Two executives discussing a current day adapatation of "Wonder Woman."

"Wonder Woman - A movie about a hot Amazon woman in vinyl underwear who fights crime..."

"Why does she have to fight crime?"

"Not sure. Scratch that. Wonder Woman - A movie about an Amazon womn in vinyl underwear who hangs out..."

"Does she need to be called 'Wonder Woman?' Sounds a little threatening...How about Hot Woman?"

"Ok, Hot Woman - a show about a woman who wears a vinyl costume."

"Does she have to be called 'Woman?' That sounds kind of old..."

"Ok, it's a show called 'Hot Girl' about a girl wearing a vinyl costume."

"Why is she wearing a vinyl costume? Won't she seem delusional?"

"Hmmmmm, another good point. Maybe she's an S&M worker at night, and an executive by day."

"Hot Girl: High powered S&M girl."

"Love it."

Just for today, I wish "Wonder Woman" would make it to the big (or little) screen.

I ran into an old boyfriend (or something like that) at Trader Joe's on the day before Thanksgiving.

"My wife's pregnant again!" he said immediately upon seeing me.

I guess he's gotten over me.

For years his memory kind of haunted me, as it was filed under Stupid Things You Do In Your Twenties. (Not a short list). When we met I had just broken up with someone and in between arduous tormented relationships. Ok, so I was "rebounding." But what could I do? I didn't want to be alone and he had a hot English accent. Interestingly, he still has it. (I wouldn't change it, either). We began dating a few months before Thanksgiving and so when the holiday rolled around, he invited me to spend it with his peeps.

While I'm hardly qualified to write a book about dating, it's probably not rocket dating science to say that spending a family holiday with someone you hardly know when you're hardly interested in a relationship is not a good idea. But he wouldn't take no for an answer. It was just dinner and he really wanted me to meet his friends! It would be fun! Since he wasn't raised in the US, I figured the holiday felt like Christmas to Jewish people. Being the codependent that I am/was I couldn't say the one monosyllabic word that would set me free..."no."

A very, very, very, very...VERY uncomfortable Thanksgiving ensued. (I want to say "awkward" but that word has reached a saturation point in the zeitgeist). I remember l feeling the eyes of his friends upon me all night. They could smell my lack of interest. I looked at my watch and waited for the pie. Thanksgiving never felt so wrong. (Yes, it has...but this time I felt wrong).

A few days later I told him it wasn't going to work out. He gave me an appropriate amount of guilt and hate. Two things that work like a charm.

Nonetheless, he survived. I did not scar him for life. I probably didn't even create a scab. He seemed happier than any man I'd ever seen while showing me pictures of his children. I felt so much relief.

Just for today, I'm codependent no more.

"I'm going to make pies for Thanksgiving," I told my Mom on the phone tonight.

"Good," she replied.

Only it sounded more like "Good!" as in "Finally!" or "It's about freakin' time!"

Of course, a pie is not a grandchild. But at least I'm moving in the right direction. Strong nurturing women make pies. They have kids, too. But we're settling for pies right now.

"What do I do first?"

"Buy Libby's canned pumpkin pie and read the instructions..."

Somehow, I thought it would be a little more complicated and "foody-ish."

"Buy a Marie Callendar's pie crust..."

"Why don't I just buy a Marie Callendar's pie?"

I, clearly, suck at making pies.

Just for today, I can plan for Thanksgiving.

I had a dream that I told Gwyneth Paltrow how much money I spent on clothes last month.

"That's not that much money," she replied. "That's nothing."

I woke feeling much more comfortable with my sense of entitlement. Shoot, Gwyneth has a bowling alley of shoes. What's the big deal with spending half a car payment on denim?

Just for today, I can remember my dreams.

I'm helping my co-worker disepense of his children's extraneous Halloween candy (fine, he stole it). He stashed away the Reese's Peanut Butter Cup and Almond Joys per my request. All the other scavengers are left to sift through the M&M's, Snickers and Milky Way, which have somehow fallen upon hard times on the candy hierarchy. I remember when Snicker's was still cool. In fact, I think I remember when Snickers came on the scene and my friends and I used to say, "Snickers really is satisfying!" Advertising worked on me like a charm.

