When Kelly was about two or three years old, my neighbor, Bona Sijabat, came over to chat one springtime day. We'd often drink an iced coffee together while Kelly and Bona's little boy, Tony, played outside in the yard. This particular morning she had news, though. Urgent news. It seems that a story was going around that there are woodchucks in the neighborhood.

Okay, sez I. Woodchucks. So? I don't think I've ever seen one, but who cares? Aren't they just sort of land beavers? Well, no, sez Bona. Woodchucks are mean, and will attack pets. So? sez I. I have no pets. Well, sez Bona, Woodchucks will also attack small children, and you have a couple of those, so we must be extra vigilant and be on the alert for woodchucks while the kids are outside.

I laughed. I told Bona Sijabat she's completely batshit crazy out of her mind if she believes a woodchuck could eat a baby. She shrugged, and I forgot all about that conversation. . .

. . .until about three days later, when I heard the shriek of death coming from next door. It sounded like what you would expect to hear if you were to tie a flaming hyena to a ceiling fan operating at full whirl. I flew out my front door and saw little Tony—sweet , tiny, blond, blue blankie-loving little two-year-old Tony—lying face down on the sidewalk in front of the Sijabat's porch. There is a crack between the porch and the sidewalk, caused by the ground settling. Tony's right arm was extended into the crack, underneath the porch, and he was absolutely hysterical.

I took about five seconds to assess the situation, trying not to panic, and came to the only logical conclusion: an evil neighborhood woodchuck attacked little Tony and was now dragging him back to its lair, and if I didn't act swiftly, Tony was going to become woodchuck chow. I fell to the ground next to Tony and reached my arm underneath the porch, next to his, and grabbed a handful of fur, confirming my theory. I started to pull at the animal, trying to get it out, but it kept pulling further underneath the porch, dragging Tony's arm with it. I was no match for its strength, so I started to pummel the thing like there is no tomorrow.

Here I should remind you how I adore children. Yeah, I adore children. I'd eat a black walnut if it meant saving a child from a moment of discomfort. I really, really, really like children, and even with that, I like Tony about fifty times as well as I like the average child. I really really really like Tony.

I'm sure the whole spectacle only lasted a few minutes, but the pummeling and pounding of the woodchuck seemed to be happening in slow motion. I pounded and smacked and beat and thumped and punched so hard, and so often, that I worked up a serious sweat, and yet, that sucker would still NOT let go of Tony's arm. I decided to switch gears and see if I could move my hand into the animal's mouth and pry open its jaw. I snaked my hand along his arm to the point where it met the beast, and here I found. . .

Tony's fist clasped around a thick clump of fur. At that moment, Tony became clear enough in his wailing that I could make out some of his words for the first time. And his word were these:

MY (GASP!) MY (GASP!) MY (GASP!) MY (GASP!)

KIIIIIITTTTY!

And so that is the story of how I beat the holy living hell out of Bona Sijabat's very sweet kitty cat. Sorry Tony. Sorry Bona. Sorry Motorcycle Jack the Cat.

Every word of this story is true, except the name of my neighbor, Kathy Nelson, has been changed to Bona Sijabat, because really, that makes the story way more compelling.

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I chickened out. I had planned to dress up as one of my bosses today at work. I was going to wear tan pants, a plaid shirt, a tan vest, and reading glasses. Then I was going to carry a metal ruler around because HA! HA! JIM!

But then I thought he might think it was mean, and I didn't mean it to be mean. I didn't want to hurt his feelings, because there are way funner and more creative ways to hurt people's feelings.

It's colder than a witches. . .nose outside. I just looked out the window, and Buck Hill is making snow. Ay yi yi. We still had plenty of trick-or-treaters, though.

I have half a bowl of the most demented, disgusting, plastic-looking candy I could find—gummy hamburgers. I bought that instead of Nestles Krunch, because I thought it would be easier for Pat and Kelly to resist. I was right. Blech.

