks and fuddy duddies, but I'm a card-carrying geek (my membership number is 16.478 p³. ) Besides, the guys at Radio Shack usually only have two or three choices of whatever you're looking for and I like that. Plus, they never expect me to know anything. I LOVE that.

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Oh goody, Ralph Nader is running for president again! I bet John McCain is just giddy. Not just because Ralphie is likely to pilfer away a few Democratic votes, but because there's finally someone in the race older than he is! The Ralphster is 74, while John, "Don't Call Me Mellencamp" McCain is a sprightly 71. I guess Ralph will be attaching himself to a young blonde trust-busting attorney anytime now to make himself look virile and studly (because it so works so well for Johnny boy).

I'm not getting any younger either, but I find myself longing for some younger blood in my government. Perhaps some with less plaque and tartar. It doesn't help that the average age of the Supreme Court is 67, with John Paul Stevens weighing in at 87 and 2/3 years old. I know that 50 is the new 30, but eighty-something is eighty-something, even if you are wearing new trifocals.

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I constantly need to be reminded that the old adage, "If it seems too good to be true, it is." It's just my natural optimistic personality, I guess, but I want to believe there's a free lunch, that one good turn deserves another, that anything that can go wrong will do so in the middle of the night while I'm asleep.

Such was the case last week when a perky woman called me on the phone at dinner time. And yes, I DO pick up the phone during dinner - it could be Oprah calling to tell me that my novel has been chosen as her book club selection and I'm about to become richer than my wildest dreams. It's my version of the lottery.

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A friend of mine recently asked me to help give her dogs a bath. I said, yes, of course, no problem. Mostly because I was thinking how easy it is to bathe my dachshunds - I simply lift them into the half-filled tub, squirt a little doggy shampoo on, and suds away.

Debbie, however, has big dogs. Personally, I think they're horses wearing dog tags to fool the neighbors. She says they're mixed breeds - perhaps one of the breeds is Shetland Pony? Obviously, these are not the kinds of dogs who fit into your standard-size bathtub without some type of Origami-folding trick. In fact, I'm pretty sure there's not room for one horse/dog and Debbie in her bathroom at the same time. Not without removing a wall.