As I sat in my new high tech office, I realized that right now everyone in my life was losing his or her mind, including Drew, whose catering abilities were accepted as a trade for his 4-day POG retreat in Montana. Great, I thought, my husband would come back with a shaved head and start working at the airport asking for donations.

“You have Raymond on line 2, Eric,” buzzed the new receptionist.

“Take a message, please.” I grabbed my keys and headed out of my office. I was in no mood to talk to the mysterious Raymond who was so damn nice that I wasn’t sure if he wanted to be my friend or was simply attempting to sleep with me. Another crazy!

I left my office and started walking down the street, eventually turning the corner as I entered the suburban flats of Beverly Hills, quietly passing manicured lawns and gardens of million dollar homes. Suddenly, I could breathe again–hearing only the singing birds and the occasional leaf blower from a gardener down the street. The world may be losing its mind, but suddenly I felt sane.

As I continued on my walk of peace, I noticed an attractive woman sitting on the grassy curb, looking at a magazine in the warm summer sun as her two adorable Schnauzers sat side by side next to her. The whole scene looked idyllic; almost something out of some kind of douche commercial, when suddenly the dogs heard me approaching.

The two Schnauzers moved towards me, barking and growling, off the leash. I continued walking, unfazed, until suddenly I realized that the two perky little dogs weren’t slowing in their approach. Before I knew it, the gray haired pooch had buried its fangs in my calf.

“HEY!” I screamed and kicked them away. They scurried back to their owner, my heart racing. “Lady, your dog just bit me!”

She calmly shook her head and with a British accent announced, “Oh no dear, they were love bites. It’s such a pretty day, and you seem like a nice man, why not let it go?”

“What?!”

All I could think of was that this Beverly Hills matron, probably an ex-actress, with a nice figure and fluffed blonde hair covering her plastic surgery, was NUTS.

She reminded me of Divine in all of those old John Waters films–only not as glamorous.

“No, your dog just BIT me. Do you understand that?”

“It wasn’t a bite, love. Just let it go, sweetie,” she mumbled in great grandeur, returning to her magazine but holding her dogs by their leashes, clearly embarrassed.

“Whatever,” I mumbled, thinking to myself I hoped she didn’t have a gun. But as I walked away, I realized my leg hurt. Lifting my pant leg, I could see the puncture wound and the stream of blood now oozing from my wound.

“Ma’am…” I showed her the torn skin.

“Oh, my goodness, I’m sorry. Well, I live right up here on the corner. Why don’t you meet me there and we’ll take care of it? I just have to finish walking the dogs.”

“No, I need to see some I.D.”

“Well, I don’t have any I.D. I’m walking the dogs.”

“Then give me the dog license number around the pooch who bit me.” I could see the silver medallion around the dog’s neck dangling in the sunshine.

She looked at me, unsure what to do, when suddenly her eyes filled with horror and said, “You’re…you’re…you’re a STALKER!”

And away she fled, running up the street.

Okay, I thought to myself, this chick was definitely on Prozac or worse, Diet Coke. Or do Beverly Hills housewives now smoke crack?

Two hours later I was in the Beverly Hills Police Department filling out a suspect report, visiting the crime lab as they took a picture of my wound, and beginning what I knew was going to become a long police proceeding.

And I just wanted to go for a walk to get away from it all?