Merry Christmas. Yes, I am an idiot.

Today was just a typical day of sitting in lovely Ames noon hour traffic and checking off my list of holiday essentials:

• Gaudy yet Surprisingly Also Charming Christmas tree skirt -- CHECK!
• Packaging tape -- CHECK!
• Front bumper that could also be used to rake one's lawn -- CHECK-UGH

Yes, it wouldn't be the holiday season without someone in our house doing something incredibly stupid to a vehicle, and this year it was my turn after last year's Beetle-windshield-cracking incident, which you may remember as one of many costly aspects of our holiday light display. This morning I decided to crank the ole steering wheel a little too early when backing out of my driveway, and next thing you know there's a fence post and a massive evil hunk of concrete driveway conspiring to gnaw a ginormous hole in my poor Honda's front bumper, which I have decided after closer inspection is apparently made out of recycled milk jugs. I am also not 100% convinced there isn't a pack of angry beavers living under the shrubs that is actually to blame.
My punishment for this act of sheer idiocy, of course, is twofold. One: I have to take my car to an auto body shop and pay for a bumper replacement -- and, I can only hope, drive another lovely loaner car for an unnecessary length of time. Two: Whilst driving around town in the Cherry-Red Hair Pick of Doom, I get to have people stare in disbelief at my car with expressions of sheer terror, gripping their steering wheels all the more tightly as they fear the death wagon that passes them.
But other than that, it's great.
Merry Christmas. Santa's putting a new bumper in my stocking this year. Oy.

Mac's kids

Somewhere in the second or third row of that pack is #63 (actually, right in the middle behind #67's left shoulder, I think). He's 19 years old and doesn't know what the future holds for him. He's too young to be cynical. Too young to be concerned about the knee injuries he's about to sustain. Too young to realize that the man in the front of the pack -- the man who, I realize looking back at this photo now, was himself extremely young -- had the weight of the world on his shoulders but never once let it show.

Number 63 never second-guessed his decision to let this young coach lead him, and he never should have. In a world where wins and losses, dollars and cents try to define us, Dan McCarney always let passion and courage, friendship and loyalty define him.

If Dan McCarney lost his job, he lost it because he was loyal, had integrity, and played by the rules. While college athletes across the country are driving around in fancy cars, Dan McCarney's players are learning the value of hard work. While players in some programs run stairs to "make up" for breaking the law, Dan McCarney set rules and stuck by them...making tough but fair decisions even when it hurt him and his team's success. While other student-athletes were encouraged to run their programs like a business, Dan McCarney told his players to show their emotion...to embrace joy, fear, and even pain. For Dan McCarney, your heart was as important to wear on your sleeve as your team colors.

Make no mistake: Dan McCarney is a master salesman. He always has the right thing to say. He admits he's a somewhat boring interview. But don't confuse him with an insincere person. The Special Olympics, the children's home he built, and the families of every student-athlete who has ever played for him will tell you you're dead wrong. His schedule may be full, but there's always room in his heart for the people who touch his life in ways both big and small.

He's the man who will have flowers at your grandmother's hospital bed, before everyone in your family even knows she is sick.

He's the man who could make a fortune in motivational speaking. I have yet to hear him do a public speech to which at least one audience member doesn't respond, "I'm ready to strap on a helmet and take the field myself."

He's the man who, upon announcing his resignation, should have been bitter and weary but instead showed even more class and integrity than ever.

There's no need to worry about Dan McCarney. He can -- and will -- do anything. The great sadness I feel over his departure is purely selfish. I don't want to say goodbye. He's our coach.

During the week most people have described as feeling "like someone died," Dan McCarney's legacy lives. It lives in every young man who believed in Coach Mac's dream and came to Iowa State to help him make it a reality. They are loyal, motivated, honest, and passionate men. They are great leaders. They are good people.

They are Mac's kids.

And I'm so glad I married one. Thank you, Coach Mac.

Reader Interaction Alert! Choose the ugliest art in my lake cottage!