Somehow we began talking about Stix by Jolly Rancher, a hard candy which consisted of a large flattened jolly roger, sort of like a rectangular tongue depressor. I used to buy the "Fire" flavor, which I thought made me cool because it was too hot for my friends who always got "Watermelon" or "Green Apple." I figured since I was Mexican I knew how to eat hot things. But no matter the flavor, that thing lasted all day. The problem came when the tip got too thin and the experience was like sucking on a shard of glass. Eventually, I would stab my tongue or mouth, but by that point I was pretty much drunk from sucking on pure sugar and couldn't feel the pain anyway. I'm pretty sure that's why it's no longer on the market. It wouldn't surprise me if some kids figured out how to use their sucked on Stix as weapons.

I couldn't find it anywhere on the Internet (though, the Internet stopped working for searches last year).

Just for today, I'm nostalgic for random things.

"What are you reading?" said Guy I Work With.

I'm sitting alone in the cafeteria at work. It's high school all over again.

"Uh...a book written by a psychotherapist who claims to be chanelling Jesus Christ."

Awkward moment.

"Oh."

I don't have the energy to keep my freak flag under wraps anymore. But we work together so he has no choice but to talk to me.

I don't consider myself religious in the slightest bit. But having been traumatized throughout my childhood by a highly dramatic fantasy world, also known as the Catholic faith, I consider any positive association to JC (besides the musical) a therapeutic necessity. My first communion school teacher swore on all our souls that if we ever used the words, "God Damn," without following them with ten Our Fathers and twenty Hail Mary's (the Hail Mary's didn't count as much...like all values associated with women), then something bad would happen. I never asked what, but only imagined by the tone of her voice nothing short of the earth splitting open with flames spewing from below, followed by a red man with horns and pitchfork. I was 7 or 8 years old. I don't think it's an exagerration to say that I probably said a million "Our Fathers" and two million "Hail Mary's" by the time I went to college.

And even then I didn't stop.

So, flash forward to when I'm thirty and my therapist tells me to read, "A Course In Miracles." Sometimes I came into her apartment, where our sessions took place, to find her cooking dinner or hanging out with other shrinks. She was a very nice woman, but boundaries were not her strong suit.

But "The Course In Miracles" appealed to my literary interests, as the text is dense and requires English major skills to decipher. The book was written by a psychotherapist named Helen Schuchman in the 70's,who claimed her words were coming from JC himself. I guess if you weren't on drugs in the 70's, you were channelling dead spiritual gurus (I know that's what I would do).

Well, according to the book, the great C as channelled through Helen felt that the folks who wrote the Bible totally didn't "get" God at all. So, JC was like, "Hey, someone better channel me and get this shit worked out." As it turns out, God has no "wrath," does not believe in self-sacrifice or martyrdom and is totally cool with pre-marital sex so long as it's about connecting to another person. But the apostles and other bible writers had "issues" and thought Jesus was showing off by talking about forgiveness while being nailed on the cross. And so a movement of martyrdom blew up over the past two thousand years.

Everything comes down to communication. Sort of like what happens when a guy I'm dating says something like, "You look nice in those pants," and I'll somehow interpret it as a suggestion that my ass looks fat in every other pair. It's my issues in the way of a positive message. (Good thing I'm not starting a religion).

Just for today, I can read in the cafeteria.

I just went on a crazy cleaning spree. It was awesome. I broke new ground; ceiling fan, the heater...it was like taking a hot shower after a long, excruciating camping trip at sites with no showers and disgusting porta-potties.

Cleaning used to be my addiction. And I had friends who tried to convince me that this was a bad thing. I'd spend hours of my weekend scrubbing, mopping, actually moving furniture. Friends said, "Life is too short. Get a cleaning lady." But the idea of someone touching my dirt always sounded super creepy to me, not to mention I live in a tiny apartment. But it wasn't only that. Why give someone else the opportunity to scrub away my mistakes, regrets, and dead skin cells? No, I thought. I'll just tone it down a bit, clean like someone who has a life. I gave myself an hour to toss a mop around. Now I have pockets of disgustingness, places I don't look at, my fractured sense self lies below the stove, under the bed...

Mold and grease are not my friends.

Just for today, I'm hiring a cleaning lady.