I'm Baaaaack

I'm back from the realm of the accidental Internet hiatus. And when I say 'accidental,' I really mean that I'm absolving myself of all guilt related to temporarily abandoning The Wonder That Is My Blog. Frankly, the thing has taken on a life of its own, and I was a little surprised to see that it didn't update itself.

See, it's not my fault. It's my blog's fault for not developing artificial intelligence in my absence. I missed you desperately. Do you still love me?

But anyway, baby got back, except my first name ain't baby, it's Carrie--Ms. Harris if you're nasty. (Hello, random music references!) It was a good holiday. I got fake eyebrows and a copy of the Zombie Survival Guide for Christmas, so I am quite pleased. I got a lot of other good stuff too, but it's not as snarftastic.

The whole Baby Got Back thing reminds me of college. I was a dance major for a while there; I did modern and jazz, mostly because ballet brings out my desire to mosh. A lot of ballet dancers have sticks up their hoo-hoos, which is helpful when it comes to staying on pointe but not so much when it comes to not acting like a biscuit. So it takes all of the self-restraint I've got not to mosh all over their tutued butts.

Anyway, I avoided ballet and took other things, and during one of my jazz workshops, we did a routine to Baby Got Back. And me and this other girl, let's call her Boob Talker, used to act out all of the spoken word stuff at the beginning. Because, let's face it: that spoken word stuff is snarftacular.

"Oh. My. God. Becky, look at her butt!"
"It is so BIG."

You're probably wondering why I chose the name Boob Talker, aren't you? See, I don't remember her name, which is pretty pitiful because we had a lot of dance classes together. The one thing I remember about her is that she had a tattoo of a wolf on one breast and the moon on the other. So one of her boobs howled at the other one. For some reason, that always freaked me out.

Not quite as bad as the one girl who intentionally wore her dance tights everywhere because they... er... gave her happy alone feelings. And then she'd talk about it constantly in the dressing room. Then one day I forgot my tights, and she offered to let me wear hers. Er... no. I'd rather wrap myself in toilet paper and duct tape, thanks very much.

I'm sure I'm going somewhere with this, but I have no idea where. I guess that the discussion points to this entry are that I've returned and dancers are strange.

Happy snarftastic new year, peeps. And take a word of advice from me: get your own damned tights.

Whistling in the Dark

Yeah, I admit it. I stole the title of this blog post from a song. If you can name the artist, you'll be my new best friend, except that no one could ever replace Bestfriend, aka Baby Spice, aka My Partner in Crime. So you'd have to settle for being Bestish Friendish. But still, it's a title to be cherished for all eternity, or at least until Tuesday.

We are pretty much snowed in here, which isn't necessarily a bad thing because I've got a shload of crafty crap to do before the holidays, and Scillius Maximus loaned me a whole big bag of books. Sadly enough, I'm well over halfway through, but this is only because I have mastered the skill of readand. I can readandcook, readandcolor, and readandcrochet (but only if I turn the pages with my feet... no worries, Scillius, I wore clean socks).

Unfortunately, we've acquired a light gremlin at our house, which makes this whole reading thing kind of difficult. Currently, six lights in our home are malfunctioning: one basement light, one bulb of the dining room chandelier, the kitchen light, one bulb of the Batson's floor lamp, and two bulbs over the bathroom vanity. At the rate we're going, we will soon be living in the dark ages, so I've asked Santa for some stone tools. It's good to be prepared for these eventualities.

Darned gremlin. I told Slayer we shouldn't feed the darned thing after midnight, but does he listen to me? Nooooooo.

I think I should sic the ice skating zombies on the light gremlin. Or maybe Tom Cruise. Because without enough light to see by, there's no way I'm going to finish the crochet lightsaber. I found the coolest pattern, and I figure that all of our local ninjas will be happy about that, because the Batson likes to whack them with light sabers, and he hits really hard for a five-year-old. I've got your back, ninjas. In fact, I think that after the whole Christmas thing, I shall implement Support Our Ninjas day. Because really, ninjas don't get their due, mostly because no one can ever find them.

Things That Make Me Snarf - Zombies on Ice

I really need to move back to Chicago, because that's where this week's Thing That Makes Me Snarf took place.