Let me first start out by saying that the resort I visit on vacation every year has never before and never will be known for its elegant cottage interiors. There was the brown couch that, upon closer examination, was found to contain a swastika pattern. There's my cousin's blinding blue and white striped wallpaper. Lovely wallpaper borders abound, including the fabulous forest green bow border in my mom's cottage. Everywhere you look there's fake nailhead trim peeling off cheap end tables and beds made Midwest-cozy with Miami-esque, retina-searing pink-and-teal comforters. Ahhh, the comforts of home. What can I say? It's all hideous. In a charming way, of course.

But it's the art of Cottage #1, my home sweet home for part of each August, that truly inspires deeper thought. Like when my mom and I are pounding back Cape Cods and Miller Brewing products and looking around the room, going: "Who the hell thought of that?" Which eventually leads to a new topic of discussion: "What is the ugliest thing in this cottage?" I've pondered, but I can't decide, so I'm asking for your help. Take a look at these doozies of candidates and cast your vote:

Candidate #1: The Glued Macaroni and Found Objects Octagon


This piece is hung above the sink in my kitchen, so that while I'm washing dishes I can stare and it and wonder things like "What the hell is that?" and "Is that a hair that accidentally got cememted in there with the garbanzo beans?" Also: "I wonder what the artist was thinking when he added the elbow macaroni. Is that an existential statement?"

Candidate #2: Someone Making a Perfectly Good Mirror Non-Functional by Painting Butterflies and Flowers and Girly Crap On It


This lovely piece is in my bedroom. The mirror in my bedroom is actually warped, so when I try to look at myself in it to see if the hairs on my head are straight and growing out of my scalp instead of my chin I sort of resemble the illegitimate test tube child of Michael Jackson and Sloth from the movie Goonies. It sure would be nice to have a mirror that works. Just to the right of it is one that appears to work (see photo above!). But there's a problem: Some jackass painted some ugly design on it and all I can see is maybe one eyeball at a time. So I guess I can't actually prove that I don't look like Michael Jackson and Sloth's test tube baby with a full Abraham Lincolnish beard. Yikes for me.

Candidate #3: Slice-o-Tree-Trunk With Ten Layers of Varnish


This piece hangs in the living room. It actually makes a better mirror than Candidate #2 in that this poor, defenseless slice of tree (or, acutally more likely, plastic reproduction of a slice of a tree trunk) has been coated in so much clear gunk that you can see your reflection in it during the daytime. It also has a scary river scene painted on it that looks nothing like anything in the vicinity of Rock Lake. Cute!

Candidate #4: Wood Ducks in a Multi-Colored Sky


Okay, at least I actually saw some wood ducks in the millpond while visiting Rock Lake, so this piece probably makes as much sense as any of the art in my cottage. This painting, which hangs above the really ugly and smelly couch in my living room is definitely ugly, but it probably doesn't deserve to be voted the worst piece of art in Cottage 1. Just saying is all.

Candidate #5: Home Sweet Home: Where Do I Even Begin?


When my mom was serving as room mother at Kingsley Elementary School lo those many years ago, she decided it might be fun to have the class play some "Victorian parlor games." So she checked out a book on the subject from our local public library. That's when we found the Flaming Raisin Grab for Kids. In short, the game involved: 1) filling a bucket with brandy; 2) putting raisins in it; and 3) setting it on fire. The excited young participants would all gather around to see who could grab the most flaming raisins from the bucket. Despite my wishes, we did not play this game at the 1986 Halloween party in Mrs. Sergeant's third grade class. But to this day I remember the rules and am waiting for my golden opportunity to play it so that I can fry off all my arm hair. Okay, so why am I telling you all this? Back to the art! Even though it doesn't really make sense, every time I look at this piece of artwork I wonder to myself if later maybe someone will wheel in a flaming bucket of brandy-soaked raisins so this family can play Flaming Raisin Grab. They just seem like they might play it. Probably whoever painted this cozy Family Scene on Planks of Fake Wood would, too. Because he or she is on crack.

Candidate #6: Okay, so it's Not Art, But it's a Really Fugly Valance


Wow, this is lovely. It really completes the look of the bathroom. I get to look at it while I sit on the toilet. Coincidence? I think not.

Well, there you have it. The nominees for Ugliest Thing in My Cottage 2006. Let's open the polls. If you live in Florida and vote for the crappy butterfly mirror, I'll know you really meant the slice of fake tree with river scene. Or Katherine Harris' eye makeup. Ya know.

