So I'm on the back porch in my underwear. I didn't start washing my jeans until almost 11 last night, and when I finally put everything into the dryer, I just sorta wedged it all in, hoping for the best.

This morning, they're still wet. Very wet: heavy, clammy, tacky and stiff. I imagine the dryer is snickering to itself.

All my pants are wet, and I'm on the back porch in my underwear, late for work.

Great.

I pull all but one pair out and start the dryer again. Maybe I can get these down to "damp" before I've got to leave.

Tick, tick, tick...

Note: Cleaning the lint filter every thirty seconds doesn't help.

Tick, tick, tick...

Finally, I decide that I have to leave, so I open the dryer and pull out my... wet pants. Which are now hot.

I gingerly edge them on -- grimace, contort -- and squish out to the car. Maybe if I keep all the windows rolled down, I can walk into work with some dignity.

That just makes them cold.

And the only reason I bring all this up is, I really like the phrase "damp pants." Go ahead, say it. "Damp pants." It has a rhythm, doesn't it? "Damp pants, damp pants."

That and "bundt cake."

So it's eight at night and the sky is fading from a dark red and it's still just barely hot. I've just finished unloading a truck full of boxes and I'm pulling my car into the garage.

As I get out to open the door, I notice a kid -- nine or ten -- watching me from next door. He's got his elbows on the kitchen window sill and his fists are pushing his cheeks high.

"Hi there," I say.

"Hi," he says.

"My name's Greg. I'm your new neighbor."

One eyebrow cocks up and he says hopefully, "Do you have any boys?"

"No," I say. "Sorry... But we're going to get a dog."

He pulls back one corner of his mouth in disappointment. "We've already got two dogs," he says, and turns and walks away.

And the next day I got to see the obligatory fat-guy-who- lives-across-the-street-and-likes-to-walk-around-without-a-shirt.