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Man, I really like that stuff. Kelly does too, but we've eaten it three times in the last ten days, I think. When we got home tonight, I went to their web site to get some information about what we were enjoying so much, and I expected the news to be pretty bad. I found a few surprising things.

Three of the meats, chicken, steak, and carnitas, are about the same in calories and fat. Barbacoa has about 50 more calories than the other three.

I should have realized this, but I was shocked to see just how many calories are packed into rice. Yikes! Why does it have to be so good? There are 240 calories in a serving of that fluffy white stuff!

4 crispy taco shells have fewer calories than 3 soft taco shells! How can that be? This completely breaks the rule that says yummier=more calories. Good news!

I always have the same thing, trying to be healthy while maintaining the deliciousity: burrito bol (so no tortilla) with black beans, rice, tomato salsa and corn salsa. That's it. Turns out I'm eating almost 500 calories when I do that, but if I cut out half of the rice and half of the corn salsa, I can get it down to just over 300. That's good, especially since it's a nice blend of protien, carbs, and fats.

Kelly, on the other hand, has recently switched from a teeny, carnitas-only burrito to crispy tacos with carnitas, sour cream, tomatillo salsa, lettuce, and cheese. That packs in 710 calories. That's a lot. If we're going to keep eating there 9 times a month (which we won't, I promise), she's going to have to find a way to give up some of that cheese and sour cream, and to eat two tacos instead of four. Four! Who eats four tacos? Kelly does.

So while I'm thinking about health and eating, I found my way over to this site about healthy free stuff: Free Product Samples. I expected it to be more about diet and nutrition, but instead it's about that other kind of health, doctors and medication and stuff, which is great, because it reminds me that I have to make a couple health-related appointments tomorrow. First, for a mammogram. Second, with a regular doctor to get some sort of relief from these nasty headaches, because remember Dr. Stubbyfingers, thy gynocologist? Well, he has no interest in helping me with anything that's going on above the waist or below the thighs. This web site had a lovely coupon for a free trial of a migraine medication, one that you take to prevent them rather than get rid of them. Cool!

Ha! Is that Bounce in the picture? Not sure how that will keep me healthy, but okay!

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Whew! We can all relax at least one more day. Kelly did not pass her permit test! To celebrate, we went to Chipotle.

For the record, a birth certificate and Lifetime Fitness ID card is not sufficient identification. The picture ID has to be from school, or another government agency. The cuteness quotient of the health club ID is irrelevant.

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It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, having little ones during Halloween.

The best of times: Candy! Fun! Cuteness! Costumes!

The worst of times: Trick-or-treating in the cold.

It's going to be fuh-reeezing tomorrow night, and I can't tell you how happy I am to be able to stay in and hand out candy to the few kids who will be brave enough to put on their down coats and get out there in the windy cold.

I have made some sweet costumes in my day. I remember a Queen of Hearts (which quickly became Queen of Farts, of course), a farmer and a baby cow (when Rose was 5 and Kelly was a teeny baby), a cowgirl, a clown vampire (she simply could not decide), a kangaroo whose gigantic tail got soaked with rain, causing it to weigh three hundred pounds and render the wearer motionless, Raggedy Ann, and Minnie Mouse. My all-time favorite, though, was one of the least difficult to put together, when Kelly and her friend Rachel dressed as Thing One and Thing Two from Dr. Suess' The Cat in the Hat:

Oh, gosh. I really hate to be the bearer of bad news, but in the interest of safety, I'm afraid I must share something with you.

After she gets finished with school today, I am taking Kelly to get her driver's permit. She's been taking The Class since school started, and here in Minnesota, kids have to take The Class and pass a test to get The Blue Card, which is the special ticket needed to take The Permit Test. She's failed the test to get The Blue Card a few times, and each time we've had a little celebration out of sheer relief.

