The other day, I walked into work and my boss kept staring at me kind of funny. You know that look. The one that says you have broccoli stuck in your teeth. After a while, in the middle of a conversation about some microbiological thing, she leaped out of her chair and screamed, "MRS BEASLEY!!!!" I don't know who Mrs. Beasley is, so I just sort of turned uncomfortably in my chair to see if there was someone outside the door named Mrs. Beasley. No. Turns out, I AM MRS. BEASLEY. A doll. A creepy, old lady doll from the show Family Affair. Does she talk? I really hope not, because I don't know if I could handle the sad plummeting value of the real estate of me that has gone from Drew Barrymore (before braces) to Charlize Theron (once) to the bird guy from that sci-fi show to Kate Gosselin to a creepy freaky doll beloved by a sitcom child named Buffy (with a brother with a girl's name). I'm all out of surgery cards (stimulus), so I guess I'll just have to wait patiently for the tide to turn in the market and someone somewhere to tell me I look like, oh, I don't know, my grandmother (would do me just fine).