As Slayer told me earlier today, it's a good thing that the Batgirl versus ninjas option is winning in the poll, because the dress-up-like-a-zombie thing is being done en masse and on ice skates. Strangely enough, I had debated ice skating in the Superzombiegirl getup but decided that there's a limit to the level of humiliation I'm willing to endure. Because for some reason, I can ice skate backwards but not forwards.

At least I'm better at it than I am at skiing.

Short entry today. Am dead from the hips down. This has nothing to do with a freak ice-skating zombie attack and everything to do with my personal trainer.

My Little Skiing Love Pig

One of the fab members of my crit group, the Non-Biscuit Ninjas of Death, is going skiing. Skiing and I do not get along. In fact, if our crit group was called the Non-Biscuit Skiing Ninjas of Death, I wouldn't have joined. I would have run screaming with fear in the opposite direction.

But lucky for me, it isn't. Because the addition of another word would screw with our acronym, which is N-NOD. It sounds like a league of superpeepul or a weapons system designed by the goverment. Can't you just hear some general shouting, "The shaved sasquatch are attacking! Arm N-NOD!"

Back to skiing. See, the first (and only) time I went downhill skiing, I was in Quebec. My dad lived there, on top of a mountain in the middle of nowhere kinda like a hermit. And a couple of mountains over, there was a ski resort. Now, you also need to know that I don't speak French. The only complete sentence I can say in French translates as "Do it to me harder, my little love pig," which is not exactly the best way to impress your father with your mad language skilz.

So we went skiing. And I soon learned that I was meant to do a lot of things, but sailing around with boards strapped to my feet was not one of them. The tow rope on the bunny slope tried to eat me. It jerked; I fell down, and one of my gloves stuck to it, dragging me up the hill on my face and nearly towing me into the gears at the top before someone turned it off. I finally got down the hill, only halfway there I realized that my instructor hadn't ever told me how to stop. (I hate that instructor with the fire of a thousand suns. I don't care how cute he was.) So I ended up rolling to a stop with my skis crossed over this Quebecish guy with bad breath. Probably had something to do with the fact that they dip their french fries in mayo. And he's yelling right in my face. In French.

Later on, my boyfriend told me that the guy was calling me an idiotic American butt monkey. I'm pretty sure he was kidding, but the operative word in that sentence is "pretty." I'm not entirely sure.

Needless to say, after I untangled my skis and wiped the mayo-scented spittle off my face, I went inside and drank hot chocolate the rest of the day. I've never gone skiing again, and I never will. I'm too afraid of the angry French people.

Don't Call Me Stubby

The House Full o' Peepul went well. (I have to admit it--I read that sentence and a little voice in my head wails, "The house is like Soylent Green! It's PEEPUL!") We had enough food and no one threw up eating it. No one broke anything in the house or on their bodies, and there's a minimal amount of mess to clean up thanks to the combined efforts of many of the peepul, who rock the casbah.

I was in charge of the cooking, so I was mostly concerned about that, particularly since our head count ran anywhere from five (that would be Slayer, me, the Batson, and twins Left and Right) to 35 (that would be Slayer, me, the Batson, twins Left and Right, and a bunch of other peepul). It's hard to make sure that you've got the right amount of food when you honestly have no idea how many peepul are going to show up, but I did mighty well if I do say so myself, which is a stupid phrase because obviously I just did.

I like cooking. It's kind of a Zen thing, something to do with my hands while I ponder important topics such as what I should use to install a set of Batbrows on a Batman mask. For some reason, the Batbrows in my mental picture look like bright orange caterpillars, and I do not want to harm caterpillars of any hue in the making of my Batbrow mask.

Wow. Hello, tangent. I'm Carrie.

This weekend was especially nice because the turnout ended up being more around the 35 peepul mark, and that meant that I had help chopping. Because this is undoubtedly my least favorite part of cooking. This may have something to do with the time that I chopped the tip of my finger off. (Ya think?)

