The theme for mrtl’s motif Monday is is “a good deed”, and for some reason this one’s really throwing me folks. I’ve seriously been sitting here wracking my brain for stories of good deeds and I’ve got nothing.

Sure I could write about nice things that people have done for me – I.e. Maaa for giving me life (and seasons 1-5 of Dawson’s Creek on DVD!), Angel for enduring my leather-fouling fart sessions, Phineas Gray for listing the haus as “The Greatest Freaken’ Blog Ever!!!!!!”, and Gerard Way of My Chemical Romance for being so damn sexy in horror makeup and tight pants (rrrrrowwwr!) – but alas, that’s no good.

I’m such a cretin. I seriously can’t think of one good deed I’ve done recently. But well, awhile ago … *cue flashback sequence*

• I surprised Angel by cooking up some succulent lamb chops. Never mind we couldn’t eat them. Apparently broiling fatty meat for longer than recommended is a recipe for disaster … and fire extinguishing.

• I gave up my seat to an old man on a crowded train. As I got off, I looked back to see the octogenarian staring with a big, old grin on his face. I thought it was because of the seat thing, but actually it turns out I’d had the ass of my skirt bunched into my tights for the past six stops.

• I spent some quality time with my brother. Having literally ripped the blue, tiger-print briefs clean off Nick’s derriere, the resultant game of hide-and-go-seek (with me hiding in fear for my life and him seeking revenge for the righteous wedgie) was certainly exciting.

While it’s obvious that I have been stellar in performing good deeds in the past, I think this Girl Scout is about due some do-gooding. That being said, I urge you all to give Manuel a hardy congrats –he graduated from college today with a degree in computer engineering. Mazel tov Manuel! You deserve an organic cookie.

And while we’re at it, let’s all give AK Leemer a fine howdy-do. Home girl has been making trouble with yours truly since junior high. We’ve gone from training bras to snarky blogs, and you all should check hers out.

Dear hannihaus readers, do we have any other do-gooders in the haus? Did you help an old lady across the street or tell a blog mistress you love her? Let us know!

With Thanksgiving drawing near, I feel it is important to grouch less and give thanks more. Yes, dear hannihaus readers, tis the season to reflect and be grateful for those things that make life worth living –Things like God, family, and The O.C.’s nationally-televised nip slip. (God I love that show! And I love you too Mischa Barton, even though you don’t really have any boobs to expose.)

So yeah, Thanksgiving. This year as I gather with family and friends around the holiday table, I will be giving thanks for the following:

1. My iPod –My favorite toy since February, I have scarce spent a day without plugging her in and tuning out. I love the thing so much. Seriously, I haven’t had this much fun with an electronic device since 1998 when I stole CG’s camcorder to film a re-enactment of the Trojan War for English class. We spent six bucks on rubbers for the battle scene, and still only got a “B.” We were robbed.

2. Chrismas music –Call me a freak, but I live for the stuff. From October 1 to December 31, I listen to Christmas tunes almost exclusively. You can imagine my horror then, when just last night, I realized there was no “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” on the old iPod. Reacting quickly, I visited my favorite Russian mp3 download site, picked out a couple cds, and for three bucks (or 86.423 rubles), I had a nice digital chrismix going.

3. Shame –Yes, I’m glad I feel remorse for downloading, as part of my (perfectly legal) Russian purchase, the Jessica Simpson Christmas album. What was I thinking? That little yuletide monstrosity set me back $1.83. Damn! I could’ve spent that money on something that’s actually entertaining, like rubber bands, a generic toothbrush, or a 20-pack of panty liners, for instance.

4. Joy –While perusing the Web for the available offerings, I was pleased to see that Britney Spears was not included in the Mariah Carey/Christina Aguilera/Clay Aiken holiday CD club. As of yet, Mrs. Spears has not released Merry Xmas Frum Me 2 U Baby, and I personally hope she never does. On a related note, it seems Britney’s hubby, Kevin Federline might be doing a project for the Special Olympics… well, at least that’s what I figured after hearing his rap, because it was straight up retarded.

I’ll probably also give thanks for a few other misc. things like, you know, WINNING THE CHRISTMAS JESUS DRESS UP MAGNET SET (eff yeah!), clean underwear, Chipolte vegetarian burritos, the cool Bright Eyes DVD Maaa is sending for my birthday (Dec. 2 – and yes, I do accept gifts from adoring hannihaus readers), pink nike arm bands, boys who wear makeup, and sparkly silver belts.

So, dear hannihaus readers, let’s talk about the good things in life. What are you thankful for?

