By JANE LOTTER

Today, I'm going to relax and enjoy myself. It'll be My Perfect Day. I finished work early, so now just a few errands to run and then I have the rest of the day off.

Let's see, first I'll pop into Toys "R" Us and buy that Spider-Man collectible for my nephew's birthday. OK, here I am at the checkout. The clerk seems a nice young man.

"Can I have your phone number?" he queries.

I blush. "Really, you flatter me, but I'm afraid I'm unavailable," I protest.

"Huh?" he asks with impressive diction.

"My phone number. You asked for it. But alas, my little super-poseable action figure, someone beat you to it." I flash my wedding ring.

"Huh?" he repeats even more eloquently.

"Look," I say, a touch of annoyance creeping into my psyche, "didn't you ask for my phone number?"

"We ask everybody. So the store can send you coupons and stuff."

"I'll pass," I say. As I leave, I hear people behind me reciting their telephone numbers for no good reason except it hasn't occurred to them they can say no.

Oh, well. I certainly won't allow one little incident to ruin My Perfect Day. Next, I'll do the marketing. But I won't be going to Safeway, no sir. I quit shopping at Safeway when they started that club card nonsense. Club card, indeed. And people went along with it! Like sheep. Well, it never ceases to amaze. Anyway, I'm headed to the grocery store I've shopped at for 20 years. I'm going to QFC.

So here I am at QFC and - say, what's this they're advertising all over the store? Advantage Card? What's that? Ho, ho! I get it. Must be some sort of thank-you to all their loyal customers. Perhaps a gift certificate or free phone card. That's it! A phone card, so I can call my friends and tell them how much I like QFC.

I'll just step up to this attractive card table, papered with Advantage Card posters, and see what it's all about. Hmmm, there are forms to fill out and - AAHHGG! It's a club card! The club card virus is attacking QFC! Call the Fire Department. Call the Center for Disease Control! Call Mayor Nickels!

They want my name and address; they want my home phone number; they want to know how many people live in my home; they want my e-mail address; they want my date of birth. They want to know my gender and my marital status (perhaps they want to date me like that kid at Toys "R" Us). But what I want to know is: WHAT BUSINESS IS IT OF THEIRS?

I'm hyperventilating; I'm hallucinating sirens and searchlights and the SS hunting me down with German shepherds, all because I want to buy Cheez Doodles. I'm also checking out the store prices and it's apparent that with an Advantage Card, Raisin Bran costs $2.50, but without the card that same box of cereal goes for a zillion dollars.

"This is coercion," I inform a clerk. "You're saying I can choose not to use the Advantage Card when, in fact, unless I want to spend a ridiculous sum of money, I have no choice at all. That's duress. That's what they do to people in Communist China."

"QFC doesn't have stores in China," he objects.

"No? You should talk to them; you could give each other pointers."

"The Advantage Card really is to your advantage," he drones, as if under hypnosis.

"Get real," I declare. "If it's to MY advantage, why do YOU get the upper hand?" He ignores my logic and delivers the final blow: "Paper or plastic?"

"Neither," I say, realizing that when it comes to the Advantage Card, I do indeed have a choice. My choice is to leave.

I go home. Bob is planting a vegetable garden. "Heard about QFC?" he asks.

I nod.

"By Jove, before this family shows identification to buy carrots," he says with manly resolve, "we'll grow our own."

The children are lying on the grass, writing up a list of safe houses. "Look, mommy," the youngest says. "We can buy groceries at Larry's, Albertson's, Whole Foods, San Marco, the Lake City Farmer's Market, and, oh, lots of places. When you think about it, I don't know why we ever shopped at QFC; those kid cookies weren't so hot."

I draw the kiddies near me, stroking their heads protectively like Julie Andrews in "The Sound of Music," just before she and the von Trapps flee in terror from approaching Nazi stormtroopers.

"Always remember, my darlings," I tell them, "you live in America: land of the free, home of the brave. And no one in this great country should ever have to carry an identity card simply to purchase Twinkies."

I'm about to sing "Climb Every Mountain" when one of the children asks, "Mommy, are we going to celebrate Independence Day? Are we going to throw off the yoke of tyranny and eat an independently purchased dinner and watch the fireworks?"

"You bet," I say. "It'll be Our Perfect Day."