OK. Let's talk about me for a while here.

Actually let's talk about my car, Princess Fiona, who, in all her Aquamarine Mist glory, has of late been a royal pain in my ______ (fill in the blank with a body part of your choosing. My part of choice is covered by your bathing suit.)

Some guy in Squamish sent me these beautiful flowers for Valentine's Day. I am told that I am married to said individual.

Hmmm ... maybe I should go home some time and say hi to my husband, who now touts himself as the "Skeleton Widower."

Not that he's complaining too much ... married geeks worldwide would kill for the kind of gratuitous and uninterrupted WoW time my Level 70 Affliction Warlock enjoys.

I'd really like to regale everyone with my weekend tales of car repair, but I am still exhausted from four days of fighting with my alternator and with those who sell alternators, and I have to get up and head to the track early tomorrow.

And by early I mean I have to be there at 9:30 am. While most of you think I am joking, my husband and a selection of former roommates know that this really will be a chore for me. (I will leave my rant about the world's unfair perceptions of night owls for another day ... )

OK, for real. Who does stuff like this? (I am guessing it's the same person who does stuff like this ...)

All I wanted was to take a relaxing bath and shave my legs so that I would be socially presentable when I go to the gym to work out in shorts. Instead I end up looking like the unwitting victim of a chainsaw massacre.

I left the house yesterday headed out to the track for training in the early afternoon. I was driving along, not a care in the world, rockin' out to ... ummm ... talk radio. At a stop sign I made a left turn, and just when I crossed the intersection the oncoming car honked at me.

And I was like "No way, I was totally at that stop sign first."