Well hello there! We're the Minnesota Twins. You might remember us from earlier in the season, when we had the worst record in baseball. Boy did we suck! We sure turned it around, though, and tonight we are tied with the Tigers for first place in the division.

My name is Deb. I know precious little about baseball, and yet I like to talk as if I'm an ESPN sportscaster. Constantly. Tonight I brought my family to the game to celebrate my dad's 70th birthday. There were 8 of us, including Dad. We sat in the Terrace Suite, where there is a delicious buffet that's included in the price of the tickets. My husband, Bill, ate five hot dogs. He drank lots of beer, while I downed plenty of pink wine. We got our money's worth, you know? Our daughter brought along a nice CIRCLE ME BERT sign, which she used to obstruct the view for everybody. The more wine I drink, the more I like to yell things like YOU SUCK! and DROP IT! while I call every. single. pitch. and disagree with the balls and strikes every. single. time. I feel the need to comment (loudly) on every aspect of the event, on and off the field. Because I've never been to a baseball game, I've never witnessed the spectacle of people on the jumbotron having their lower jaws distorted by that funny camera, and I'm appalled! I think it's mean! It's not funny, and if they put me up there, I'll raise holy hell! And you know what? Not a single one of us talked to Dad the entire night. Happy Geezer Day, ol' man!

Hi! I'm Michael! I made my own CIRCLE ME BERT sign, and when I saw the camera guy, I just had to take my non-medicated ADHD self and go bounding down the stairs, weaving in and out, stomping on people's feet, til I came to a screeching halt beside him, leaving a trail of splashed beer and spilled popcorn in my wake. I flapped my sign right in front of the camera's lens and the camera guy asked me nicely not to do that. But you know what I did, don't you? I did it anyway! Because I'm Michael! And I made a sign! And my parents were nowhere to be seen! And my name is Michael! And I made a sign! And I have no meds! For my spaz disease! So I did it again! And again! Until the camera guy grabbed my spaz arm and held it still so he could do his job. And then I most likely went to the Twins office with my parents, where they will probably sue the Twins for kidnaping.

Hello. I am Pat. I enjoy arguing with my wife about whether a particular repugnant wafting odor is B.O. or fart. She says B.O., I say fart. This is why she feels justified in posting this dorky photo of me right there on her stupid blog, which I never read.

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One thing we're going to do a little differently when I start my own world is this: we're not going to make any prosthetic dolphin tails.

We're going to be more careful about leaving lengths of fishing line strewn about the ocean, so there will be less chance for a baby dolphin's tail to get caught in it in the first place.

Accidents happen, though, and if a baby dolphin in my world goes through the horrible trauma and pain of having its tail fall off piece by piece as it struggles for weeks to free itself, we're going to kindly and humanely euthanize it as soon as we find it. We're not going to keep it alive by feeding it baby formula and chewed-up fish. We're not going to pluck it from freedom and keep it in a big tank. No, in my world, we're going to have a specially trained stingray give the baby dolphin a carefully-aimed barb to the heart, and put it out of its misery.

In case you don't know what I'm prattling on about, it's all right here. Scientists have marveled at how the baby dolphin has recovered and taught itself to swim without a tail, and yet they still feel the need to design and implant a prosthetic tail onto the poor thing, at a cost of $100,000 in human dollars, not to mention the cost to the dolphin—more pain, more suffering, more risk of having a crappy life.

Nope. That's one more thing that's going to be better in my world. No prosthetic dolphin tails. That's not to say we won't transplant dolphin tails onto humans, though. I'm all for that.

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All the time we were growing up, our dad took tons and tons of pictures of my brother and me. When we got to be 8 or 9, it started to get annoying sometimes, and that seems to be a common opinion among kids: having your picture taken constantly sucks. So my brother's solution was to try and dissuade Dad from being so camera-happy by making this face every time he saw a lens aimed his way:

Hi. We're an older, retired couple. Our schedule is wiiiide open, pretty much, but when we noticed the elevator was about to leave this morning, one of us ran to catch it. Suzi politely held the door when she saw that we were shuffling toward it. She and Kelly were right on time for their appointment, so one of us got in the elevator while the other one walked across the hall to read the directory, you know, to find out where we were going. We shouted back-and-forth to each other a few times, while Suzi and Kelly and the other lady in the elevator just sort of stood there, waiting. And waiting. And waiting and looking incredulous, but what choice did they have? We didn't really notice their impatience, because really, does anybody else really matter?

