If only there was a spare bumper in that magic carpetbag.

It's always a triumph, finding a parking spot near one's apartment, especially on a permit-less street in Hollywood. The first one home from work on Friday, Kara achieved said small victory - scoring the spot directly below our kitchen window. Little did we know, this was not worthy of the high-five we exchanged when I pulled into the driveway a short time later.

The next afternoon we were enjoying yet another lazy Saturday, reveling in the privilege of remaining un-showered and in our pajamas, when our greasy ears were assaulted by the sudden SCREECHING of tires and CRACK of an impact. Eyes wide with morbid curiosity, Kara and I leapt up from the comfort of our couches and rushed to the window - Kara was finally going to get to witness that accident she'd been hoping to see. Her elation was short-lived. First to the window, I looked downwards and my jaw soon followed my eyes. I turned to her, "That's your car."



We weren't the only ones drawn to the commotion; up and down the street, curious neighbors spilled out of their homes. For Barney, however, this only warranted a quick glance.



This isn't the first time we've seen him walk by, on his way to work on Hollywood Blvd. Unfortunately, we've yet to meet; so we couldn't request a crisis assuaging rendition of "I Love You."



Thus, children, the moral of today's story is - when a simple song isn't enough to wipe away the blues brought on by a catastrophic inconvenience, there's always collision insurance.

I hath giveth it away.

No, not my virginity. That's long gone and I might as well have included a free beach towel with the promotion, as anxious as I was for signers. I'm talking about my last pair of running shoes.

My mother would not be pleased to read this. She was hesitant to fork over the cash for those Nikes in the first place. This transaction (we're staying on the shoes, now) may have occurred four years ago, but as she expected they remained as clean and white as my apple bottom booty.

I'm guessing they've long since been snapped up from the Goodwill in Roseville, MN. They're probably in use, as we speak, pounding some machine alternative to the now icy, Minneapolis-area sidewalks. To that I say, good for you, health conscious bargain seeker. Someone might as well use 'em, because I am never running again. Ever.

Being chased is, obviously, another matter; but I'm just embracing this season of resolutions with honesty. I've got stretching and living room dance parties to keep me both sprightly and virile.

We had a good time, though, cardio and I. Sophomore year of high school I was even on the cross country team. Funnily enough, this always seems to come back to me from within a cloudy haze, which is probably why my friends always have such a hard time wrapping their heads around it.