Problem: My car wonít go backwards. After yesterdayís Businesswomenís Club board meeting, I backed out of a parking space, but as I was pulling forward, I realized I hadnít backed out far enough. But tough cookies, because my car stopped going backwards. Like an awesome professional woman, I had to get out of my car, put my hands on that filthy hood, and shove that rustbucket backwards.
Solution: Buy me a pony.
Problem: Iím tired.
Solution: Book me a ticket to Columbia, so I can eat coffee beans straight off of theÖ branch? Bush? What do coffee beans grow on, anyways?
Problem: I am SO BORING. Iím chairing this HUGE cancer society fundraiser, and the main event is Friday. Itís in a new location, with 10 new teams and a few dozen brand-new volunteers. It is all I can think about or talk about. My brain is consumed by audio wiring, campsite maps, childrenís activities, and electrical issues. Boring!
Solution: Come to my fundraiser! Just because Iíd hate to do all this damn work, plus bore the crap out of my friends and loved ones, for nothing.
Problem: Itís mosquito season in full force, and Iím covered in itchy bumps.
Solution: Buff me to a high-gloss finish.
Problem: Iím leaving for Los Angeles next week, and I donít know what to pack. I also donít have time to think about what to pack.
Solution: Cast me in some sort of reality show that results in a new wardrobe for me. Put that new wardrobe in a new suitcase while youíre at it, okay?
Problem: While in L.A., I am going to be in the studio audience of The Price Is Right. In order to hear those magical words, ďJamie Star, come on down!Ē I need a shirt that says something clever. My favorite idea so far is ďLet Me Showcase My Showdown,Ē but CBS sucks and will not choose me if they think my shirt is in any way sexual, and I donít MEAN it to be dirty, but Iím paranoid that Bob Barker will perceive it that way.
Solution: Send me an idea. No, seriously. Click that email link and tell me what to put on my shirt. Imagine the thrill of watching The Price Is Right, and seeing YOUR slogan emblazoned across my nubile breasts! You know you want it.
Problem: Iím meeting Bill and possibly Johnny (even though I havenít even emailed Johnny yet, and Iím pretty sure he doesnít know I exist) for cocktails while on the West Coast, and Bill told me he knows where Spike from Buffy lives, and he dares me to knock on his front door and then say, ďOops! Wrong house!Ē AndÖ. I REALLY WANT TO DO IT. This is probably a bad idea.
Solution: Post my bail when Iím arrested for trespassing and possibly public intoxication. (And maybe indecent exposure, because if youíre going to go down, you might as well do it in flames. And naked.)