I sold knives for about one week during the summer before I left for college. It was one of those house-to-house things, and one of my neighbors graciously offered to listen to my schpiel, even though we all knew she wasn't going to buy a damned thing. So there I am, slicing through a rope to prove how sharp the knives are when I cut off the tip of my finger instead. It went something like this:

"Notice how easily this knife cuts through a coil of rope. Imagine how easy it will be to slice through a nice big... finger! Um... Uh... Oops. Don't mind the spurting; it really isn't as bad as it looks. *tucks finger in armpit and quickly puts away red-tinged rope* Okay! Do you want me to cut up an apple before I pass out from blood loss?"

I just checked, though, and I'm happy to report that my fingers are the same length. And obviously, I quit that job immediately after the shortening of my finger. Because I did not relish a future in which my friends affectionately referred to me as Stubby.

How Goats and Samurai Swords Relate to Home Improvement

This weekend, we're going to have a house full of people, so I've been trying like blazes to finish up the minor projects we've got going on. I unpacked the last of the boxes (or cheated and moved them downstairs). I got the paint for the family room. Washed the chocolate milk off the couch. Put the sacrificial goat in the closet.

Actually, I'm kidding on that last one. Although that comment makes me think of my old roommate. I've mentioned these roommates once before; they're the ones that make me think of Three's Company, only there were two guys and one girl, which would be me in case you were wondering.

One time, a Jehovah's Witness came to our door. I'm all about the religious freedom, but I wish people wouldn't exercise it on my front doorstep. Anyway, Janet (the little guy who looks vaguely Satanic) answered the door and listened politely to the beginning of the lady's speech, asked her to hold on a moment, and yelled to me: "Honey, would you put the sacrificial goat in the closet? I think it's eating the throw pillows again."

That woman ran as fast as she could and never came back.

It was fun living in the Three's Company townhouse. There was one time that I had a stalker. One of the many times, actually, because I attract stalkers the same way that I attract freaks in the gym. I wonder if it's my deodorant. So this stalker would follow me on the bus to campus and tell me all about what he wanted to do to me, which is NOT funny at all and actually had me frightened as all heck. This was a couple of weeks before I moved in with the guys, but they already had my back.

One night, I was hanging at their apartment, helping them pack for the move. (Actually, we had a shaving cream fight, but we were ostensibly packing.) And the stalker kept driving around the block past their place, so when it came time to leave, they walked me outside. First out the door was Chrissy, who you might remember was a big hulk of a guy. Paint him green and he totally could have been in the movie. And he lumbered out the door and growled a lot, not like the guy in the car could have heard him, but I think he was psyching himself up just in case.

Then came me, all frightened and twitchy like a little bunny.

And then I heard a noise from behind me, a shrieky, frightening noise that had me quaking in my little boots. Down the stairs thundered Janet (reminder: little guy who looks like Satan) with a samurai sword held over his head, bellowing at the top of his lungs. He charged past us in a frenzy and started chopping the hell out of the bushes. The little old couple that lived in the front of the building took one look outside, saw him chopping their plants into kibble, made a sound kind of like "eep," and shut their window. Smart, smart people.

And then the stalker drove by, saw the insanity that was my roommate-to-be and his big pointy sword, and sped away so fast that he almost rear ended another car. The bastard never bothered me again.

The Worst Pickup Line Ever

Yesterday, when I got into the hot tub after my workout, one of the guys looked up at me and said, "Mmmm. It's like dessert, isn't it?" He even licked his lips.

And I said, "Huh?!?" Because that's what I do when people play the pronoun game with me. Either that, or I shout something like: "Use nouns, people! Your pronoun is floating out there without a noun in sight. Unless you want me to choose my own noun, in which case I choose Batman eyebrows, and now I think you're weird, because who in their right mind would compare Batman eyebrows to a dessert?"

But I restrained myself in this case and limited myself to "huh?!?"

He replied that the hot tub was like dessert, and then he licked his lips again. And I was tempted to remind him that drinking the water wasn't really a good idea, but he'd solidified his doom with the repeated lick lippery, so I didn't. I just nodded and sat as far away from him as possible.

Sadly enough, this doesn't even approach the worst pickup line I have ever heard.

Picture this: Bestfriend and I went out dancing. This was way back in the pre-kid days, when we'd go dancing once a week, every week, without fail. And yeah, sometimes we'd dress up as Spice Girls, but not this night. Anyway, Bestfriend started dancing with what seemed like a nice guy but turned out later to be a complete freak. But at the time, he was nice, so I was pleased for her and backed off to give them a little space to get to know each other.