Go see Wordplay now.

I love geeks. Sometimes I actually wish I were a BIGGER geek. And while I certainly don't mean to imply that most of the people featured in the movie Wordplay are geeks (Okay, Ellen the baton-twirler strolling through Manhattan with the broke ass golf umbrella is an awesome geek, but she's an exception), it definitely celebrates the geek qualities I love and to which I can on some levels relate. Like recognizing that the word "admired" is an anagram for "married." And thinking it's fun to stay inside and play word games while other people are out drinking Bacardi with their underwear on their head. Or whatever.

So first, a confession: I cried during the movie. Not surprising, I suppose, since I bawl like a baby during things like the Scripps spelling bee and minor athletic competitions in which I have no investment. It's a quirk, okay? And quirks are supposed to be endearing, I think. Either that, or I'm just a total weirdo.

Either way, Wordplay is a tear-jerker of a gem. It's very well-edited; it had just enough human interest to make it great for non-puzzle lovers and just enough puzzle to stimulate the brain. And I loved all the contestants, and not just because Tyler was wearing a really pants-kicking Trogdor T-shirt (See! A Homestar Runner reference! I'm a geek!) You could really relate to them, even though they are all so much smarter than I am that playing Scrabble with them would sort of be like golfing with Annika Sorenstam. (Okay, make that maybe Michelle Wie. I'm far worse at golf than I am at word games.)

And for those of you who have love/hate relationships with William Jefferson Clinton (one of the celebrities featured in the film) like I do, this movie is just another thing that will make you long for the days when we had a smart president -- but also, of course, make you remember how he was too smart to be so stupid and subsequently want to pinch his head off and kick it down the street. But he looks very nice in the movie wearing his aqua tie and doing his little crossword puzzles with his blue felt-tip pen. Damn him!

But go see Wordplay. You'll laugh, you'll cry, and all that crap. This is why I don't review movies for a living. Just see it.

The only thing that would make this cooler is if it had happened on a plane

So you probably already heard the news. I mean, Israel and Lebanon are out of control and the Voting Rights Act passed and the weather is wreaking all sorts of havoc. But the news story of the week just had to be the Burmese python that ate an entire queen-sized electric blanket -- cord, control box, and all.

According to CNN, Houdini the snake (who, for what it's worth, does not do much air travel even though he often visits schools for educational demonstrations) had the blanket in his living quarters after his owner placed it there to keep him warm. While left unsupervised, the snake managed to unplug, and then eat the. entire. thing. "X-rays showed the tangle of the blanket's wiring extending through about 8 feet of the python's digestive tract," the article states. "The surgery to remove it took an 18-inch incision."

Experts on Reptile Blanket-Eating estimate it took Houdini six hours to devour the item, which could have killed him had surgeons not been able to operate.

But doctors say the snake, which mostly travels via SUV, is alive and well with a good prognosis. I think we all feel better knowing that if one of us, or the snake we love, eats an entire electric blanket, modern medicine can indeed save us. I can sleep tonight now. Just not with an electric blanket.

Gimme the works

Among my favorite childhood memories are our annual trips to watch the 4th of July fireworks over the golf course at Sunnyside Country Club in Waterloo (No, we were not members of the country club, but they let the "riff-raff" in for fireworks every year.) The grass upon which we spread our blankets was green and lush, and Mom and Dad would always give my little brother and me a few packages of sparklers to burn through in the dusk as we waited for the show to begin. We got to stay up late. We usually stopped for ice cream afterward. When you're a kid, it doesn't get much better.

There were people all around us on blankets and in lawn chairs, but as a child I never even noticed them. Our family was in its own little world as the colored streaks slashed across the black sky and the Off! repellent kept our bony little ankles reasonably free of mosquito bites. Some years I, rife with sanguine patriotism, would just lie flat on my back on the plaid blanket and focus only on the bursts of pink, blue, and gold above me.

