Perhaps the best thing I have seen in a really long time. You know of my love for Detective Elliot Stabler. Well, now he has puppet competition.

The other day, I was thinking that if I'd had any religious reason to forgo something - some sort of indulgence or sin -  for Lent, I'd have given up American Idol. Or, at least, I would have martyred myself trying. It was getting a little bit disgusting how much I needed to watch that show. Like, the power of David Archuleta compelled me. In fact, after five years of not watching, American Idol was suddenly, out of the blue spotlights, beginning to rival my Scrabulous addiction. And people, playing Scrabulous comes right after "breathing" on the list of things I do to sustain life.

Breathe in. Breathe out. E-Q-U-A-L-I-T-Y for seventy-one points. You get the idea.

Then this morning, I realized, that in a mere six days, being employed again has cleansed me of my sins of addiction. Oh, I'm still Scrabblin' online with anyone and everyone who will indulge me, but I no longer have the luxury of hovering over it for hours at a time, callousing my index finger by hitting F5 every few seconds. Refresh! Refresh! And as for AI, well, by the time I get home at night, I'm just too tired to watch it. I know. Who knew there was such a thing as too tired to... watch television? I didn't. But after I kick off my shoes, wrastle with the cat and put a little food in my belly, I just can't tolerate any more stimulation. Unless it's from my heating pad and good piece of fiction.

It's been over a week now, and as much as I miss my American Idol fellas (forget the girls; they're hacks), the separation might just be a positive thing. Who knows, I may even cancel my cable subscription. Or not. Turns out, I couldn't even type that sentence without flinching. Probably has a little something to do with my love for Detective Elliot Stabler.

When he climbed in bed next to me, I thought, no big deal. The five of us had come back to Venice hostel that night in various stages of drunk, and it was cold in the attic dorm room. Really cold. Obviously he just wanted someone to sleep next to. I mean, I was ten years older than the kid, so there was no way he wanted...

That's when he started rubbing my arm. And kissing my ear.

"I think you need to go to your bed," I said, ripping the yellow spongy earplugs out of my ears and inching away. It was a twin bed; there wasn't really anywhere to go.

"Do you really want me to?

"Yes! Yes, I really want you to!"

I was not about to turn Mrs. Robinson in a room full of sleeping strangers. He was out of his gourd!

And what he said next will go down as the biggest pillow-talk backfire in the history of... well, ever. The best worst line. Sliding his hand down my arm, he lowered his voice and said,

"Come on, Heather. You can be twenty again."

"Out!"

I can be twenty again? Flattering! And, uh, no thank you. I wouldn't be twenty again for a lifetime of spa pedicures and a day pass to Detective Elliot Stabler's wardrobe trailer. That is how much I do not want to be twenty again. I love my not-twenty crows feet and the age-acquired good sense to not hook up with a college kid while his friend is sleeping five feet away. Twenty again! Gah!

Besides, at twenty, I was Mormon and extremely uptight. And I'm betting he didn't climb into bed with me so we could pray together.

Living alone in Dallas has really done a lot to bring out my paranoid side. How is it so different from New York? I'm so glad you asked. For starters, I now have exactly three times the square footage I did in New York. And if you know anything about New York apartments, you understand that this translates to roughly sixteen times the closet space. Great, right? Sure, except that more closets -- bigger closets -- means there's a whole lot of places for Bad Guys to hide.

And I'm terrified of Bad Guys.

In NYC, I was never afraid that there was anyone lying in wait to maim me and rob me of all my possessions. Because where would the bastard hide? If I opened the front door, I'd have been able to see him. From the hallway. Where I could easily shout to the Super next door who would come running with a pipe wrench and his miniature chihuahua . And where's the fun that? I mean, for the Bad Guy. For me, it was like a three hundred square foot Barbie's House of Dreams; there was no damn place to hide. Except maybe behind the shower curtain. And I wasn't much for consistently keeping that thing closed.