It's never a good idea to dance by yourself. I know this now and knew it then but I am all about sacrificing for my friends.

This really big guy came up to me. Actually, that sentence doesn't do it justice. A really HORKING big guy came up to me, deliberately giving me the up and down look. Either he was imagining me naked or he was trying to memorize my dance moves. And then he said it.

"Damn, girl. Your booty moves make me want to f--- a bunny."

Wow. There are so many snarky comments I could make (and have made) about that line. But I think I'll just let it speak for itself.

And no, it did not work on me. Just in case you were curious.

Things That Make Me Snarf: Tom Cruise is a Zombie

Attention Jamie, Vivi, Ello, Tiny T, Brenda, and Elizabeth. I regret to inform you that you are on the same wavelength as me. Please do not panic. It's not so bad. People will look at you funny, which may or may not have something to do with the fact that you are indeed doing something deliberately funny at the time. But trust me when I say that it's not so bad.

You get invited to a lot of parties.

But seriously, I agree with these people. Tom Cruise may have played Lestat in the movies, but he's totally the couch jumping zombie, only instead of saying, "BRAAINS!" he says "SCIENTOLOGY!" (And Elizabeth, you in particular are reading my mind with the Scientology comment and your suggestions for another round. Be afraid. Be very afraid.) Jake Ryan is the werewolf, and I'll tell you how I know: it's the sideburns. Werewolves have very nice, very well-defined sideburns. This may in fact push me off the werewolf/vampire fence and strongly into werewolf territory, because for some weird reason, I find sideburns really sexy.

All of you people who are on the wavelength as me don't need to follow my lead on that one (especially Jamie, because that would be really odd). It's okay if you deviate from my good example every once in a while. Just don't make it a habit or I'll send Tom Cruise after you.

And Pee Wee is the vampire. Red lips, pasty complexion, and a bow tie. That's my justification right there, bay-bee.

And on that note, here's something that makes me snarf. It's particularly amusing if you imagine Tom Cruise as the Zombie King.

Vampire, Werewolf, or Zombie

Remember that game "Animal, Vegetable, or Mineral"? When you think about it, the game has about as much entertainment value as the average biscuit, but there are some spin offs that are pretty good. There's "Date, F---, or Kill," or the more PG-rated version "Marry, Date, or Dump." In these games, you name three people, and then the other player has to choose which they would date, which they would f---, and which they'd beat into a pulp with a sledgehammer. And of course, when you're playing these games, the key is to force your best friend to choose between three Epitomies of Hottness so you can say, "Dude, you just killed Johnny Depp!" or, even better, three gnarly, nasty types so you can say, "Dude, you just slept with George W. Bush! Eeeew! I just threw up in my mouth."

But now, I'd like to play "Vampire, Werewolf, or Zombie." We've talked a little about the vampire versus werewolf thing before, and how Aragorn's scruff makes him a natural werewolf type, whereas Legolas is the vampire. And Batman is just confused. So we've laid the groundwork. But here's how the game goes: I name three famous people, and one of them is a vampire, one a werewolf, and one a zombie. How do I know this? I have informants. I know people. My people know people.

And then I make it all up.

So... tell me what you think. Your choices are...

Tom Cruise, Couch Jumper Extraordinaire



Jake Ryan, 80s Film Hottie



And Pee Wee Herman, who my cousin once had a crush on. I still don't understand that.



Let me know in the comments: Who's the vampire, werewolf, and zombie? I've got my own theories, but I want to hear yours.

Let the Mental Scarring Commence

I got a compliment yesterday that mentally scarred me.

See, I was at The Gym, aka that place of torture, aka, the place where I go work out in the back of the room so I can laugh at everyone else's posture and the one guy who reads out loud to himself while he walks on the treadmill. And after I did my working out and laughing at everyone else working out, I took a shower. And lo, it was fabulous. No one was yelling, "Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom!" at me. No one was playing in the toilet, and if they were, it wasn't my toilet so it wasn't my problem. No one was peeing on the wall outside the shower, or if they were, it wasn't my wall either. I took a whole shower all by myself, and it was everything I thought it could be.

