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.

Corn for your corns

What's up with Gov. Vilsack lately and his obsession with corn socks? I think I've heard about this from him like eleventy bajillion times, including a conference I attended at which he spoke on Friday.

Not that corn socks don't rule, of course. Coming this spring, you can buy them from a company called Fox River Mills in Osage. According to the Register, "the socks...look like any typical pair. They're white, not yellow. They don't smell like popcorn — no matter how hot your feet get while wearing them."

Good to know.

Pink Eye

Okay, so the University of Iowa recently remodeled its football stadium. Big deal, I know, but it's news here.

Not only is it news here, but now it's controversy here. Why? Because the university decided to keep alive a tradition of former Iowa coach Hayden Fry and remodel the visitor's locker room completely in the color pink. (The old locker room was painted pink under Fry’s leadership, but the new locker room goes much further with custom pink urinals and sinks, etc. Think Barbie barfing up wintergreen lozenges and you'll get the picture.)

Anyway, the pink paint, which I’ve known about for years, had always been explained to me this way: Fry, a former psychology major, chose pink after reading studies that showed looking at the color makes one lethargic. Okay, whatever. It always seemed rather stupid to me, but I didn't really care, and most certainly I understand that an element of psychology plays into college football in many ways.

So, the pink locker room is living on. Not being a Hawkeye fan or a person who spends any time in the Kinnick Stadium locker rooms, I hadn’t really thought too much more about it. And I certainly have never read Hayden Fry's autobiography, A High Porch Picnic. (Actually, I think I'd rather stick barbecue skewers in my eye while listening to Rush Limbaugh than read A High Porch Picnic). However, if I had read the jerk’s book, I would probably have been more disturbed. According to the blog BuzWords, penned by adjunct U of I law professor Erin Buzuvius, Hayden Fry uses his book to explain the pink locker room in this way: "Pink is often found in girl's (sic) bedrooms, and because of that some consider it a sissy color."

A sissy color. Ahem.

I guess deep down I probably always realized that the whole thing was rooted in homophobia but never really took time to think about it. Buzuvius obviously did -- but now, of course, she’s getting blasted for having an opinion. Do I think this is a really big deal? No. But if I were a supporter of the U of I might damned well. It’s awfully embarrassing in the year 2005 for a supposedly forward-thinking university to perpetuate a “tradition” that essentially implies that femininity is tantamount to weakness. I mean, would the coach of a woman’s sport ever paint her opponents’ locker room pink to make them calm? I don’t think so. It’s never been about color psychology.

The irony, of course, is that after appearing on a local television station’s report about the locker room and then posting her opinions on BuzWords, Buzuvius has had about 150 posters on her blog, and plenty of others in additional forums, I’m sure, telling her that she should get over it and find more important things to worry about. (This from people who spend large parts of their day discussing Hawkeye athletics in great detail online, of course.) Other arguments against have largely included sentiments along the lines of “men wear pink now, so how is it sexist?”

The way I see it (and I think the way Buzuvius sees it, too), the actual issue here is not whether painting something pink is in and of itself insulting to any group of people. The “men reclaiming pink” arguments are entirely missing the point. The issue is that the University of Iowa is choosing to celebrate a tradition that is rooted in Hayden’s old-fashioned, good-old-boy sexism.

I mean, if it isn’t a big deal, why was it done?

I think it's a fair question to ask.

Sometimes I DON'T enjoy being a girl

Okay, so here was the scene at our team meeting last week at work:

Emily and Me (looking at each other): Did something just fly by the doorway?
Emily: I think there's a bird in here.
Carole: A bird?
Me: Um...I think it's a bat.
Bat: *Flies by again*
Me: Ick, it is!
Scott: Really? A bat?
Scott: *Goes out in hallway to investigate*
Me: Close the door so it doesn't fly into the meeting room!
Carole: *Follows Scott into the hallway*
Bat: *Flies directly one inch over Carole's head*
Carole: *Screams*
Me: *Screams*
Emily: *Screams*
Carole: Okay, I was going to try and be brave, but I didn't know it was going to fly over my head like that.
Carole: *Falls back into her seat at conference table*
Me: It almost landed on your head. Ew!
All of us: Scott! Close the door to the meeting room!
Scott: *Bravely closes the door and opens all the exterior doors to the building so the bat can fly out*
Emily: I wonder what's going on out there.
Me: I hope he shoos it out.
Scott: *Returns to conference room and closes door behind him*
Scott: Well, I opened all the doors so it can get out.
Me: It's just scared...I'm sure it will fly out.
Emily: I can't believe we all screamed when the bat flew over Carole's head.
Me: What is wrong with us? Like, why should anyone be scared of a little harmless bat?
Emily: We're just girls.
Me: I hate that.