Have you ever taught a kid to drive? It's hideous. You have to sit in the passenger's seat, acting all calm and collected so as not to upset the driver, because if you upset or startle the driver, she may veer even further into oncoming traffic. You may never yell out JESUS MARY AND JOSEPH! Instead, you have to keep a constant level of calm and use a soothing tone to say, "darling, you're doing very well. Everybody makes mistakes when they're learning, sweetheart, and those two little kids you just ran over will enjoy their hospital stay because they'll get popsicles. But you should probably get off the sidewalk now, honey."

Valium is a prescription drug, isn't it? Damn.

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If you are sitting around, wondering whether or not anybody used their extra hour to whomp up a pan of really Elephant-mannish black bean banana empanadas, the answer is yes. Yes, as a matter of fact, they did.

A year or so ago, I made Kelly this adorable, age-appropriate website, but of course, she ignores it in favor of myspace. Ungrateful little brat. So mostly, it collects spam. I have the comments moderated, however, so I go in every day or two and delete all the free phone poker football picks stock tips penis enlargement teen orgy.

Today, however, I was inclined to check out one of the sites after I deleted the comment, and I was left with some questions. I emailed the following to the webmaster for answers:

I'll let you know what I hear from them, but I'm not hopeful that I'll hear anything at all.

I'm probably the only person left on the planet who does not watch all those CSI shows on TV. Well, other than to listen to parts of the Miami one with my eyes closed, because seriously, that is some amusing stuff. That NYPD Blue guy? He speaks. . .every line. . .in a RYTHMic. SarCAStic. SING-song, OverACTed. MANner. WITH. DraMATic. PAUSes. in EACH. SENTence.

Anyway. . .analyzing crimes scenes is everybody's hobby these days, so I need your help in solving this mystery. Here are the facts.

At 2:31 this afternoon, Kelly called me from school because she had missed her bus. Fortunately, I had arrived home from work early today, and left immediately to pick her up. From there, we went to pick up a window blind that I'd dropped off for repair earlier in the week. What this has to do with the crime, I have no idea. Just being thorough.

From there, we picked up Kelly's friend, Jessie, as the two of them had plans for coffee at Caribou. I dropped them off, then came home, removed the repaired blind from the trunk of the car, and went inside. It is important to note that I saw nothing peculiar in the garage at that time.

About 4:27, the newly-repaired blind was reinstalled, and I was registering at this site so I could find out what the heck Jade's big secret is, when Kelly called and was ready to be picked up.

The discussion on the way home centered around dinner. What should we have for dinner? Should we go to Byerly's and get crab legs for a treat and eat them at the counter like we sometimes do when Mr. McDonough out of town? How 'bout a nice salad? Then Kelly suggested take-out chopped salad from Outback. The decision was made as we pulled into the driveway and pushed the button to make the garage door open. It is important to note once again that I saw nothing out of the ordinary here. No cats darting out from under the door. No vampires flying about. No kitchen knives hurling themselves through the air. It is also important to note that fake Australians make a mean chopped salad. Who knew?

As I exited the driver's seat, Kelly exited the passenger's. I headed for the mailbox, Kelly for the door. When I'd taken two steps out of the garage, I suddenly heard Kelly shrieking MaaaaaaMaaaaaa! Ewwwwwww! I turned to see her standing frozen in terror as she stared at the carnage that was on the floor behind my car.

My first reaction was to reach for my camera, but decency (believe it or not) prevented me from photographing the bloody scene. The eviscerated body lay on the garage floor, in a puddle of its own ( I assume. But then, I'm no detective) urine, surrounded by the gore that appeared to have spewed forth through a single, inch-long gash in the side. Since a photograph would be too disturbing, I commissioned, at great expense, a famous police artist to paint this representation for you:

As tempted as I was to cordon off the area with yellow crime tape, I opted instead for the broom. For a moment, as Kelly wailed and lamented her complete lack of brothers, I thought I might be brave enough to scoop up the corpse and its spillage, and throw it in the garbage can. When it came right down to it, though, I behaved like the girl I am and broom-flung that sucker out the door and into the rocks, leaving nothing but a stripey bloody smear. Proper mouse mortuary services will commence upon Pat's arrival home tomorrow. Because he is the boy, and disposing of dead stuff is a boy job.