Well, hello there! My name is Dr. George. I'm a dermatologist. It takes three months to get an appointment to see me, so when Suzi and Kelly arrived for their 8:55 appointment, I thought I'd keep 'em waiting until almost 10:00. Then, of course, I didn't say a word about it. Why should I apologize? I'm a doctor, after all! My time is what matters, not theirs, right? School, schmool. I was behind schedule, and since it's a nice, fall day here in Eagan, I wanted to get onto the golf course as soon as possible, so I had to get rid of these two schmoes in a hurry. One of 'em was whining about acne or something, I wasn't really paying attention. I think she said something about salicylic acid being too drying for her skin, so I wrote her a prescription for two salicylic acid-based products. Then the older one started complaining about something else, wrinkles or scarring or something, but I noticed she has roseacea. I threw a bunch of samples at her for that, but she kept whining on and on about the stupid wrinkles and the scarring and wah wah wah. I didn't have time to talk to her about chemical peels or dermabrasion or botox or anything else that's new since she was here last (and I don't really know or care when that was. I lost the notes from her last visit so she had to fill out all that paperwork again, and I acted like I'd never met her or the acne kid before). I wrote her a prescription for Renova after I showed her a picture from the rosacea pamphlet, the one with the guy who looks like he has a big ol' turkey waddle hanging from his face. But I told her not to worry about it. All in all, I got the both of 'em out of my hair in six minutes flat. About the time she's forking over $118 for that tube of Renova (which is probably worthless, anyway), I'll be teeing off. Fore!

Hi! I'm Michael! Today I was at Target with my inattentive slob of a mother in her stretch pants and filthy gray Marlboro t-shirt, and while she was ignoring me in the produce section, I picked up a big stalk of broccoli. Target is shrink-wrapping all of their vegetables now, I suppose to keep them from being attacked by the evil spinach. So I got the broccoli stalk and made it into a huge hammer. Then I sprawled myself out on the ecoli-ridden floor, right in the aisle where people may like to drive their grocery carts, and I went to work a-hammerin' that floor like the demon spawn I am. With each blow, I shouted BANG! so that the whole store could hear my yells, BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! while the broccoli became a shredded pulp inside the shrink wrap. It's really not my fault, of course. I'm just a kid! And my mom named me Michael, which was her first mistake; seriously, have you ever known a Michael who was not a complete spaz? About the time the broccoli juice had splattered through the popped shrink wrap enough to paint everything and everybody within a ten-foot radius a stunning shade of green, Mom noticed me. She noticed me! YAY! That's all I ever wanted! Hooray hooray! You know what she said? She said, "Michael, put that back." So I did. You wanna buy it?

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Whew! I just wrote the most hideously boring post about my new favorite computer addiction, Google Image Labeler. One of you other blogging schmoes posted it within the past week or so, and if I remember who, I may have to give you a wedgie or a poke in the eye, because I have wasted much too much time there, which is your fault, not mine. Anyway, no boring detail, just go look. Or don't, because you'll hate me once you do.

If you are a sales rep who called me today with some questions, understand something: It would behoove you to follow this communication model:

Ask question.
Listen to answer.
Ask for clarification, if needed.
Listen.
Repeat steps until you understand the answer to your original question.

Your model is much less effective:

Ask question
Ignore my voice coming through the phone and talk over it.
Tell me why you don't like it the way it is
Tell me that you are confused because of the way we've written something
Ignore my explanation of your misinterpretation, and continue talking while I talk.
Talk to your children while I'm talking.
Talk to your dog while I'm talking.
Keep talking until you eventually answer your own question.

Now that was twenty minutes of your time wasted, and twenty of mine wasted. I get paid for mine. You don't. Let's save ourselves forty minutes next time, okay? LISTEN for a change.

Seriously, next time this particular person calls, I am going to have a polite, businesslike conversation about that, if I can get a word in. Would it be rude to say, "I think I can help you understand if you will just listen for a moment, without speaking" or would "SHUT UP" be better?