This year's trip to 4th of July fireworks reminded me very little of those placid nights at Sunnyside. This year, Ben and I camped out on an easement at 70th Street and Aurora Avenue in Des Moines. I felt decidedly not alone with the experience, as cars sputtered past us on the street to our right and gangs of teenagers stolled down the sidewalk to our the left, talking on cell phones and smoking Marlboros and yelling and definitely not paying any attention to or feeling any inspired patriotism from the fireworks above them. The dog on the blanket next to us either loved or wished to eat children, as every tot that passed was greeted with an ear-piercing bellow and hyperactive doggy dance. Ben commented on how the fireworks we were watching were probably made by children in Chinese sweatshops. Thanks for that, honey. He is the king of levity. Then a car squealed its tires and burst up to 65 miles per hour in the intersection behind us. Then another car drove by, with a teenaged girl hanging out the window, yelling: "Happy 4th of July, motherf$#@ers." And, to truly cap off the ambiance, each and every firework that burst into the sky above us was punctuated by some rednecks yelling "Woo-woo" at a nearby house party.

Ahhh, reality. Sometimes it's a real pain in the booty. So is sitting on uneven grass along a major Des Moines thoroughfare. Just saying is all.

Ice, Ice Baby

I've never been much of a figure skating fan. But when the opportunity came up to purchase box seats for "Champions on Ice" at Wells Fargo Arena last night, I couldn't resist. I went to the show sixteen, I think(?) years ago when it was at Hilton Coliseum and absolutely fell in love with French skater and Olympic silver medalist Surya Bonali, who did backflips through the air in her routine.

I am happy to report that Surya Bonali is STILL doing "Champions on Ice." She is a little older, but she's still doing the blackflips (just not as many as she used to, I suppose). I am glad my memory hadn't deceived me when I lobbied to my husband that we HAD to go to this "Champions on Ice" thing because it was WICKED COOL. I was right.

Pretty much every skater who won a medal at the 2006 Olympics was on hand, including American Sasha Cohen, gold-medalist Shizuka Arakawa of Japan, pairs champs Tatiana Totmianina & Maxim Marinin, and Russia's men's singles gold medalist Evgeni Plushenko (who, along with Ukranian Victor Petrenko, was my most favorite-ist).

The most exciting part of the evening, I have to admit, was the "World's Fastest Acrobats," Vladimir and Oleksiy. The Ukranian duo was funny and amazing: Vladimir, 6-2 and 210 pounds, repeatedly balanced Oleksiy, 5-7 and 150 pounds, on one hand above his head, standing on the ice with Oleksiy balancing himself on one hand in an inverted position ON VLADIMIR'S HEAD, etc. You pretty much had to see it to belive it. At one point, Vladimir was lying on his back on the ice, ONE skate-clad leg in the air, balancing a stack of six crates on the blade of the skate. Then, in what my mind could only come up with as the absolute limit of what could be done with this scenario, Oleksiy climbed up the side of the stack of crates and balanced himself on top. I swear I am not making this up. I haven't been this perplexed by a stunt since I saw the Red Panda flip bowls on her head whilst riding a unicycle at halftime of a Cyclone men's basketball game last season. And because it was 2005-2006 Cyclone men's basketball, this also was the most exciting part of the evening.

And even though it ever-so-slightly freaked out my husband (most of the women we talked to at the event had husbands who refused to come; such a shame) when Rudy Galindo was shaking his sequined ass at men in the crowd, we both had a fantastic time watching the champions on ice. How often do that many world-class athletes come to little ole Des Moines? It's a must-see. But then, I'm a sucker for world-class athletes.

Pass the popcorn

With Ben being stuck on the sofa for the last four days, we have watched a lot of movies. A LOT of movies. Mostly they've been movies Ben wants to watch, so I found myself checking out "Dodge Ball," "Harry Potter," and some other stuff I wouldn't (and didn't) watch. But I also tried to find some that both of us could enjoy so that he wasn't just lying there watching movies by himself all this time: "Prime" and "Murderball" fit into this category. Then there was the issue of the new Keira Knightley "Pride and Prejudice." We both were sort of interested, but also cautiously optimistic as we own the BBC miniseries on DVD at our house. And we worship it. Okay, I worship it. Ben merely likes it.

"You need to watch [the new one]," my Mom -- also a huge P&P book and miniseries fan -- told me a few months ago. "It's okay, except the acting is only okay, the dialog has been changed (for what possible reason would this need to happen?), the hairdos are all wrong, and the ending is like waaaay cheesy."

Sounded like a heartfelt endorsement to me.

