I once found the TV remote in the refrigerator.

Why?

I have a 3-year-old son, that's why.

My son has placed things in strange places. And he's lost a few things permanently.

My son was responsible for permanently losing my wife's digital camera. She must've put it someplace where my son could reach it. It wasn't until the next day that we noticed the camera was missing. The camera was nowhere to be found. I asked my son where he put it. "I don't know," he said.

I tore the house apart- three times- in search of that camera. I looked in my son's toy box, under beds, under couch cushions, in the dishwasher and- like I said, I tore the house apart.

I hate when things get lost. I become a monster in search of the missing. Like the man who becomes the werewolf, I'm not myself. I can't think straight. I'm only thinking of the lost item. And I seek it out, tearing apart anything in my way- even people.

I was this monster for several days when I learned the camera was missing. My wife and I are still fixing the damage I did to our house. My wife thought she had to buy silver bullets to stop me. I finally turned back into a human being when I came to the conclusion that my son must've thrown the camera into the trash. There was nothing I could do about that. The truck had already collected our trash for the week. The camera must've gone to the dump.

Last week, my son got a new toy car. Within 10 minutes, he lost it. I asked my son where he put it. "I don't know," he said.

My wife shielded my son's eyes as I transformed into the hideous monster. It's a slow transformation. First, I calmly walk through the house and check the obvious places for the lost item. Then I check the refrigerator, the dishwasher, my underwear drawer and other odd places.

Then I become a little more restless, moving quickly through the house a second time and beginning to throw objects out of my way as I search. At this point in the transformation, my memory doesn't serve me well, as I'm more the monster than myself. And so I have to rely on eyewitnesses to explain what happens next. I'm told my breathing escalates in volume and pace. Drool begins to dangle from my teeth. My eyes become blood red. My fingernails become claws, and I use them to tear apart furniture, toy boxes and closets.

I'm told that the beastlike sounds I make scare even the neighbors from the next block over. Animal services came to our house one time, but even they couldn't handle me. They suggested my wife call the military.

If you ever saw Francis Ford Coppola's "The Conversation" with Gene Hackman, you'll remember the last scene of the movie where Hackman's character rips apart his home trying to find a hidden microphone. That's mere child's play compared to what I did to my house in search of my son's toy car.

Yeah, I took up the carpet, tore open the walls, shredded the rose garden, removed light fixtures with my teeth. The toy car was nowhere to be found.

There's no way my son could have thrown the toy in the trash. It was gone for only 10 minutes, and I checked the trash. It wasn't there.

My wife worried that I'd never change back into a human. I eventually did, even though I never found the toy car. I never even came up with a possible location for it as I had with the camera. Maybe that's a sign of a cure. I don't know. I couldn't confirm that on WebMD.com.

One day, I might find the resting place of the toy car and all the other things we've lost. I doubt that. But the most important part of this story is the fact that- - now where did I put that note?

I usually write my ideas for these columns on sticky notes because my memory is so bad.

I wrote down the most important part of this story, the ending. Now I can't find the note. Where could it be?

Maybe my son found the note and put it in the refrigerator. No, it's not in the refrigerator.

Maybe it's under the couch. No, it's not there.

Oh no. It's happening again. E-mail Michael Picarella at pic@theacorn.com.