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!

More on the light fiasco

Before I tell the tale of our family holiday light display, perhaps a little background info would be helpful. In April, Ben and I sold our house in Ames in favor of a new Beaverdale crib. Not being from Des Moines, I did not know much about Beaverdale other than it had lots of businesses in it with names like "Beaver Mower" and "Beaver Cleaners" that people made fun of. And it had lots of brick houses. "Beaverdale bricks" to be specific. I certainly had never been on Wallace-Ashby, or my current street, which is directly adjacent to Wallace-Ashby, before. But everyone we knew who was originally from or had lived in Des Moines said the same thing when we told them where our new house was located: "Oh! You will have to put up some really good Christmas lights to live in that neighborhood." Apparently people drive slowly through our little part of Beaverdale when it comes time for holiday light-based entertainment around these parts.

Oh shit. Ben and I -- two of the bigger height-phobes on the planet, came to a quick realization: We had just bought an extremely tall house in the alleged Christmas light mecca of metro Des Moines. Add to this equation Ben's quasi-Griswaldian compunction to keep up with the Joneses and my apparent ineptitude at stringing any sort of multi-hued bulb affair in a symmetrical fashion and we have ourselves an interesting situation.

We had planned to string up the lights on Nov. 27, which was a very balmy day and the day most of our neighbors were putting up their lights. Sadly, we were in a serious funk that day after returning from the ISU football game in Lawrence, Kan., the day before. Ben consoled himself with golf all morning and didn't even go out to get the 32-foot ladder we needed until after noon that Sunday. Needless to say, when Ben finally returned with the ladder strapped into the back of a friend's truck after placing a $300 crack in his windshield (32-foot ladder + VW Beetle=not such a swell idea after all), he wasn't much in the mood for holiday cheer. We went to the afternoon matinee of Good Night and Good Luck instead

So that left last Saturday. The day. I had purchased about $150 worth of lights over the past week, and obviously we had the ladder. Upon realizing there were no electrical outlets on the outside of the house, Ben hired an electrician to come out and install them Saturday morning while he worked on the more artistic aspects of the endeavor. This was becoming an expensive proposition.

It was about 14 degrees when Ben ventured out to start the project that morning. Quite a contrast from the 50-degree temps we'd had the previous weekend, but who can get in the holiday spirit when it's nice outside, right? I, who had stayed up most of the night reading, was still asleep at 9 a.m. when Ben bellowed up the stairs at me. "Honey! Can you do me a favor?"

I snapped awake, embarrassed to still be snoozing at 9. "Sure, I'll be right down." When I got outside I realized it had begun snowing.

The favor ended up being TRIP #1 TO THE HARDWARE STORE. Here I go.

On the first trip I looked for, but did not purchase, little tiny hooks and brown outdoor extension cords (could not find).

So I tried a bigger hardware store (TRIP #2 TO THE HARDWARE STORE)

There I purchased some little tiny hooks but no extension cords. All they had was yellow, forest green, lime green, grass green, orange, red, and hot pink. (hot pink?) Apparently brown extension cords are the "socks with sandals" of the exterior illumination fashion world.

So it was back to the house, where I dropped off the hooks and immediately swung back around to go pick up my stranded friend, Steffen, who had called while I was at hardware store #2 to say he needed a ride. On my way home from taking him and couple of others to get their car at a nightclub, I relented and bought the forest green extension cords from the first hardware store (This occurred at TRIP #3 TO THE HARDWARE STORE).

I was just back at home getting ready to helpfully make some hot cocoa for Ben and the electrician when Ben summoned me to make TRIP #4 TO THE HARDWARE STORE. At least Ben went with me this time after I nearly blew a gasket when he said he needed 6 to 8-inch spikes to anchor the ladder. (Spikes?) Thank goodness he went along, as I would not have known that nine-inch nails were an appropriate substitute for six- to eight-inch spikes. Rather appropriate, aren't they? Considering the fact that someone was about to be crucified. Ahem.


So I went back to my cocoa. Later, when I stuck my head out the front door, I found our good chum Matthew standing at the top of our ladder (anchored with giant nails to the ground, of course), pinning hooks and attaching lights to the wood trim at the waaaaaay ass top off the house. Where was my faithful Clark Griswold? Standing on the ground. Turns out he started up the ladder, nearly peed himself, and retreated back down as the fear of extreme heights overtook him. Weird how that works. Matthew, on the other hand, is not a threat to chicken out -- seeing whereas he's the same guy who once jumped off the roof of his house while clutching two 80-pound bags of shingles in his left mitt.