"Pride and Prejudice" is a great story, which would explain why the new movie isn't thaaat bad. It wasn't edited too horribly, seeing whereas the book is very difficult to cram into a two-hour Hollywood romance. But I guess I just think the miniseries length makes for a much better screenplay.

Basically, the problem with the new movie is that the old miniseries is just perfect. The actors in the new movie weren't that bad, but no individual character that I can think of was portrayed better than he or she was in the miniseries, leading me of course to wonder what the point even was.

And OH MY GOD was my mother right about the ending. Did everyone in production one day smoke a bunch of crack and decide: "I know! We should end the movie by having Mr. and Mrs. Darcy sitting on some sort of platform and have Mr. Darcy repeatedly kiss Elizabeth all over the face like a deranged woodpecker saying, "Mrs. Darcy, Mrs. Darcy, Mrs. Darcy" over and over again like an equally deranged parrot?

So I've watched it. Now I never have to watch it again, right? I have to say, if I want to watch the story in a two-hour Hollywood format again, I'll bust out "Bridget Jones' Diary," for many reasons -- not the least of which is that they didn't mess up Darcy. If you know what I mean. And I think you do.

Shall I fetch you another mini Snickers from the freezer?

Me to my husband, while driving him home from the hospital Thursday afternoon: Wow, our relationship would be perfect if you were always on these drugs that make you so giddy.

Husband: Our relationship would be perfect if you were always this nice to me.

Good point.

Do you have any ID?

My husband recently visited the DMV to renew his driver's license, so he got to press his forehead into the vision tester thing against the sweat of the unwashed masses and sit in a hard chair while waiting for a lady in a smock who smells like Beaman's chewing gum to snap the camera in his general direction.

Ha! My license doesn't expire until 2009! I gloat, sort of.

The only fear I have about not getting to the DMV until 2009 is that I will have to continue to worry for three more years about what happens if I wind up dead in a ditch with only my driver's license to identify me...for I am certain that the law enforcement observation will go something like this:

"Wow, not only is this chick dead in a ditch, she also stole some skinny girl's driver's license."

Yes, despite my God's-honest attempts to change it, my driver's license says I weigh 140 pounds. I think I initially fudged down to this figure (reasonably) when I was 15 and got my first learner's permit. But I swear the weight on my ID has not been changed since then.

And I know what you're saying: Whatever, Kate. You are just avoiding having the number changed because you don't want people to see your actual weight.

But this is not true! I fill out the little questionnaire thingy to indicate that I weigh FIVE POUNDS LESS THAN MY ACTUAL WEIGHT every time I go to the DMV, and they never change it. Ben observed the same thing when he was there several weeks ago. THEY DO NOT READ THE FORM after you fill it out.

On the other hand, my blue-eyed hubby insists on listing his eye color as "hazel," so you can forget about his driver's license accurately identifying his dead body, either.

I actually think my fear is probably pretty unreasonable since they usually use witnesses, family, friends, etc., to identify your dead in a ditch body. Not your driver's license. But you never know. Maybe I should get some important double-secret document drafted up to indicate my actual girth. That might be easier than getting the DMV to change it on my license. Yaknow.

Blowin' in the wind

A friend of mine once threw a nasty and inedible gas station cheese sandwich out the car window as she was driving home from a night at the bar. Her boyfriend really wondered what she was had done the next morning when he discovered multiple dried globs of an unnatural yellow substance on the driver's side door. It makes a great story now, of course -- the moral of which is: Sometimes throwing things out the window whilst driving doesn't work as well as one plans.

Yesterday, I was driving to Super Target (No way. Me going to Target, right?) when I made my standard rear-view mirror observation: a gross gray hair protruding like a dandelion stem from my forehead. I responded with my usual strategy: instantly yank it from my skull and throw it out the window. As much as one can "throw" a single strand of hair, of course. At the time I released it, I suspected due to crosswinds that it might not have made it very far. But I didn't really give it much more thought.

Imagine my surprise TODAY, a whole 24 hours later, when I looked out my driver's side window while sitting at the light at 63rd and University and saw none other than MY ICKY GRAY HAIR, flapping in the breeze as it clung tenaciously to my window, stuck down by...I dunno, something.

