Miles finally got me out on a miniature golf course last night. We played just one round, as we were quickly becoming a banquet, rife with mosquito delicacies—but it was actually a pretty fun time! Hmm…let's just say that I am moderately…inept…at such activities, hah! Miles claims that I beat him, but I think he's full of baloney. He was probably just delirious from the day's trauma.

You see, in a dreadful and particularly curious turn of events, Miles managed to stub, scrape, and otherwise injure his big toe while on a short excursion to a remote pop machine. We had the thing disinfected, salved, bandaged—being the medical mastermind that I am, I thought the best course of action to be immediate and complete amputation, but Miles seemed rather fond of the digit.

Thus, the tottering toe in tow, we planned our evening around a sedate happening of events—namely, a movie at the theater. Unfortunately, circumstances prevented us from seeing a 7:30 show, and we were forced to either play miniature golf or sing Broadway tunes until 9:30. Miles, clutching the decision with both hands, chose the toe-ache over the headache.