Apparently I’m all hardcore n’ shit, as I’m only one of a handful of ya yas dumb enough to drive through a hurricane to get to work this morning. And guess what? Because common sense indicates I should be home, well that’s where my boss sent me! Wilma, you’re such a saucy minx. Thanks for giving me the day off!

So today, instead of workin’ for the man, I get to do what I *really* want to do, which is write about my Worst. Date. Ever. (which by the way looks like a freaking tea party compared to what Happy Heathen has endured, but I digress.)

Wakahage
In Japan there is a term, “wakahage”, which literally translated means “young bald.” For purposes of today’s story, that’s what we’ll call my date, Wakahage.

Wakahage was 18 and had all the style and stature of Mr. Magoo. In all honestly, I was entirely repulsed by this squishy-faced shorty, but I was a sophomore, and a school dance junkie, and I needed a senior prom fix real bad.

Ambiguously Gay
When he showed up at my house 30 minutes late, I was already in poor spirits. Having endured a 3-hour hair curling session and the fitting of a dress that was cutting off my blood circulation, I was in no mood for shenanigans. Imagine my delight, therefore, when Wakahage shows up with a chaperone! Said chaperone, Wakahage explains, is a friend who graduated from school a year earlier. Because Wakahage has no wheels, the Chaperone will be escorting us to our event this eve.

And because it must’ve been rent-one-get-one at the tuxedo shop, both Wakahage and The Chaperone are wearing ridiculous white tuxedos with tails. The Chaperone is squeezed into a mint green cummerbund, while Wakahage is flashing the fuchsia.

So, we crush ourselves into the chaperonemobile – I’m sitting bitch, and the boys are cranking up the country. Wakahage serenades me. It seems that his secret ambition is to be a country superstar.

And I’m thinking, “Do cowboys wear pink?”

Masterbaiter
Wakahage informs me over dinner that he spends his summers fishing with his dad. Then the teeny, tiny man drinks waaay to many espressos, gets stupid, and starts saying things like “What do you call a lonely fisherman? A master baiter! Bwa ha ha.”

At this point I am convinced, Wakahage – social retard that he is – at masterbaiting, must be expert.

True Romance
We’re at the dance, and that lovers staple, Kiss From a Rose comes on. While we have fairly avoided each other all night, Wakahage is itching for a dance. He asks me to step out.

“Erm, well uh I don’t really like slow dancing,” I lie through my teeth.

Wakage, taking no prisoners, embraces me so I can see the glitter from the disco ball reflecting off the top of his bald head. “I met my ex-girlfriend while slow dancing,” he says.

“Oh… erm…” I say, trying to back his crotch off my leg.

“Hänni,” Wakahage says as he pulls me in and says, “You can’t forget the reason for slow dancing.”

And in my head I’m like (sarcastically) “What, romance?”

And he says, “You know, romance.”

… And then the chunks rise in my throat, and I excuse myself so I can go be romantic in the restroom.

Denouement
When Wakahage and The Chaperone left that night, it wasn’t with me. I had barricaded myself in the bathroom and didn’t come out until I saw the Liberace twins had made their o’hasty exit.

Imagine my surprise – nay – delight when, walking out of my apartment, I noticed her door was swung wide open. I realized, as I stood gawking, that in all my months of inventorying the junk she’d leave on the stoop, I’d never really gotten to see the inside of White Trash Woman’s apartment.

I had imagined it would be kind of dark and dank, maybe like the Castle Grayskull, or like my armpits after a long, satisfying run. The walls, I thought, were probably lined with the million kinds of Wal-mart brand beverages she’s so fond of. Pizza bones, like relics of a forgotten civilization would litter the floorboards, occasionally finding respite with a greasy chicken wing in the cushions of the couch WTW bought in 1982.

And it warmed the cockles of my heart to get to glance inside. This was my moment. This was my Shangri-La.

It wasn’t exactly as I had imagined it. It looked, to my eyes (squinting without glasses) a lot like my apartment – taupe carpeting, one long hallway with adjoining rooms. I did notice, however, it was filthy. It looked like a bomb had gone off, as crates of paper, toys and cloths were strewn haphazardly about the living area.

“What a dump,” I murmured, all smug like.

“Excuuuuse me?” a voice called back.

Oh snap.

Busted.

A pre-pubescent black girl was hunched against the steps, eyeing me just as intensely as I had been eyeing her stuff. I couldn’t believe it. This was the first time I’d seen her, but I was fairly sure I was in a stare down with the one and only, White Trash Daughter.

Slightly horrified and at a loss for words, I did the only thing I could think of. I quickly flipped open my cell phone, put it to my ear and said “Oh heeey you! I’m so glad you called!” Then – because it was such an important call, and it really wouldn’t have been proper to converse in the open – I had no choice but to skitter off the walkway, away from White Trash Daughter and the mysteries of her abode.