After that, I got dressed and went up to the Big Mirror. I need the Big Mirror because I have Big Hair. It's thick and goes about halfway down my back, because I secretly worry that someone might lock me in a tower some day, and I might need to let down my hair so Slayer can climb up it and rescue me. Only I got sick of sitting on it, so I cut it, which means that it better be a freaking short tower, or Slayer's going to need some stilts.

I don't dry my hair, because that arduous process takes about 45 minutes, and really, it's going to be long and wavy no matter what I do so I might as well not waste 45 minutes brandishing a hair dryer at my head, trying to convince my hair to do anything other than the long and wavy thing. It was cold outside, and hairsicles are not my idea of fun, so I decided to put it up. Which necessitated using the Big Mirror.

With such Big Hair, it takes a lot of work to get it all up, so there I am, doing my backbends to get it all in one big handful, and this woman comes up to the Big Mirror and says, "You go, girl!" And I laugh a little, because that's what you're supposed to do when someone catches you doing embarrassing contortions in front of the mirror and trying to tame your hair. And then she says, "You have really pretty hair."

So I turn around to thank her, because hey, I'll take all the compliments I can get.

And she was wearing no pants.

Completely dressed on the top, but no pants. No underwear. But for some whacked out reason, she had her shoes and socks on. I very carefully kept my eyes at the neck level and higher, and she proceeded to talk to me about how she wanted to grow her hair out long too, and did I get headaches, and all of that stuff.

But all I kept thinking was "no pants! no pants!" I was so tempted to ask her if she'd forgotten them, but I was a little afraid of how she'd respond.

Things That Make Me Snarf - Ask a Ninja

And here's this week's Thing That Makes Me Snarf:



Unsurprisingly, Slayer loves these videos, and I never really sat down to watch one before now. But Christmas is coming up, and I'm starting to realize one thing: it really IS hard to buy the perfect gift for a ninja. We have weapons out the ying-yang. I know this, because last night some strange guy--correction, some really BIG strange guy--knocked at our door. Slayer was out with our son running some errands, and I was at home with the twins. And this guy set me off for some unknown reason. Maybe it was because he looked a little like you'd imagine a shaved sasquatch to look. I dunno. Either way, en route to the door, I grabbed a big wooden training sword. Not that I can really use the thing, but I look a lot scarier with a big wooden sword than I do without one.

That is true. In fact, one of my old friends once told me that the only way I'd be scary is if I had self-aware breasts. To this day, I'm still trying to figure out what that means.

And then the shaved sasquatch wanted to talk to me about remodeling our bathroom. If there was a sasquatch version of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, this sasquatch would be the absolute star. I did not need the sword.

But I still need to figure out what to get Slayer for Christmas. I'd get him a shirt that says, "I am Slayer. Bow down before my red power," but he's a pediatrician and something tells me that his patients might get the wrong idea.

Fun with Brains - The Contest Results

It figures. After the contest is over, I FINALLY come up with a brains related title that doesn't suck, and I use it for my blog. Oh, the irony. The delicious, brainarific irony.

Anyway, I'm beyond pleased. When I was considering this whole title contest thing, there was a moment when I worried that I'd be stuck choosing between two entries: "Brains, Trains, and Automobiles" versus "Throw Momma from the Brain." (Look! I just came up with two more titles! You've cured my block!) But then I told myself that all of you reader types must have sufficiently wonky senses of humor, because hey, you read my blog on purpose. Repeatedly, even. But still, I'm impressed, surprised, and grateful at your response to the contest. I doff my Batmask to all of you.

This was a difficult contest to judge, because we had 171 freaking titles submitted for judging. The mind boggles at the number. So I couldn't resist giving out a few honorable mentions...

The Get Out of My Head Award goes to Kelly and Tracey M. Cox for "Insane in the Membrane." Because ever since I started this contest, I've been repeatedly and randomly exclaiming "Insane in the membrane. Insane in the brain!" Which has made for some interesting conversations.

The Gratuitous Christopher Walken Reference Award goes to Brain Bliss for "Less Brain, More Cowbell." Besides, I was in high school percussion. I played the cowbell. And man, did it suck, although not quite as bad as when I had to play the triangle. It is difficult to look kewl while playing the triangle.

