I made my theatrical debut this morning in an off-Old York Road production of a story that some of you may be familiar with. It's the story of a cow who witnesses the birth of some kid in some town somewhere. What's important here is that this cow is feeling very nervous about being on stage, yet somehow, through sheer force of will, triumphs over this anxiety to become the crucial cow in this particular dramatic production:

Moo, I say. Moo.

Apparently, someone wrote a book about this story at some point. Mom had heard of the book, but my dad didn't have the slightest idea about it. It didn't involve the Berenstein Bears, so I hadn't heard of it either.

The crowd called for an encore, so my fellow thespians and I regaled them with an impromptu, in-tune collection of seasonal melodies.

Jenga bell, jenga bell, jenga aldaway...

I thought our performance was worthy of five stars, but our harshest critic was the one I least expected. Evie gave it a paltry one projectile puke:


We'll see what the Inquirer says tomorrow. Stay posted!