My mom spent $800 to clean a Rolex watch.

Give that a minute to set.

Eight one-hundred dollar bills ... to clean a watch.

When Mom shared this news, I had to lie down. It wasn't just the mishandling of funds that could have easily been spent on my birthday present, but the life-jarring realization that I have inherited genes from a lunatic. No matter how rich you are, $800 is a Bizarro amount to spend on wristwear maintenance.

I met a guy who paid $16,000 for a gold Rolex Submariner watch. When he showed it off, I expected it to give me a massage or lead me into another dimension. You know what it did? It told the time. That's it.

There are people who will, for $16,000, follow you around and report the time with a great big smile any time you ask. And it would cost considerably less money to clean them!

I don't know. It may be some time before I can again look my mom in the eye. My birthday perhaps.

I started curbing my sweets the day Dr. Lynn mentioned diabetes. His first clue was how the ants descended on my urine sample. So now I wave off desert menus, avoid carrying chocolate on my person, and boycott Thanksgiving altogether.

It's done crazy things to my head, though. I have developed, for instance, a fetish for coconut cream pie. I had never given much thought to cream pie, but now it was my life. I honestly dreamt of a bathtub spilling over with coconut cream.

Finally I decided to feed the beast, sitting down to one cream pie and a shovel. As I squished the filling through my teeth, the same thought kept coming back ... This is it? THIS is what I've been waiting for?! Coconut cream isn't even sweet!

Come the fourth slice, I was sick of pie and some other things as well. There were those $200 sunglasses that I had to buy, only to replace them two weeks later with $10 gas-station glasses. There was that cheerleader in high school who, it turned out, had the same problem that I did: Neither of us could stop thinking of her. My life was filled with coconut cream pie.

I'm starting to wonder if I'm even qualified to know what I want. Maybe it's time to take my fingers off the controls altogether. They say that there is nothing sweeter than surrender. Let's just hope it doesn't cause diabetes.

Tensions flared recently when a landlord rejected his would-be renter for owning a dog. The renter, who is not from this planet but is definitely American, responded, of course, by filing a lawsuit.

Exhibit A: A note from applicant's doctor stating, quote, "Patient must own a dog as part of her treatment for acute depression."

While some lawsuits protest chauvinism against color or creed, this courageous woman is fighting the more insidious evil of dog prejudice. She and her anti-depressant retriever are living inside the house of said landlord, much to his hypertension. Even now Pookie is clawing his way through the hardwood floor just to see what's there.

I myself am glad for this lawsuit, because you know what makes me really depressed? Paying the mortgage...