I can't resist it...



The I Bow Down Before Your Perviness Award goes to Elizabeth for "Full Frontal - Lobes." Thanks for making me seriously consider brain porn for the first time in my life. I really appreciate that.

The That Sounds Cool If Only I Knew What It Means Award goes to Slayer for "Gyrating Gyri and Sucky Sulci." It sounds pervy, whatever it is.

The Thanks for Reminding Me of My Ex-Boyfriend Award goes to Adrienne and Susan Sandmore for "The Life of Brain." Because I once dated a Brian who got out of a speeding ticket because the officer spelled his name incorrectly on the ticket. As Brain, obviously.

The This Belongs on a Bumper Sticker Award goes to cijaykremsner for "I've Got the Brains, You've Got the Blonde." Seriously, I want to put this on my car. My nameless, irate car.

The Flipper Baby Award goes to Big Plain V for "Brain Candy." If you've not seen the Kids in the Hall movie by that name, you won't understand this. But trust me, it's funny. You should be laughing.

The I Can't Believe You Compared Brains to Baked Beans Award goes to bringerofbrains for "Brains, Brains, the Musical Fruit." And that's all I'm going to say about that.

The Title for My Eventual Autobiography Award goes to Rena for "Darth Carrie Brains and Revenge of the Love Nubs." I was so tempted to give her a prize just for having the balls to put me in the title, but unfortunately I don't have any extras.

And then, we've got our two runners up. I loved these titles, but they just didn't suit my book as well as the winner did. But these peeps have some mad title skillz. So a round of applause goes to:

Paul Michael Murray for "Seven Deadly Synapses."
sruble for "Zit for Brains."

And then there's the winner: "No Pain, No Brain" from Susan Sandmore. It's just perfect: snarfy and snappy. It's everything I wanted in a title and more. If I wasn't already married, I would elope with this title.

So, Susan, please email me at carr dot harr at yahoo dot com with the following info: mailing address, gift card vendor (Amazon, Barnes and Noble, or Borders), and t-shirt size (S/M/L). I'll get your prize pack out to you ASAP.

And for everyone else... this contest was so much fun that I'm planning to do another one in January. I hope you'll stop back and play again.

Book Plots Inspired by Random Things in My Home

We're having a bunch of people over to our house in a couple of weeks, which means that I really need to get my heinie in gear. I still haven't finished painting the new drywall; there are about ten boxes still left unpacked from our move, and that's only about 1/4 of the things on my to do list. This becomes more pitiful when you realize that we actually moved six freaking months ago, but I digress.

See, as I've been unpacking, I have realized what a whacko I really am. Because I opened a box this morning, stared at its contents, and wondered WTF I was thinking when I packed it. The contents included:

A pair of Grinch boxers. Mine, not Slayer's.
A variety of leotards from my dancing days.
A green and purple neon silk scarf.
A teeny string bikini.
A purple gi top from my martial arts days.
A pair of sleep shorts with Dopey the dwarf on them.

And somehow, I thought these things deserved a box of their own. Someone took a special trip to carry this box from our old bedroom out to the truck, and another someone carried it from the truck to our new bedroom. And all for a bunch of stuff that I won't possibly wear with the exception of the shorts which I might drag out on laundry day.

Okay, I lied. There's one really fabulously horrid 80s leotard, which I shall keep in the event that I need a quick costume. Because I also own leggings. Give me a crimper and some scrunchies and I've got a killer 80s chick costume. Give me some makeup too, and I could be a zombie 80s chick.

Of course, that means that I really need to get kicking with the trainer, because right now, I could squeeze into that leotard, but I'd kinda look like an overstuffed sausage. And somehow, an 80s style zombie sausage is not exactly the look I'm going for.

And then there's the bikini. I've had twins. What on EARTH do I need a bikini for, except to prove to disbelieving people that I once fit into the damned thing? Or maybe in a pinch, if someone broke into my house, I could use it as a garrote. THAT would be humiliating. The would-be-burglar goes to the gates of heaven and has to admit that he got himself suffocated by a bikini-wielding zombie sausage.

It seems to me that there's a plot for a really funny book buried in this entry...