So, the evidence is before you, ladies and gentlemen. Can you explain to me how a creature can die a hideous, violent death, in a narrow time frame, in a pet-free garage in a serene, south suburban neighborhood on a gloomy autumn day? I'd be happy to answer any questions I can, and I will be happy to take a polygraph test if you feel it's necessary.

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. . .and DON'T forget the horsey sauce this time, huh? You asstards ALWAYS forget the effin' horsey sauce!

Last night, Kelly of the newly-darkened hair made an elegant dinner for her boyfriend, Jimmy. You see, it's their "anniversary." Two months. The kitchen was bustling in preparation all day, as she whomped together a beautiful salad, twice-baked potatoes, fettucine alfredo, biscuits, and grilled New York strips. For dessert, Jimmy's favorite: French Silk Pie.

She sets a pretty table, does she not?

Match the quote with the person who said it:

1. Your cervix is just beautiful!

2. Yeah. . .you don't actually look as good when you're wet.

3. Oh, poop!

4. I forgooooot! Waaahh! I had claaaaass!

5. Heh heh heh (Beavis laugh). Look at this junk mail we got. It's about hemorrhoids. Heh heh heh.

6. My instinct will tell me when to stop.

Now, the people:

A. The mister, MIH (Most Immature Husband).

B. My charming daughter, Rose, on why she couldn't tell me what the Culligan guy had to say about her water softener and its relationship to her $500 monthly water bill for September.

C. My extremely polite and profanity-free boss, on trying to find the stock photo images he needed to download again since his computer was stolen.

D. My gynecologist, he of the painfully short fingers. Yay! 364 days ahead that I don't have to do that again!

E. My brother, on why he wasn't cashing out of the video poker machine, even though he had turned his five measly dollars into fifty plus. Still, he left with 40. Sweet!

F. My charming niece, Sophia, as we were getting dressed after swimming.

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Geez. This morning while I was getting ready for work, Pat asked if I'd ever heard of Seattle Sutton's Healthy Eating. Well yeah, I have, but I've never thought about subscribing to their service (delivering healthy, fresh-cooked meals, 21 of 'em every week), because I like to cook, and I generally do what I think is a whiz-bang fine job of it. Last night I made a big ol' batch of spinach pie (I'll bring you some tomorrow, Mis!) and salmon in Japanese bread crumbs.

Then later this afternoon, that same husband handed me a printout of the results of his online search for a house cleaning service.

Uhh. . .trying to tell me something?

I was offended by his obvious disrespect of my domestic skilz. For about three seconds.

I'm over it. Sign me up! I don't want any of the cleaning services on Pat's list, though, because none of them had a very good rating on Angie's List. What I'd really like is a recommendation from somebody who is happy with their housecleaning service. So, anybody? Anybody in Burnsville/Lakeville/Apple Valley have somebody they like, who cleans thoroughly and cheerfully and doesn't gossip about what a crappy housekeeper I am? Oh, and I'd like them not to steel my computer, please. And I'd like them to be naked, if possible. Of course.

Hey, check out my new links over there. I don't even remember where I found these people, but I've been reading both of them for a couple months now, I think. Shelli is in Orlando this week, but still blogging as she swims with dolphins. Now that's dedication! She has headaches that are waaaaay worse than mine, only she doesn't whine like I do.

When I read this chick here, I often find myself going, meeeee tooooooo! because we have similar kinds of lives with similarly-aged offspring and intolerance for similar things. She has monster headaches as well, and let me in on her drug secret so I can ask my doctor for it. I think it's called heroin.