Perhaps mini mart cheese sandwich droppings?

If the gray hair thinks it's funny to taunt me in this fashion, I feel I must state clearly how emphatically I disagree. It's driving me straight to the Clairol aisle. Perhaps I need to go to Target...

Finger-Shrinkin' Bad

I believe I have mentioned that I am an alternate on a slowpitch softball B-league team. Alternate is the correct position for me, since I have never played softball before in my life like ever. As an alternate, my job is to come to all the games and be available should anyone fail to show up, get injured, suffer alien abduction, etc.

This Sunday someone failed to show up. So I was going to have to hit. "Whatever," I thought, "I'll take a few swipes at it and see how it goes." Then, in the first inning, one of our players got injured. So I was not only hitting but also playing right field. Against a pretty good team, mind you, that can pretty much hit the ball where it wants -- which means it will gladly rip a few deep ones toward that Slow Alternate in Right Who Clearly Knows Jack Squat About How to Play Softball.

Despite what I had told myself to the contrary, I was a little embarrassed stepping up to the plate after having basically no idea what I was doing. I swung on the first pitch. Foul. Actually, I barely hit it, so it just sort of bounced up and hit me. Sort of embarrassing, but okay. I get another chance. The second ball came in looking good, so I took another swing. Dink. It dribbled across the infield. "Now I have to run," I thought, tossing the bat to the ground and realizing it was time to take those Slow Norwegian genes for a stroll around the block. I find myself running hard, clad in New Balance walking shoes and Old Navy track pants that restrict my stride, but with a small burst of confidence coursing through me. Oy. First base is farther away than it looks. I see the throw coming to first, and I know I might have a chance if I can just lengthen my strides. I lean forward, touch the base, and hit the brakes, not having seen the throw come in. I turn back to survey the situation. E3! Victory is mine! The first baseman bobbled it. I am on base. Holy shit.

"Good job, honey," Ben encourages me. "You're on base! Holy shit."

I see he was expecting that about as much as I was.

"Now you know you have to tag up here," he said.

"Um, right," I said. "Right."

"If he hits it in the air, you have to wait to run until someone catches it," another teammate clarifies. "If it's on the ground, RUN!"

"If it's on the ground, run; if it's on the ground, run," I repeat to myself, taking a not-really professional position on the base. The first baseman looks at me like I have seven eyes, and I wonder if I should explain to her that this is my first time playing softball. Not much time for scholarship or chit chat, though; Justin smacks a line drive on his first pitch.

"It's on the ground!" I think. "I have to run."

So I take off running. New Balance walking shoes are not softball cleats. My balance is getting a tish wobbly, but I think I can make it there. I will advance to second! I will advance to second! I will...fall forward into the gravel.

I stagger up, the opponent's shortstop coming toward me to make sure I was not also injured. "No, I'm totally fine," I say, dusting off my bloody hands. "Am I out?" Somehow I thought there was a possibility that I could keep running for second.

Turns out I was out. It seems I actually didn't fall down because I was Master Klutz of the Universe. Justin's shot hit me in the foot. Directly. In. The. Foot. "You totally got sniped," Steffen said as I returned to the dugout. "Tough break; what are the odds?"

While I appreciate my teammates' comforting tone, I have to think that I wasn't just unlucky. A faster or more adroit athlete probably would have been able to dodge the bullet. But they're nice to me, and after all: I know it's not my fault. Last weekend, I learned that individuals with ring fingers that are longer than their index fingers are the most athletic sorts...and if your index finger is actually longer than your ring finger, well...
Anyway, this guy on TV predicted the exact finish of people in a foot race just by looking at their fingers.

AND OH MY GOD LOOK AT MY FINGERS.



I am, like, the only person in my immediate family whose index fingers are longer. And mine are not just a little longer. They are way hella longer.

It's not always easy loving sports and being oh-so-awful at them. But at least I know the deck was stacked against me in the finger length and athleticism departments. Can I also add: Ow, my thighs and butt? I am a runner, not a sprinter. I had no idea how much of a difference in muscle use the latter involved. So I am walking around like a jock the last two days. A jock who is an alternate in slowpitch B-league softball.|

All I can say is this: Stubby Ring Fingerites, unite! And just keep on running, even if you don't know what you're doing. It's just a game, after all. And they give you beer when you're done.