Our night at the State Fair

1. Arrive State Fair.
2. Immediately head to beer garden and order two Bud Lights (one small for me, one large for Ben)
2. Find cheese on a stick booth and order two mozzarellas. (one for me, one for Ben)
3. Purchase round-trip tickets for chair lift. Ride to other side of the fairgrounds.
4. Get off on other side, where Ben purchases a corn dog, wolfs it down, and deposits stick in dumpster.
5. Get back on chair lift.
6. Immediately head to the Grater Taters booth we spotted while riding chair lift.
8. Because line is so long, order some crab rangoons for Ben, which he eats while standing in line for a Grater Tater.
9. Ben eats most of Grater Tater whilst sitting on park bench near the talent stage. I pick a little off and drop a huge cheesy hunk on the ground, getting cheese all over my hand in the process.
10. Head to Varied Industries Building to get chocolate chip cookies in a cup and use the bathroom to wash my hands.
11. Arrive at cookie booth and order two cups (one for me, one for Ben).
12. Whilst eating cookies, head out toward livestock area to see really big bull.
13. Get distracted by beer garden and order a Boulevard and an MGD.
14. Proceed toward livestock area but get stopped by horse parade so that we can't cross the street.
15. Give up on livestock and just head home.
16. Sit at home.
17. Have indigestion.

Save Sesame Street

In an article that appeared in the Washington Post on Friday, we learned that a House subcommittee has voted to make the largest reduction EVER to federal support for public broadcasting, eliminating taxpayer funds that help underwrite shows like "Sesame Street" and eliminating ALL federal money for the CPB (Corporation for Public Broadcasting), which accounts for 15 percent of the public broadcasting industry's total revenue.

Rep. Ralph Regula, an Ohio republican and the subcommittee's chairman, said the cuts had nothing to do with dissatisfaction over public radio or TV programs (though many have suggested it's part of a Republican attack on programs they perceive as having a "liberal bias.").

While some of the funding can be recovered through other sources, the loss of $23.4 million in federal funds for PBS's "Ready to Learn" programs could mean they go off the air altogether. The Ready to Learn programs include "Sesame Street," "Dragontales," "Clifford the Big Red Dog," and "Arthur." The cuts are also likely to put small public radio stations with shoestring budgets completely out of business.

As a kid who grew up learning Spanish from Maria and Luis, who learned math from "The Count," and who loved to sing "I'm a dog, I'm a workin' dog, I'm a hard workin' dog," I have trouble imagining the future for my own children without Sesame Street.

MoveOn has a petition on its Web site at http://www.moveon.org/publicbroadcasting/?t=1
It would also be wise to contact your legislators and tell them you want to protect PBS and NPR and all their affiliates -- the best quality programming we have left.

From the Ghee-Roj

Things people did not buy at my garage sale last weekend:

• A really nice computer desk for $20
• A fully functional Dirt Devil hand vac for $5
• A brand new desktop coffee warmer with coffee mug for $3

Things people scooped right up:

• a beat-up wastebasket for $0.50
• my collection of horrible 1980s/early 1990s audio cassette tapes (I mean, I am not exaggerating when I tell you it included Milli Vanilli, Adam Ant, and the single of "Here Comes the Hotstepper" by Ini Kamoze, okay?) for $5.00
• a broken cooler for $0.75

Scenes from a waiting room

The following was the actual scene I experienced yesterday in the doctor's office waiting room:

First, let me set the scene. I am sitting in the corner, as far away from potentially contagious sick people as possible, minding my own business whilst reading David Sedaris. 1980s hit "The Politics of Dancing" by Re-Flex is playing at a mid-range volume from the overhead speakers.

Very elderly lady #1 sitting to my left, talking very loudly to VEL#2 sitting right next to her: Is it a rash?

VEL #2 (SHOUTING): YES, BUT AT LEAST I DON'T GET IT, YOU KNOW, DOWN THERE IN MY PRIVATES ANYMORE.

VEL #1 (ALSO SHOUTING): YES, AND SOMETIMES IT ITCHES! I CAN'T STAND WHEN IT ITCHES DOWN THERE.

My inner monlogue: Please stop yelling about personal discomfort in your privates...Please stop yelling about personal discomfort in your privates...Please stop yelling about personal discomfort in your privates...Please stop yelling about personal discomfort in your privates

Angry Man to my right (mercifully interrupting the private itch conversation): This is ridiculous.

Rest of room:

Angry Man (standing up from his uncomfortable attempt to recline in a waiting room chair, trying to stage a coup): They should at least give us recliners to sit on, as much as we pay for health care. (begins shaking fist)

My inner monologue: Quick, think...is Candid Camera still on the air?

