Amber: "My car is gone!"

Me: *looks around outside* "Really? I thought you parked in 'guests.'"

Amber: "MY. F*&ING. CAR. IS. GONE!"

Eight o'clock, our house, 18 degrees outside. Amber had parked right in front of my driveway so she could see "~Disco, disco tank~", chat for a bit, and [of course --Scott] use the potty. In the time it takes to... ok, well, girls don't shake that, but you get the idea... Henry's Towing STOLE her car. Complete with purse, phone, dresses for her wedding, desperately flashing hazards (you could almost hear the tiny "help MEEEE!!!" voice), and her emergency break on. She wasn't even parked for 10 minutes. So we know Henry's Towing was stalking yet again.

Mind you that she was parked right in front of my driveway, where there's NO firezone parking and my front door is less than 10 feet away. You'd think the big, mean, super-macho Discovery-channel wannabe pussy of a driver would knock and warn her. NOPE. SWIPE!

"No problem", I told her calmly, "I know where the tow company is. It'll be $90. Follow me." We call them "tow Nazis" around here. Through some dipwad "slow development, because we don't want the wrong sort of people here" regulation, the county ensured our complex would have precisely (it's actually in the handbook, I'm not making this up) .7 too few car spaces per household. In a calmer mood, we long ago understood towing must be enforced, otherwise "someone" ends up parking a metallic pink 1996 Ford escort with expired Carolina tags in a guest space for six weeks (again, not making this up).

Then you have the busy-bodies. You know, the "Desperate Housewives" crowd who live with their mother and literally have nothing better to do than whine about their neighbor's open garage (hello? figured it out yet? still not making it up). Doesn't matter if you're checking the mail. Doesn't matter if you're getting your groceries out. You turn the key off, see the shutters across the street move, and you know the clock is running. It's only a few, maybe ten, minutes until the Jaws theme starts playing quietly in the background, and tiny Hondas and Kias start desperately trying to escape the asphalt pool of our parking lot.

Being the naive first time home-owners we were, and therefore not well versed in the bloodsport that is parking enforcement around here, we'd long since had both cars towed, for typically asinine reasons- they failed to read my window with my parking tag and STILL refused to let me have my car before I paid the $90 fee, or our beautiful antique happened to not have the perfect sticker placement (hello, it's a convertible... there's no back F*&ING window here!)

So we drive all the way down to the end of the scary, dark, cold dirt road, to be confronted by...

Nothing. It was too cold for crickets to cheep. Not even serial killers would wander this road. We did see a dead cat, but the ground was frozen and we couldn't bury the poor thing [trust me, they probably tried --Scott]. It was one of those sitcom moments...

In the pitch dark, Amber, teeth chattering: "I-I-I-I th-th-thought my-my car w-w-w-would be here!"

Ellen: "S-s-s-so did I-I-I... those f-f-f-f*&ers!!! th-th-they moved on purpose!!! I-I-I'll go get the d-d-dead c-c-cat and w-w-we'll throw th-th-that thing through the--"

Amber: "No! Let's call the number first!"

Well, they were no longer there. So back to my house to get the number. Call, get addie and on our way, 10 miles in the other direction from the house.

We get there, just, just as her car is being backed up into the lot, hazards flashing sadly, e-brake balefully moaning its last. Amber goes to the window.

Amber: "Thats my car."

Lady at the barred window (yes, because people have tried to kill them before apparently): "$90 please."

Amber, motioning me to stop twirling the dead cat*: "I can't give you the money cause my F*&ing purse is in the car!!!!!"

The gate "whranks" open on its motor 4 inches. Amber gives a significant look at the lady. It buzzes open another 10, just enough (ha! see! Boobs aren't all they're cracked up to be are they?!?) to let her squeeze in for her purse and phone.

Amber pays her fee, very carefully going over the "we are not responsible for your car's damage or missing goods list" -which we question. The "Pinky-to-cage-lady's-Brain" driver, who had walked into the trailer's back door while Amber was talking, would not even come to the window to talk to two short, defenseless women (who had recently put down their deceased frozen feline missle... PUSSY!!!).

Meanwhile I'm looking around the lot. *BEWARE OF DOG!*, the sign says.

Me and my big mouth: "HEY!!! Close your gate! Your f*&ing fake ass dog is going to get out!" *big, charming grin* (I wanted to, you know, bark and drag my ass on the ground, but Amber was turning a really neat shade of blue at this point and was giving me the 'let's get out of here before that cat defrosts' hand motion.)

Amber and I leave in seperate cars.

Now here at AMCGLTD, we know that tow companies need to make money and they are doing their job. But when you DON'T see the tow company for nearly 6 months and one COLD night they just show up and snatch a car like a soccer mom going after the next big Christmas toy, it just goes to show you they were stalking.

And we don't appreciate stalkers, do we Mr. Icy-Popscicle-Kitty... no we don't, no we don't.

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* Ok ok ok, we didn't actually take the poor thing all the way to the tow company. But trust me, if our curses come true, that lady's trailer is going to smell like the inside of a six-day-old litterbox for eternity. Cat ghosts got power. We actually gave the poor critter a stone burial, carefully marking the spot for spring so we may dig up his bones and complete the curse by throwing them at the window.

Ok, we won't actually throw them. Because that would be, you know, illegal and stuff. Damned lawyers.