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Last weekend was perhaps the most fun I have had in a long, long time, and people, I have a LOT of fun on a regular basis, so that's saying something!

My mom and I took a little road trip to her home town of Perry, Iowa to see the Perry Community Theater production of The Sunburst Crew, a play written by Perry native Rick Fazel and starring two of my extremely talented cousins, Mary Kay Graney Delmege and Pat Graney, and Mary Kay's son, Nick, as well.

It would have been enough just to see Pat and Mary Kay on stage, but the play was really good! It had a complicated plot with plenty of surprises, and it managed to be thought-provoking while maintaining its sense of humor. Everybody should go and see it right away! To do that, you'll need to jump in your time machine and transport yourself back to last weekend, and stop when you see this:

While you're there, go and buy a car from Pat Graney and Granger Motors of Perry, okay?

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Proof that God answers the prayers of little children:

Reason #1, my charming and talented daughter, Kelly. By the time a kid reaches a certain age, say, 15, when she's old enough to shop for homecoming dresses, old enough to have the talk about sex and birth control, old enough to see a dermatologist about acne, old enough to date, old enough to worry her mother with questionable friends who engage in risky activities, old enough to get a driver's permit, don't you think she should have outgrown certain habits? She takes a shower on her own now. She handles her own hygiene, and she gets herself up for school at 5:30 every morning. She remembers to say thank you, and she can carry on a conversation with adults. So I ask you, why WHY WHY IN THE NAME OF EVERYTHING HOLY DOES SHE INSIST ON WIPING HER FRICKIN' MOUTH ON THE TOWELS IN THE BATHROOM?! Seeing that familiar double-streak of toothpaste on the red towel in the bathroom I cleaned, I mean really cleaned, the kind of clean where you even run the shower curtain through the washer. . .well, it's a good thing I love her, or I'd have beaten her to death with the slobbery towel.

Reason #2, Charles, the guy who cuts our grass and stuff. When you hire a guy to trim your bushes and trees, can you generally assume that he will take the severed limbs with him? Or should he leave them strewn about the yard in ginormous piles, one big one at the end of the driveway, and others dispersed throughout the lawn on the grass that has just gotten itself green again after the long drought? Should he leave them there for THREE FRICKIN' DAYS? When you call him on the phone to inquire as to when he might be by to clean up after himself, is "in the next couple days" acceptable? Is "uh, I didn't have a trailer with me. I didn't know there'd be so much" an acceptable excuse, when he cuts the grass every week and knows very well "how much there'd be?" Yeah, I guess I'm just crabby.

Reason #3, the crew who has been here putting new siding on our house for the past two days. Holy junkyard, Batman. I mean, the house itself is looking really nice, but these guys are messy. Along with Charles' piles, my yard is filled with nails, staples, pieces of siding, pieces of soffit, sharp pieces of sheet metal, Tyvek shreds, aluminum, cigarette butts, and a crapton of little teeny pieces of styrofoam, not to mention urine and feces, I presume, because none of them have been inside to use the bathroom either day. The foreman has assured me that there will be absolutely nothing left behind once the cleanup crew has been by, but they don't come until the very end. I guess I'd like a little clean-as-you-go, and I'd especially like to not have to ask them to clear away a path every time I want to back out of the driveway!

Well, will you look at that. All my reasons happen to be people. Whaddya know.

You are probably familiar with my favorite book, The Wuggie Norple Story, by Daniel Pinkwater, because if we know each other in real life, and possibly even if we don't, I have probably given you a copy of this book.

When Rose was about 2, I bought my first copy, or maybe I got it from the library. I don't actually remember. What I do remember is sitting with my daughter on my lap in the rocking chair in the family room of our first house in St. Louis Park, and trying to read this book to her as a bedtime story. The only problem with that was I was soon laughing so hard that I couldn't speak. I was choking, tears streaming down my face, scaring my child and annoying my husband. I don't think I even made it past the first page before I lost it, and there were more than a couple of nights where I had to get out of bed and sleep on the couch because I could not stop giggling long enough to fall asleep without waking Pat up.

Well, that was enough to do me in. I managed to read Rose a different book and get her to sleep before I continued, but I think it was weeks before I could get the words out to read it to her again, and not surprisingly, she wasn't all that amused. At age 2, she had a much more refined sense of humor than her mother. But really, how could anybody not laugh themselves sick over a six-year-old razorback hog named Papercup Mixmaster? Or a young horse named Exploding Poptart?