Damned Cars

My car is angry at me. It's started doing all of these random things. Like the clock will turn off or, even better, reset itself. The windshield wipers only work when they want to. Yesterday morning, it decided not to start, which means that I'm caffeine free today because I couldn't get to the store to replenish the stock of Diet Dr. Pepper. (Accidentally typed Diet Dr. Peter. Freud would have a field day.)

So before we start, I owe y'all an apology. I'll probably have the comedic value of a Chia Pet today since I'm not chemically altered.

I think that probably the car is upset because the washer, the dryer, and the computer all have names and it's still "the car." It's jealous. I think it should suck it up and get moving.

I've never had good luck with cars. For example, I give you my junior prom. The morning of the prom, boyfriend breaks up with me, but we decide to go anyway. (Can you spell awkward? Evidently I can.) En route to the dance, he runs a red light, and another car slams into our passenger side, where I coincidentally happened to be sitting because I was a passenger. Strangely enough, I was not hurt, but I did split my tight little 80s dress all the way up the butt. So I ended up being taken to the prom in a police car. After we got there, my speech teacher walked into the bathroom to see my friend's head stuck up my skirt, trying to pin it back together from the inside. Friend was in one of those princess ball gowns, which only made it more ludicrous.

And then, on the way to my senior prom with a different boyfriend, he fell asleep behind the wheel. I was prepared this time. I picked a dress with a full skirt, and I was watching the road like a rabid squirrel. (I dunno what that means, but let's run with it.) I grabbed the wheel and steered for a minute or so while I shrieked at him to wake him up.

That night only got better from there. He refused to dance with me and spent the whole evening popping all the balloons with the pin from my corsage. Cars don't like me, and neither do proms.

So I've got to do something about this car thing. Either I need to name it or I need to take it to prom, which may be difficult seeing that it's December, but I am nothing if not resourceful. Wish me luck either way.

Oh, and entries for the title contest close this Wednesday, which would be tomorrow if you're actually reading this on Tuesday but not if you're reading it any other day. I never named a time, so let's close things up at noon, eastern standard. Not like anyone's going to be racing for the finish line here, but I like to be thorough.

Why the Panty Police Should Exist

One of the nicest things about having your own house is the washer and dryer. I'm not kidding. I love my washer and dryer. I love them so much that I've decided to name them Batman and Robin, and I will send them Christmas cards, which are two completely unrelated facts but should still fully demonstrate how much me likey the fact that they are all mine.

See, I was once the victim of a panty bandit.

It was my freshman year of college, and I was living in the honors dorm, because I am of course a big geek (see the names of my washer and dryer above if there was any question of that). And the laundry was all the way on the top floor. But the cute boys were on the fourth floor where I lived, hanging around in the hallway, walking on their hands and eating dog biscuits. I kid you not. So there was no way that I was going to do something like sit upstairs with my laundry and STUDY. No, I was going to ignore the "Do not leave your laundry unattended" signs. Instead, I sat in the hall outside my door, ate dog biscuits, and flirted like the world was about to end.

Unfortunately, when I went upstairs to pick up my laundry after all the flirting and dog biscuit consumption, I discovered a disturbing thing. Someone went through all three of my loads and picked out all of the cute undies and bras. The only ones that were left were the back of the drawer ones that you do not wear when you are planning to eat dog biscuits and flirt like the world is about to end.

Now, on one hand you might think that it could be a lot worse. Better to have your panties filched than your stereo equipment or something expensive like that. But there are problems with this that you may not have thought of. First, there is the sudden underwear shortage that must be dealt with, which is difficult to do when it's 10:00 at night and you're just discovering that a thief has made off with your unmentionables.

Then, there's the question of reporting. Because I do believe that people ought to report crime to the police. We can't expect them to catch bad guys if they don't even know they exist, right? But then, there's the matter of describing the missing material, and something about verbally describing all of my panties to a bunch of strangers just doesn't work for me.

And lastly, there's the curiosity factor. Because honestly? For the next week or so, every time someone talked to me? I was wondering if they had my panties in their pocket. Which was really distracting, to say the least. I'm sure everyone thought I was a horrible conversationalist, which is probably why nothing ever came of my eating dog biscuits and flirting like the world was going to end.