The next time you're in L.A. and get creamed on the 405, call me. I know all the best car repair shops in town and some of the really crappy ones too, which is probably more valuable. And the extent of my knowledge is growing all the time.

Loyal blog readers may remember back in October when the teenager rear ended me while I was stopped at a light - and then had to call his mother, so she could tell him what to do. Yeah, that was cake compared to this last time.

My yoga studio is all of about two miles from my house, which you'd think would really cut down on the possibility of death and dismemberment. (And yes, I know it's cliché that I drive two miles to yoga. But you try running with a yoga mat. Awkward. Very awkward.) So there I was making the five minute drive when WHAM!

No stoplight this time. No stop signs. No nothin'. Just a stretch of nice straight road and some jerk who wasn't looking. He shot out of an alley and t-boned me. I had approximately 1/3 of a second to see it coming, which isn't a lot of time to prevent imminent disaster. So I only managed to swerve enough to reduce the impact and catch it on my rear side panel instead of the door.

I wasn't hurt, and presumably neither was he. Presumably because the snot monkey didn't even bother to stop, which meant I had to cover the $250 deductible myself. And no, I didn't get a license plate number. It was white. And a car. That's the best I can do. Mostly, I was concentrating on not dying. And adrenaline? Not so conducive to note taking. So those people at my insurance company can stop asking already. I don't know, okay? I'm a bad victim. I don't have a description.

But if you happen to be in the vicinity of Venice, Calif., and see a small, white car with passenger side front end damage, feel free to leave a nasty note on the windshield. I want my $250 back.