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Item one: Mildly amusing, so try to follow along. . .my daughter, Rose, lives with her roommate, Teresa. They have a friend, Jessie. They all go to the same college in the little town where they live. Jessie's friend Kelsey came to visit last weekend. Kelsey's roommate called her to tell her that when she arrived home, all the furniture in their apartment had been turned upside-down, and all the drawers were open. Kelsey freaked out, believing that a poltergeist was responsible for the furniture shenanigans. So tonight, when Rose got home from class, she found all her furniture turned upside-down, and all the drawers open. Jessie is a funny poltergeist with lots of friends who are willing to lift heavy stuff.

Item two: Not amusing in the least. My very nice boss's computer was stolen over the weekend. There was no break-in, so it had to be somebody with a key. Probably the new cleaning crew, but nobody can prove that, of course. It's a huge pain, because the nature of our business is product designery, and many of the newest product designery files will now have to be recreated. If you are thinking about stealing a computer, especially from really really really extremely NICE people who would likely find a way to help you get your own computer if you'd just ask, DON'T. It's way too mean.

Item three: Sort of cool. A girl who used to go to the same middle school as my youngest daughter, Kelly, was on that MTV show called "Made" tonight. She moved to Connecticut, where she asked the folks at "Made" to help her be cool so she could win some sort of town pageant thing. She was the kind of girl who just doesn't quite fit socially, you know, looks a little weird, laughs weird, hides behind books. Kelly says she always thought she was "mean" when she lived here, but now she understands that she was just trying to fit in and was probably really unhappy. So let that be a lesson to you. Embrace the weirdness, people! Weirdness gets you on TV!

Item four: Look for a divorce announcement. On Friday, I acquired a beautiful set of Wedgwood. Service for 8. Pretty sure it's either divorce or death for me now, since there is no space left in our house to keep that beautiful china besides the floor of the guest bedroom. But that's okay. It's worth it. It has lemons on it.

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I spent 36 hours in bed so far this weekend, with one of those headaches that makes me want to impale myself, forehead first, on the dull point of a wrought iron fence post. Fortunately, I emerged in time for the friends and family coupon sale at J. C. Penney, because, though I'm not the friend, I am the family of a retired J. C. Penney employee. Thanks for the coupon, Betty! I got some new red towels for Kelly to smear toothpaste all over.

Since no Internet freakazoids emailed me in time to make it to the Timberwolves game on Wednesday, I went by myself. Having three extra tickets, I proceeded to the lobby of the Target Center to shop for somebody to sit by, and I hit the jackpot. CUTE BABY! I gave the tickets to the cute baby's mama, and it turned out that she had a whole family of cuteness with her, including grandparents who were visiting all the way from China. How cool is that?!

Here's another basketball photo, after it survived a little Phun with Photoshop from Down & Dirty Tricks by Scott Kelby. You'll notice a different angle of the basketball photos this year, because we have different seats, over behind the visitor's bench. I'm not sure yet whether I like them. We've always been on the other side of the arena, where I can keep an eye on the Wolves' bench, which I enjoy, for some reason. I can also see Kevin McHale squeezing the crap out of his head when the Wolves are falling apart. These seats might be okay, though. It was quiet enough that I could hear a little banter from the Buck's bench, and I could hear their coach during time outs. That probably won't be possible during regular season games, though. It'll be louder in the arena, and our seats aren't that close to the bench at all. It's a prime heckling spot, though.

Friday night, before the massive headache took over, we had a little pumpkin carving fun over at my mom and dad's. During the evening, we realized that Halie, Kelly's best friend, lived in the same apartment where my family lived when we moved to Minnesota in the late 60's. We're talking the same apartment, apartment 210B at Metropolitan Towers in Bloomington, thirty years apart! So cool to think that Halie and her sister shared the same bedroom that my brother and I shared. The same bedroom where my dad set up grow-lights so we could grow pumpkins in an apartment, and where Frankie Schaffer, our neighbor, had to be taken to the ER one night after he crammed a couple pumpkin seeds up his nose. Halie lived there! Weird.