Steffen also came over to help, so I offered him some of my marvelous homemade cocoa. Yes! A taker on cocoa! Unfortunately, the cocoa had been sitting on the stove for a while and had built up its own protective shell, which Steffen urged me to just "scrape off." For some reason my pea brain decided it would be easier to strain the cocoa. Of course straining cocoa is difficult to do when you are straining the liquid part directly into the kitchen drain. I stopped myself just in time to salvage one decent mug of the stuff. Yes, add this to my list of brunette moments -- right next to my reference at Thanksgiving to the "three-finger discount" which resulted in my husband and brother running around my mother's house attempting to figure out exactly what types of items one might be able to steal with three fingers. Which was funny. But I digress.

TRIP #5 TO THE HARDWARE STORE came around 3 p.m., when Ben and Steffen convinced me that we needed some additional mounts for the light bulbs, and some sleds so that we could celebrate later by hurling ourselves down the icy slopes of Waveland golf course with only a 1/8-inch-thick piece of plastic to hold on to. Dutifully, I made my final hardware trip of the day as they finished attaching lights to our garage (the piece de resistance of our project).

It turns out we were too tired and frozen to want to go sledding, so Steffen and I slept on the couch, watched football, slept on the couch some more, and then watched another football game (oh yeah, and slept on the couch) while Ben finished hooking up the light timers, suspending the ladder from the ceiling of the garage, and snow-blowing the driveway. (Thanks, honey.) Then we gorged ourselves with beans and rice, brisket, sweet potato pancakes, andouille sausage, beer, cabernet, cream cake, and bread pudding. Hooray for the Flying Mango. Oh yeah, and we watched National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation to cap off the evening.



Now we just have to figure out who is going to take the lights down this January. Any volunteers?

My night at the cat whiz seminar

Tonight, in the latest installment of my Glamorous Life, I attended a free seminar at the vet school about feline urine and fecal material. I'm serious. Actually it was pretty interesting, with the exception of the part when (and I am not making this up) a woman in the audience described her hemorrhoid pain in graphic detail.

Moving along, I thought I'd share a few things I learned from the seminar:

• The best enzymatic cleaner for removing the presence and odor of cat pee is actually called Anti-Icky Poo
• If you rub a cat's jawline with a cotton ball, you can pick up enough of its scent to rub it on another area in the house where you don't want it to whiz
• If you need to move a litter box, your best bet is to move it two inches per day until you get it to its new location
• You seriously can train a cat to use the toilet, Focker. Even though it doesn't have opposable thumbs.
• It pretty much does no good to ever try and discipline a cat. They don't think that way.

Oh yeah, and I should be nicer to my cat. She did not pee on my carpet because she hates me. It's just how her pea brain rolls.

My prideful prejudice

Milquetoast Darcy?

Eleanor Ringel Gillespie from the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, who never really likes any movie, is lauding the new film version of Pride and Prejudice starring Keira Knightley as pretty decent, even going so far as to say it "does Jane Austen proud."

The Chicago Tribune says: "Memories of Greer Garson and Laurence Olivier (from the 1940 film) or Jennifer Ehle and Colin Firth (from the 1995 miniseries) won't suffer by comparison."

So...erm...why am I having so much trouble believing this? The new version scares me; it seems that it takes a beautifully written, witty plot and twists it into a gothic romance flick with potentially cheesy dialog. Was there really, really a need for this new movie? It's hard for me to have an open mind about messing with something so purely perfect as P&P.

To quote my friend Lorraine, who also considers it blasphemy for the dialog to be tampered with: "I don't want to see some milquetoast Darcy simper 'you've bewitched me, body and soul.'"

I think that about sums it up. Bring back Colin Firth, o Milquetoast Darcy.

Making spirits bright

I just had the following e-mail exchange with my husband after I went to Target at lunchtime and bought four boxes of Christmas lights for our house:

Me: I went out and got 96 feet of ceramic white lights with the old-fashioned bulbs today. I don't know if it's enough, but it can get us started.

Ben: Thanks, but I think we'll need about six times that amount.

Me: Holy balls! Six times? What are you planning to do?

Ben: Clark, where's my stogie?

Me: *dies laughing, then becomes frightened*

Stay tuned...

Just skip that house with the purse gum, you'll only scrape your knee

Last year, at my old house in Ames, I don't think I had more than 20 trick-or-treaters on Halloween. It was sort of a down year, but not too far off the average for the four Halloweens we lived there. It wasn't a neighborhood with a lot of kids, but it was fairly residential. Twenty seemed about right.

