Gold

Ahh, the perils of blogging. Every once in a great while, between the pablum, the idiocy and forced "ain't I so cute" jokes, you strike gold with something like "The Night the Dog Ate the Hearing Aid."

Not long after the exceedingly rare moments when the heavens align and pour forth USDA AAA Comedy Sirloin, a few hours of smug satisfaction quickly give way to the terror of the next act. Like astronauts returning from the moon, you know you'll never again reach those heights.

So terror gives way to depression, futility and procrastination -- which is one hell of a way to say I have writers' block. Between preparations for Hopes first birthday, trick or treating and the madcap Midwestern urge to decorate every square inch of the house in autumnal bunting, I've run out of anything interesting to say.

That's not to say things are quiet. Hope dazzled as a turkey for Halloween and bumble bee for her first birthday party, which followed two days later.

Somehow, we survived both the party and the preparations. I realized I had crossed a symbolic, never-to-turn-back threshold while discussing the shindig with Mo. I suggested beer, costumes and a great big submarine sandwich that we could eat with French Onion dip.

Her counter: Halloween-themed cookies, finger foods, something called Vampire Punch, phony eyeball meatballs, pass-the-pumpkin children's games and, by the way, you are a knucklehead.

Three guesses who won.