Got a little off track there. Here's a photo of the evening's accomplishments:

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If you know me at all, you that I lika da basketball. Tonight is the Timberwolves' first preseason game against the Milwaukee Bucks. I have had the tickets sitting on my desk all week, and for some reason, I was thinking the game was tomorrow, not tonight. I'm still going, because I'm nothing if not spontaneous. The only trouble is that the few people I've asked to go with me have made up excuses for why they can't go. Really! Who wouldn't want to see the messed-up Timberwolves start all fresh, huh?

So if you want to go with me, you're in. Drop me an email with your phone number, and I'll tell you where to meet me. I don't even care if you're a spazzed-out freak with fangs named Michael (I mean you're Michael, not that your fangs are named Michael, because how dumb would that be, naming all your fangs the same name). And you can bring two of your spazzed-out friends because I have four tickets.

Sigh. It's come to this . . . blogging about my laundry and begging for friends on the Internet.

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Hold onto your hats! I'm going to take you to the laundromat with me. Excited? Wow. . .that's sad. You must have no life.

Sometimes I get a little lazy, and that laziness manifests itself as HEY, LET'S NOT DO LAUNDRY FOR ABOUT TWO WEEKS. When that happens, the laziness leads to chaos in the laundry room. The towels get cranky when they have to fight Kelly's 800 pairs of Victoria Secret Pink underpants for floor space.

So this morning, I decided that, rather than spend my entire day washing, drying, and folding laundry, I'd rent a U-Haul and take it all to the laundromat in Apple Valley. This way, I could spend just half my day doing laundry, and the other half blogging about it. I know. Compelling subject matter. Maybe next time I'll shampoo the carpet and make a time-lapse video of the drying process.

My fantasy morning at the laundromat went like this: Load washers. Add soap. Relax and do puzzles. Transfer laundry to dryers. Do more puzzles. Fold. Done.

In reality, it went like this:

Load three washers. Read directions. Add a little soap. Fill three machines with a million quarters. Stand amidst the loaded washers holding the Tide jug, pretending to be a cowboy in a quick-draw shootout. Add soap to three washers. Go to car to get five more loads of laundry. Load five more washers. Two million more quarters. Move first three loads to three different dryers. Visit change machine. Half a million more quarters. Move three more loads to three more dryers.

Until this point, I'm the only person in the building besides the guy who owns the place, who comes and goes, collecting bagfuls of quarters and taking them to buy lattes. As he leaves, in walks a regular ol' suburban lady much like myself, only slightly dumber and with a lack of respect for other peoples' space. She proceeds to take a washerful of stuff and put it into the dryer RIGHT NEXT to the six dryers which are currently occupado by my stuff. Here's a helpful diagram to show you:

Obviously, this has to be the very same lady who always always always, without fail, plops her ass down on the toilet in restroom stall next to where I've plopped my own ass down. There are invariably twenty empty stalls, and nobody besides the two of us in the entire, cavernous, echoing room, but she likes the comfort of tinkling right. beside. me.

Then, as I got further into the drying and the folding, my eight loads started to fill up a table quite nicely. You know those big laundromat tables? That are huge? And you can lay out your sheets and fold them all tidy-like? And there are no fewer than THREE of them in this particular laundromat? Yeah, those. Well, the lady with no respect for other people's space not only likes to tinkle right next to me, but she likes to fold her laundry right next to me, too. Even though there are TWO EMPTY TABLES within twelve feet of her. Again, a helpful diagram of the situation:

There was a time in my life when I would have been sooooo happy to have some relatively okay, just not really new-looking towels to keep on hand for when we had guests (of course I give the guests the good towels and use the sorta ratty ones myself). That time might come again, too. Right now, though, is not that time. Right now I like good towels. Bright towels. Towels where the hem exists around all four edges. Sadly, the towels featured in this photo did not live up to my standard, and so I saw fit to abandon them in their time of need. If you can provide a loving home for them, perhaps you'll consider rescuing them from the laundromat in Apple Valley.