Now I live in a much more family-oriented neighborhood in Des Moines. So I knew that I would probably have more trick-or-treaters this year. I loaded up last week, figuring we could always just eat the leftover candy. "We've got plenty of candy over here," I bragged to my neighbors yesterday afternoon as we discussed football and chased my neighbor Joe's rambunctious cats out of my garage. "You can send them over here; we'll get it covered."

I figure I started the evening with 200 treats. Trick-or-treating began at 6, and I didn' t have a knock at the door until 6:15. We've got plenty of candy, I thought, kicking back in my chair with the Opinion pages of the Sunday Register. A few more kids started coming...okay, we'll go through a good chunk of it...and before I knew it I was listening to a nonstop barrage of jokes (a Des Moines tradition -- you must tell a joke to receive candy on "Beggar's Night") and watching the candy bowl drain down to the least desirable items. My husband, who was in the family room watching Dogma on Comedy Central while swearing in the general direction of a do-it-yourself project, was no help. He just watched me dart from the front door back to the kitchen, using every possible 10-second lull in the action to scan our cupboards for candy or candy-type food products. "Could I hand out marshmallows?" I asked him as he spilled rubber cement in the carpet. "How about granola bars? Do kids like granola bars?" I thought I had some gum in my purse.

Sadly, at 7:20 p.m., I threw in the towel and turned off the front-stoop light of surrender. The kids had eaten me, and my Kit-Kat bars, alive. I had no trick-or-treating game at all. I'd better start my next year's trick-or-treat candy savings fund now.

I did, however, enjoy seeing the costumes and hearing the jokes. My very first trick-or-treater was a three-foot-tall black boy dressed as Napoleon Dynamite, which I found hilarious. And by far the most popular joke of the year was: "Why didn't the skeleton cross the road? -- Because he didn't have the guts." I did not enjoy the snotty 10-year-old who chewed me out because "our steps were too steep" and caused her sister to fall and scrape her knee. All I could do was offer the sister a Band-Aid while her older sib proceeded to berate me. Gee, I hope I didn't act like that when I was 10.

Oh yeah, and I still want to know what a 2-year-old is going to do with Hot Tamales.

Damn you, magical nachos, for toying with my emotions

The nachos hath forsaken us.

So I have this friend, Shane. He has superhuman metabolism, it seems, because he's not the slightest bit chubby despite eating like Godzilla most of the time. I attended the Iowa State vs. Missouri football game with him this weekend, and attention: It was actually Shane's fault ISU lost the game. Shane sends his apologies to the Cyclone faithful.

Why can this loss be blamed on Shane? You see, all through the first half he was extolling the wonderfulness of Missouri's concession stand nachos. He hadn't tasted them, but he saw them and they were available with Philly cheesesteak meat, he informed me. He spent most of the first half debating about whether or not to purchase said nachos. Finally, toward the beginning of the third quarter he relented and returned to Sec. A, Row 64 with a gigantic plate.

While Shane was purchasing the nachos, Cyclone Nik Moser made an interception that set up ISU's go-ahead touchdown. Soon thereafter it was Tigers 14, Nachos 17. All hail the nachos. I partook of the nachos, feeling their golden energy coat my stomach as Iowa State made play after play, dominating the line of scrimmage and shutting down the Mizzou offense. "I knew I should have bought these nachos," Shane gloated, spraying chip residue on the senior citizens in front of us as he cheered for another ISU touchdown. "It's gotta be the nachos." Before long it was Nachos 24, Missouri 14. No one could stop the power of the nachos.

That is, until Shane got selfish. His platter abused and wilted, he stared with defeat at the nacho remains -- quite a few smothered chips buried under a large pile of jalapenos. Bits of Philly cheesesteak meat were scattered randomly across the styrofoam. Being a slightly bigger Cyclone fan than nacho enthusiast, Shane wanted to turn his full attention to cheering.

So he decided to (gasp!) abandon the nachos. Yes, that's right: He threw them in the trash.

You don't need me to tell you that the moment Shane threw away the magical nachos of wealth and prosperity was the moment that Missouri and its backup freshman quarterback started moving the ball and the refs started screwing over Iowa State. Final score: Missouri 27, Iowa State and the Nachos 24.

One will never know why these cruel nachos toyed with our emotions for so long, but we will be left to always wonder what might have been.