When I came back a few hours later the girl was still brooding on the stairs. In the time I’d been gone, mounds of trash had collected around the girl – it was more than I’d ever seen White Trash Woman put out before, at least at one time. And then it struck me –duh, White Trash Woman and her kin were packing up camp. The White Trash Family, they were moving.

And as I stood, blinking in the faces of the neighbors I’d imagined thousands of times, but never met in person, something else occurred to me:

1. White Trash Woman is not white.

2. Urinal cakes – They aren’t just for pissing on. Apparently some people use them for air fresheners to keep down the smell of decaying pizza bones. After three hours with White Trash Woman’s door open, why the entire breezeway smelled boys-room fresh!

So dear hannihaus readers, White Trash Woman is really gone. As quickly as she came into our lives, she’s now vanished. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, I guess. Would anyone care to say some kind words about the dearly departed?

Yesterday morning felt like Christmas. As I lay in bed, lazy on my day off, I just kept thinking that if I swung wide my bedroom curtains, I’d see a frosty window pane and a fresh dusting of snow on the lawn. I imagined the smell of evergreens, and the crinkle of heavy paper being wrapped round bright baubles. Bolstered by this unshakeable feeling, I began humming “Oh Tenenbaum”.

And this sentiment that had me wanting to hang paper decorations with the words “Un Joyeux Noel” on them, well, it was strange for two reasons: 1) it’s October and we’ve still got two major holidays to go before we celebrate Christ’s birth, and 2) living in Florida, it doesn’t even feel like Christmas when it *is* Christmas. I mean forget about snow and spruce trees –last December 25th it was probably 75 degrees and sunny. We couldn’t keep a live tree in our house because the heat from the windows makes for a 72-hour moratorium, after which point the pine needles fall off and the kittens start using the $40 trunk for a scratching post.

But I digress.

So yeah, when I finally did get my booty out of bed to peer into the space outside my window, there wasn’t anything Christmassy going on. There were no kids making snow angels, and for that matter, no snow to make angels with. No one was bundled up in scarves, carrying layers of pies and sweet treats. And not a single soul could be seen hanging lights on their veranda.

What I did see from my post as peeping tom was this: one skeezy-looking, super chunk lesbian walking her two dogs. She was wearing an XXL salmon-colored muscle tank with shorts that looked suspiciously like they could’ve been sweatpants in another life, before having had scissors taken to them.

And just like that, with one glimpse at those corpse-white, doughboy, lesbifriend legs, the splendor of the holiday spirit was gone. I shuddered briefly, before closing the curtains.

They are black like my soul.

If not a black soul, what can explain my inappropriate behavior last night when I found myself chortling gleefully at a little boy and his weary-eyed mother?

I’m sorry, but I found it entirely hilarious when, Little Jr., playing leap frog outside the Gay, miscalculated his enthusiastic hippity hop, and ended up racking himself on Target’s cheery, red statuary.

That had to hurt.

And I was thinking, it probably wasn’t nice to laugh at that little boy and his royally racked family jewels. I got to thinking, maybe I was laughing, not because it was so entirely amusing, but really I was laughing to mask my personal pain.

You see, I’ve been in Little Jr’s place many a time.

My first recollection of getting whacked in the nether regions occurred when I was nine. I went joyriding on my brother’s huffy, which was all fun and games until I hit that rock and ended up falling, full-force on to the bike’s “boy bar.” You know, it’s like boys have that long bar that slants down, whereas girls bikes have that bar that goes straight across horizontally? What’s the point of these different bars anyway? I’m pretty sure both of them hurt like the bejesus when you get a direct hit to the lou-lous.

And then there was the time when I was fourteen. Rockstar brother was taking karate and had to practice his mugu-gai-pan-something-or-other technique and decided to do a high kick to my delicates. He was really good at karate – it was a direct hit. I wanted to be proud for his skill, but mostly I just laid on the carpet and whimpered.

And who could forget that one time in college, where – wham – out of nowhere my best friend Switzy lobbed her wallet into my crotch. The best part was, when like a deer in the headlights,I looked to her face, bewildered and maybe a little bit hurt, and she started laughing. I believe her exact words to me in my time of shock and confusion were “Ha ha, I just hit you in the junk. That’s just how I imagined it!”

What kind of gurl hits their friend in the junk on purpose? Well, probably the same kind that laughs at little boys outside the Gay, I guess…

———————
Secret is coming and it is *not* that my college roommate calls me “horny hans.”