Here's another sad sight, a kakuro puzzle book that sat on a table, completely ignored, because I was busily moving, folding, hanging, and photographing instead of gnashing my teeth over the challenges within:

So, how thrilled are YOU that you stuck with this long, drawn-out laundry story! It increased the quality of your life today, didn't it?

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So, what has two thumbs and married me on this date, twenty three years ago?

This guy!

The amazing thing is that he's still around, in spite of my tendency to take a joke way too far, my questionable housekeeping skilz, and my habit of spending all the money on Christmas ornaments and sets of china. He's either retarded, crazy, or both.

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Here's a photo of the youngest child. She's been transformed into a homecoming diva this evening. The flowers are from her nifty boyfriend, Jimmy, who was unable to attend homecoming this evening, due to a scheduling conflict. In thirty minutes, I will pick up Kelly and her friends at school, and they will return here to enjoy rice krispie bars, ice cream, and popcorn while they engage in a play-by-play analysis of the preceding events.

If you look closely, you will see that Kelly is sporting some false eyelashes, professionally affixed by her friend Halie's mom, Peggy. I could never have done this. If I'd been asked to glue false eyelashes on my kid, she would look like she had two caterpillars on her cheeks.

In other news, I painted the garage today.

In still other news, I'm going to an apple orchard tomorrow. My parents agreed to go with me this year, so I won't have to attend Emma Krumbee's scarecrow festival alone like a huge loser, as I did last year.

In yet more other news, I'm totally not kidding about watching that movie I linked in yesterday's post. Last year, Rose had a class with the kid who made it, and he is quite possibly the funniest movie maker ever.

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Twins swept by the A's. Depressing.

To cheer yourself up, go and watch my favorite video ever, Stingray to my Heart.

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Here's a review of the play I saw today: Jon Hassler novels made into plays? Excellent. Musicals? Excellent. Jon Hassler novels made into musicals? Not so excellent. And that is the extent of any sort of review you'll see here, because really, who cares what I think? You might like it, you might not. I didn't, so much.

Somehow, though, my parents and I managed to have a pretty good time. As Mom pulled the car into the spot right smack dab in front of the theater, my dad did a Mannix-roll out the door of the moving car and bolted toward the men's room, narrowly averting disaster.

As we milled around the museum/theater before the show, we noticed that we were the youngest people in the building. To make himself fit in better, my dad pulled his pants up and tightened his belt around his chest, then walked around looking at the paintings up close. Reeeeal close. With his jaw dropped open.

Then, after we were seated, we saw a guy who looks just like a shmoo. We spotted him at the same exact instant, and whispered to each other, "Shmoo!" On closer inspection, though, the shmoo's longish mop of gray hair and overzealous sideburns made him resemble Captain Kangaroo.

At intermission, Mom and I proceeded to the two-throne women's room, ready to stand patiently in line behind all the elderly patrons in their Sunday finery (MY GOD! THAT WOMAN'S BEEN UPHOLSTERED! sez Dad.), but were surprised to find only three bladders ahead of us. We were perplexed, but pleased, by the lack of interest in the potty. We puzzled it through, and soon came to the conclusion that most of the people in the theater were wearing adult diapers. They were peeing in their Depends quite happily and conveniently, leaving the toilets free for the young 'uns.

Captain Kangashmoo did not return after intermission. He'd had enough bad theater for one day, I guess, but Mom, Dad, and I braved it out, then Mom treated us to a fine dining experience at the Country Kitchen in Cannon Falls. After we'd sat at our table long enough to enjoy a Diet Coke and some fried vegetable products, we noticed the party at the table next to us was none other than Captain and Mrs. Kangashmoo.

As enjoyable as seeing a bad play and eating bad food with my parents was (really, it was!), if I had the day to live over again, I'd probably opt for baseball. You only get to win the division once a year. You only get to be in first place once a year (if you're the Twins, and it's this particular year). You only get to win the batting title as a catcher once ever (if you're Joe Mauer), and I missed it all. But I saw a shmoo.

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