The kids are all right.

The first thing I have to explain is that I recently joined a slowpitch softball team. This is extremely funny, since I have never ever in my life played softball. I have played whiffle ball in the back yard with a plastic bat, which clearly does not count as having played softball. The second thing I have to explain, which makes this really hilarious, is that despite appearances I am quite possibly the worst athlete in America, or at least in Des Moines. People always think I am a good athlete because of my tall stature, broad shoulders, and hulking muscles (okay, I made that last one up), so they invite me to do things like play on their softball teams or lift heavy boxes (actually, I can do that) or bench press cows, etc.

They have come to the wrong person.

But this time I was assured I could just join the team, be an alternate, and guard the beer. Hurrah! Something I can do! Beer-guarding is perhaps my greatest skill.

I forgot that before I get around to actually guarding beer, I have to practice this foreign sport they call softball. (Basically, if it doesn't involve a round orange ball, a rim, and a net, I'm clueless.) So my friend Greg arranged for us to go down to American Legion Park in West Des Moines last Tuesday night and get in some practice time.

First I threw a softball. That went marginally well. I think I "throw like a girl," however, which is unfortunate but not particularly surprising. Catching was also somewhat challenging because I was wearing a giant glove that kept sliding around on my hand. (Great, now I have to actually invest money and buy a new glove. I was saving that money for beer.) I was going with the flow, playing right field and generally doing very little until the left-handed batter came up to the plate. I would helpfully yell each time we almost decapitated a small soccer-playing child out in left. All in all, I was just out enjoying the weather.

Then it was my turn to bat. I don't really care if I look like a doofus in front of my friends and some strangers who are playing on the team with us. I was afraid of the children. Three skater kids had climbed the fence behind home plate and were hovering ominously above each time someone came up to bat. Great, a bunch of 12 year-olds are going to make fun of me, I thought. This is going to be a humbling experience.

As expected, my first time swinging a softball bat was pretty pathetic. There was lots of whiffing and hitting it extremely short distances. What was unexpected were the kids above: "That was a good one!" they told me when I actually lined one that actually almost went to the edge of the infield. "Two in a row," they said, encouraging me.

I have to admit I thought the kids were going to be punks. And I feel bad about that now. They weren't in the least bit smartass. So thanks, kids. If you ever give up skating perhaps you could go into motivational training. I'd hire you.

Des Moines is the new Disneyworld.

On a Sunday afternoon I should have spent cleaning my house, folding socks (yeah mmm, about that...perhaps later), shopping for essentials, and being an All-Around Responsible Citizen, Ben and I totally decided instead to goof off. Art museum, steakhouse, book store, golf store, movies. Eating dinner at 8:30 p.m. Watching Maryland beat Carolina in the women's Final Four. Diet orange soda. Sudoku. New pajamas. Finally getting to the newspaper. Bed. Yay.

It was a good day -- a good day to cruise around Des Moines in the Trusty Wonderhonda and accomplish absolutely nothing. Des Moines is a pretty cool place to do stuff.

And I am not the only one who feels this way.

As Ben and I were wandering through the Des Moines Art Center's museum shop after looking at the Richard Tuttle exhibit (Ben was smart enough to enjoy it; I was baffled and went back to drool over the Grant Wood), we overhead a family talking to the museum shop clerk. It was the same family I'd seen parading through the center, looking at many of the same things we were. They were adorable. Black father, white mother, gorgeous children carefully dressed in Gap Kids attire and outfitted with neat little color-coordinated backpacks. The good ole American family. I remembered seeing them and thinking that it was nice of them to spend an afternoon out together.

But that wasn't it.

"We're just having a great time," the father told the clerk. "We went to the Science Center this morning, which we didn't get to do last time."

Last time. Last time they were here. On vacation.

I quickly gleaned that this family is from the Twin Cities, and they were spending their family vacation in Des Moines! Not only that, they had already vacationed here and were coming back for more.

"We're going to go next to the mall," the father said. "I know we have a mall up by us [Says me: yeah, like the biggest, most family-friendly mall in the entire world], but we're on vacation and we just don't go there when we're in Minneapolis.

"Tonight, we have tickets to see the Lion King," the father went on. "We're so excited!"