Rose's nickname, as I have probably mentioned, is Wuggie, or Wugs. We give our kids nicknames that amuse us, but have nothing to do with who they are or what they like, evidently. Something else for them to mention to their therapists.

So tonight, I remembered that I'm down to my last copy, and I might find somebody having a bad day who needs it, so I went to Amazon to restock. Imagine my dismay at finding that The Wuggie Norple Story is out of print! Oh, it's still available. You can buy it used, but the book that used to be $4.50 in paperback is going for anywhere from $34 to $168! I wanted to purchase ten copies, but obviously, that was not to be. I found one copy in "good" condition for twenty bucks on half.com, and I snapped it up.

If I have given you a copy of the best book in the world, The Wuggie Norple Story by Daniel Pinkwater, know that I won't hold it against you if you sell it on ebay and buy yourself some Chanel lipstick and a pretty decent Starbuck's card. Or a car payment.

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I sort of like the disjointed short paragraph format, so here we are.

Yesterday I went to a funeral for the brother of a business associate. The guy died of lung cancer at age 52. He didn't enjoy the process, from what I understand, and neither did his family. Such a waste. If you smoke, how 'bout ya stop, huh? For the people who love you? Thanks.

After that, I went to Valleyfair with my favorite little redhead kids and their parents, who I also like pretty well. My niece, Sophie, is the bravest five-year-old in the entire world. She capped off her first week as a Kindergartner by riding Wild Thing, the biggest, baddest, steepest coaster there. Yesterday was the first day that she reached the required height of 48-inches. Sophie once said, "I'm not scared a' nuthin'. . .well, 'cept maybe robots. I do not like the idea of robots."

Also yesterday, somebody to whom I am married played in the Trent Tucker Celebrity Golf Tournament. At one point, he met up face-to-face with one of my many basketball heroes, Mr. Scottie Pippin, but he was too shocked and star-struck to utter a single word. Pat, I mean. Scottie wasn't nervous at all.

Kelly's softball team actually won a game today. Great rejoicing! The most entertaining moments came when Kelly was put in to pinch run for somebody. BWAHAHA if you know Kelly, as it is common knowledge that she is the slowest runner in the county. She doesn't run, she prances. As I was on the phone with Rose, guffawing over the idea of Kelly the pinch runner, she stole second! Successfully! Amazingly, she ended up scoring. Even more amazingly, they put her right back on first to pinch run for another girl, and she stole second and scored again! I'm pretty sure hell has frozen over.

Health report: Last week's wrecked lower back trouble has migrated northward to my neck.

I hate when people tell me about dreams they've had, but I always tell people about dreams I've had. Mine are more entertaining.

Hey, how 'bout those red-hot Minnesota Twins? I'm going to the game with my dad tomorrow.

Today while I was talking to Rose on the phone, she turned on her speakerphone feature so I could talk to Stanley. He got all excited and barked at me, and when I told him to go get his toy, he went and got a toy and brought it back to the phone. Best dog ever.

Tomorrow some dudes are coming by to yank all the masonite siding right offa the house, in preparation for some other dudes coming by on Tuesday to put some new stuff on. It's funny how we agonized over the color decision. I photographed the house, then Photoshopped the new kind of siding onto it, and then messed with changing the color from one kind of tan to another. Ridiculous. It's tan, like every house.

Kelly started school on Tuesday. She is in tenth grade. That means that my youngest child is officially as old as I was five years ago. Don't know exactly how that works, but I swear it was just five years ago that we had the homecoming campout, and Laurie did some kind of naked dance on the rock, and everyone was a geek, people tried to tear off the tag from your Levi's, rendering them (and you) uncool, and our teams were still called Warriors.

Rose started her junior year of college this week, too. A police officer stopped by her off-campus house to warn her against "having parties." Excuse me? She can have parties. She just can't have alcohol because she is not yet 21. She said she told the cop he should just go on up to the nut hospital and be on hand to catch the next escapee, instead of letting him end up on America's Most Wanted, like the last one. Of course, she lies. She said, "Yes, officer. Thank you so much for stopping by, officer" while Stanley barked his head off.