Also, in New York, I had things like a locked front gate, a Super with a yappy dog, and an elevator that only worked when all the planets were correctly aligned - all highly discouraging of a fourth floor trip to steal the two pieces of electronics I own. But here, there's just my front door - totally exposed to the whole menacing world. No elevator needed! Then there's the patio. Great for checking the weather, but bad for not being killed. I mean, it has these enormous sliding glass doors that any old fool with a rock could shatter.

Fair warning: If you are a Bad Guy and you are reading my blog, please don't take this as encouragement. I may be easily frightened, but I am also promiscuous (just kidding, Mom), and may at any time arrive home with a very brawny and fierce gentleman caller. Who is secretly a ninja and a Green Beret.

Predictably, Sir Hal isn't really doing much to ease my fear. He rarely accompanies me on my nightly closet check (lord knows what I'd do if I actually found someone in there). And -- perhaps it's that there is always, somewhere in the apartment, a bug that needs destroying -- he is always on alert. And when I'm laying in bed reading, my furry companion snoring (yes, he does) next to me, it is not at all comforting when suddenly, he shoots straight up, pupils wide, staring at the great darkness beyond the bedroom. Gee, Lassie. What is it? Is Jimmy stuck in the hall closet with a machete?

Usually, I give him a little push off the bed and encourage him to go investigate. My little canary in the coal mine. If he doesn't come back, I'll know there is a Bad Guy in the kitchen feeding him and I can call for help.

I rode the subway this morning sitting next to a well-known Law & Order cast member. Only, I didn't know it was him until I got up to leave. I only knew I was sharing space with some older-ish gentleman in a really nice coat, taking up way more than his fair share of the bench. I should have noticed people staring at him, but I was busy being sleepy. When I got off at 14th Street, I did a double take. On quick inspection, he was much more silver up top than he appears on the tube (though those trademark eyebrows are pretty damn dark), and very nicely polished.

As soon as the coffee caught up to my brain, I told Brooke about my morning commute celeb sighting. He wasn't all that impressed.

"You realize what this means, don't you?"

"..."

"That I'm one step closer to achieving my ultimate goal!"

"Which is?"

"Becoming Mrs. Detective Elliot Stabler!"

Just saying the name made my heart start a-thumpin' with SVU passion, but a cloud passed over Brooke's face.

"Chris Meloni, dude."

"Oh. For a girl who doesn't like TV, you sure know a whole lot about it."

"No. I know Detective Stabler."

Brooke went back to his computer and I went back to my daydreaming. Please. What has non-ownership of a television to do with the fulfillment of my Five Year Plan? This is destiny we're talking about. MFEO, people. MFEO.

Over the last two weeks, as part of a project I'm involved in at work, I've had to interview a couple of celebrities. Because the interviews I’m doing are for a good cause, the subjects tend to be more than happy to make themselves available to chat. And to hand out their cell phone numbers.

On Tuesday, I had a really nice conversation with one of Law & Order’s former A.D.As (now star of a new law drama). I wrapped up the interview and thanked her for her time. She responded graciously.

“Well, you have my cell phone number, so if you have any other questions, please feel free to call me any time.”

I thanked her again, hung up the phone and immediately went about making a quick list. You know, of those other questions I have.

1. What are you doing on Saturday? Do you want to have lunch? I bet you know lots of great places. I bet your husband owns a few (wink, wink). We can go there.

2. Once we’re BFF – you know, after lunch – will you be writing me into your script? It doesn’t have to be a big part. Just one where I get to perhaps faint and kiss someone very hot and a little bit psychotic.

3. I want to marry Elliot Stabler. I know this is not so much a question as the thesis statement from my Five Year Plan, but I thought I’d save us some time by letting you make suggestions as to how to go about the whole thing.

I stopped at three and put down my pen. That seemed to be enough to get us going. I mean, if we got through those, I could always come up with more and call her back. But then, I might be too busy living out my Five Year Plan as Mrs. Detective Stabler already.

I'll call you. We'll do lunch.