Des Moines. For vacation. I guess we are getting pretty cool.

Cold with like colors

I don't really have that much to write about, but there's laundry. A big stinky pile of it.

So here are five observations for a Sunday that will help me postpone the inevitable Doing of the Laundry:

1. I ordered a bottle of wine last night. For just myself.
Last night, after sharing a delicious bottle of red wine at our house with Brent and Jen, we cruised over to the neighborhood bar and grill to eat, drink, and watch Brent's co-worker's bluegrass band perform. Okay, and we were merry, too. I know you didn't want me to leave that one hanging out there. So they had this special: two dollars off any bottle of wine. And after drinking the yummy bottle at our house, I was in a wine kind of mood. So during the cocktail ordering time, after Jen asked for a dirty martini and Ben and Brent each ordered beers, I pointed to an Australian cabernet on the wine list and said "I'll have a bottle of this."

The look on our server's face was absolutely priceless, and Ben did one of those motorboat splort laughs when I said it. I've just always wanted to order a whole bottle of wine for a cocktail. Mission accomplished. And it lived up to my expectations.

And no, I did not end up drinking it all by myself. I made her bring four glasses, and the sucker was polished off even before I got my fish tacos. Fish tacos and cabernet. And bluegrass. Good times.

2. It's not so much the laundry I hate. It's the folding and putting away part that really annoys me.
I mean pairing up socks? That sucks.

3. I am the awesomest NCAA pool participant EVAH. Evah!
Um, not to gloat, but I did pick LSU in the Final Four. Yep, I did. Sixteen points for me. You see, I actually had a tip before the tournament started that Big Baby Glen Davis had tapeworms in his belly. So, is that technically considered cheating?

4. Billy Blanks is an evil, evil man.
I said he was ugly, too, but my husband insists he just "looks bad on packaging."

So I started doing Billy's Boot Camp (my husband's purchase, not mine) to try and get in shape. Boy, am I out of shape. I mean seriously. But first of all, I feel like a gigantic stooge bouncing around in our family room punching invisible boxing bags and would die of embarrassment if anyone ever actually watched me do it. And second of all, that tape comes to kick your pants. I mean, it hates your mom AND your grandma. The ab exercises will blow your mind. And the only thing that really keeps me going through the workout is yelling sadistic things at Billy while he's, for example, making me hold my leg up in the air over my head for 24 counts longer than he said we were going to. And yes, I have actually fallen down while doing this. Boy, I love working out.

5. If your name is Richard and your last name starts with "Bals," should you really go by "Dick?"
I think not.

Damn, it feels good to be a gangsta.

My favorite part of the movie Office Space (well, okay, I love almost every part of the movie Office Space, but work with me here) might be when our loveable protagonist Peter Gibbons starts "being real flaky" at work and shoves, triumphantly, the wall of his cubicle to the floor to reveal the large window it has been hiding. Then, of course, he eats Cheetos and plays Tetris at his desk. What's not to love about that? But I digress.

There's just something about falling section of "systems furniture" that makes he heart go yippy. I hate hate hate cubicles and have tried to avoid working in places that have them, so I am glad to see today that even the guy who invented them feels inordinate compunction about having inflicted this ugly, creativity-stifling torture on the world.

Dilbert would be proud of Bobby Propst.

My results on the 3-variable funny test

This is pretty gosh-darned accurate! And I DID love The Office! Word.

The Wit
(71% dark, 34% spontaneous, 26% vulgar)

your humor style: CLEAN COMPLEX DARK

You like things edgy, subtle, and smart. I guess that means you're probably an intellectual, but don't take that to mean pretentious. You realize 'dumb' can be witty--after all isn't that the Simpsons' philosophy?--but rudeness for its own sake, 'gross-out' humor and most other things found in a fraternity leave you totally flat.

I guess you just have a more cerebral approach than most. You have the perfect mindset for a joke writer or staff writer.

Your sense of humor takes the most thought to appreciate, but it's also the best, in my opinion.

You probably loved the Office. If you don't know what I'm talking about, check it out here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/comedy/theoffice/.

PEOPLE LIKE YOU: Jon Stewart - Woody Allen - Ricky Gervais

The 3-Variable Funny Test!