At this moment, the last six pints of salsa out of 79 I've made in the past three days are having their hot water processing bath. This particular batch is ridiculously hot, and the only people who will eat it are my dad and my next-door neighbor. I have four gallons of chopped tomatoes that still need to be whomped into salsa, and I'm not sure when that will happen, because I have to work tomorrow and then I'm going to the Twins game. And I need more jars. If I gave you salsa last year, give me back my jars and I'll fill 'em up again.

If my thieving husband continues to eat my Snyder's of Hanover Hot Buffalo Wing pretzel pieces, and I mean the entire bag so there are none left when I want them, even though I hide them in my desk drawer, he is going to receive a stingray barb to the heart when he least expects it.

You know what my friend Leslie at work does not find amusing? Jokes about stingray barbs to the heart. Drawings of stingray barbs. Letter openers bobbing up and down like a puppet show over the wall of her cube.

When I start my own world, we are going to have rules of decency. Our rules of decency will concern things like speaking hatefully or viciously toward one another, acting hatefully or viciously toward one another, and that's about it. Our rules of decency will not have anything at all to do with profanity, for there will be no such thing. Words will be words, hurtful only if used in a hateful context. In my world, Bert Blyleven will be the Twins TV guy, and he will not be suspended or fined for saying any words he might choose. And public nudity will be allowed. No, encouraged. Tax breaks for the naked.

I believe the FCC should modify its list of words that cannot be uttered on public airwaves. The criteria for removal is this: once my mom says a word, it comes off the list. She said "shithead" in about 1985, and a few days ago she said "fuck." Sure, she was quoting somebody else, but still. Off the list.

If I die in a particularly interesting manner, you'll be quite said, of course, but you have my permission, and in fact, my encouragement, to have a little chuckle about it, too, especially if it's an ironic death. For example, if I accidentally fall on my camera and become impaled on my gigantic sneaky lens, or if I somehow manage to dunk my head into a vat of boiling salsa, that's gnarly! That's interesting! And ironic! Also, if the event happens to be captured on film, please feel free to watch it. I know you mean no disrespect.

I am currently sporting a good haircut, which I got in Miami. Kelly and I both got haircuts, by a husband and wife duo who arrived from Paris just weeks ago. The mister's family owns a chain of salons there, and they are thinking about opening one here. Meanwhile, they're working at another salon. They use this weird Edward Scissorhands upside-down-and-backwards technique. They also spray stuff on your hair while blowing it with a dryer, and then they cut cut cut some more when it's dry, and it flies around all over like popcorn out of a pan. While it was happening, I assumed I was enjoying the Benihana of haircuts—showy and dramatic, but not that tasty. I was wrong. It was showy and dramatic, and it still looks really delicious.

I managed to wreck my back, which I have never done before. I think it happened while I was lifting six bushels of tomatoes into the car at the farmer's market, but the real reason is my lack of regular exercise. Remember when I didn't work? And I spent 3 hours a day working out, and another hour walking? Yeah, well. Those days have passed, but I need to find a way to get some regular exercise, because that prevents backs from getting wrecked and migraine headaches and other old people maladies.

And now the salsa is done, and I am going to bed, because, as illustrated by this disjointed post, I am extremely tired. Good night.

We're back.

We did a lot of this:

A lot of this:

And quite a bit of this (Kelly got a bright idea, here):

We didn't do any of this at all:

Nobody completely naked on the beach, but we saw boobs!:

We took touristy photos of the Versace mansion, where a nice Minnesota boy shot and killed Versace a few years ago, and now the mansion is rented out for parties:

And we stumbled by Miami Ink when we weren't even trying, and they were filming:

That whiney, weak-kneed, limp-wristed pansy of an excuse for a hurricane, Ernesto, was a huge disappointment. After two days of 24-hour TV coverage on six channels (Miami TV weather guys make Mike Fairborne seem calm and sensible), he blew in with as much force as Grandpa blowing out 100 birthday candles:

The hype kept the hotel from opening the restaurant, though, so Kelly and I were forced to walk to Walgreen's and lay in a supply of chips, salsa, nuts, crackers, and pretzels, and then to lie in bed all day eating junkfood and watching pay-per-view movies all day. It was heavenly.