Then the nurse came out and called Angry Man's name, which I believe was Anderson, so that show was over. Then the two VEL's decided to take a stroll over to the optometry department, so I was once again left alone with my book, wondering if I would remember when I got home to write something about this bizarre experience.

Well, I remembered, and now you, reader, are the one paying the price. Sorry.

Billy Packer is a cheese-brained ACC whore

Today my beloved Cyclones were knocked out of the NCAA Tournament by No. 1-seeded North Carolina. UNC was more talented and had a much deeper bench. We were outmatched, and the Tar Heels clearly deserved to win the game. I can tolerate this.

What I cannot tolerate is Billy Packer, who called the game for CBS with Jim Nantz. From the beginning, he decided that there were three major themes to the game:

1) North Carolina had already won the game and non-ACC teams such as ISU shouldn't even bother to field basketball teams.
2) Iowa State's players, most of whom average more than 35 minutes of playing time per game, were tired -- no, exhausted.
3) Iowa State's players are thugs who play too rough.

He backed up these themes with some the most idiotic commentary I have ever heard. Here's a brief sampling, as I could never list them all:

1) Three minutes into the game, Packer commented on the fact that ISU center Jared Homan, who ranks among the top three Big 12 players in average minutes played, was CLEARLY (not just tired, but) EXHAUSTED.

2) When analyzing a side-by-side chart of three point percentage for both teams, Packer commented that ISU was clearly hurt by its lack of ability to make shots from beyond the arc. Never mind, of course, that the Cyclones were actually shooting a higher percentage from three-point range than the Tar Heels, which could be easily understood if one actually read the graphic.

3) At one point during the second half, Packer began blathering on pointlessly about something that had to do with former ISU assistant basketball coach (from the 1980s) Steve Krafcicin. Who the hell knows why.

4) When going up for a layup in the second half, Cyclone guard Curtis Stinson stuck his elbow out a bit to draw contact, which Packer essentially labeled reprehensible. He proceeded to launch into a 10-minute diatribe about ISU's disgusting rough play (that's how we do it in the Big 12, jerk).

5) Along those same lines, when a foul was called after Cyclone Will Blalock kind of bumped Tar Heel guard Raymond Felton and Felton slid onto the court, Packer freaked out, attempting to imply that somehow Blalock's foul was some sort of thugtastic cheap-shot, and said UNC coach Roy Williams should really take Felton out of the game now before he got hurt. Never mind that the Heels only held a 13-point lead at the time. Packer had apparently forgotten to even look at the score. Even Nantz couldn't ignore that one, responding: "Um...well, Iowa State is kind of making a run and are only down 13, Billy."

UGH!

6) Perhaps the most hilarious (by hilarious I mean "so ridiculous that you can't even really get mad but instead just laugh") comment of the day came when he was attempting to console ISU fans. "Well, ISU might not get to St. Louis in basketball," he said, "but they got there in wrestling, and won their third-straight team title with five individual champions!"

Well, um...actually. OKLAHOMA State was the team that won its third national wrestling title, you moron. And thanks for reminding ISU fans of our poor performance in the national wrestling tourney, in which we placed 10th (lower than usual and much lower than expected) with NO individual champs. But thanks, anyway, you pittsnoggling asshat.

Go, Mississippi State. At least Packer can stop smooching Duke's butt if the Bulldogs knock them out.

"Banana Trauma" would be a good name for a rock band

A friend on a forum linked to this awesome Web site for the best thing you never knew you needed, The Banana Guard.

Some highlights from the Web site:

• The Banana Guard is available in nine colors, including glow in the dark. The best selling color is "Mellow Yellow."
• You can give someone a gift certificate for Banana Guards. (But that ruins all the fun of giving the Banana Guard as a gift and watching the recipient's face turn assorted colors and contort into a variety of expressions as s/he tries to figure out what in the heck s/he has just received.)
• Banana Guard's slogan is "Protect your banana!"
• From the FAQ:
  Q: Is there a battery attachment?
  A. No. The Banana Guard was designed for its intended purpose only as a device to prevent banana trauma during transport. ("Banana Trauma," I think Dave Barry would agree, would be an excellent name for a rock band.)

Oh, how I miss Dave's column; I'd be all over sending him the Banana Guard link.

The Joys of House Hunting

So, we've been shopping around for a new house. I love looking at houses, but sometimes I just have to laugh at the choices we are offered. A few tips if you've got your house on the market:

1) If the only new item you've purchased for your home in the last 50 years is one of those chirping bird clocks you can buy "as seen on TV," it's probably not going to be too appealing to prospective buyers, particularly ones under the age of 65. Not that we're not happy you take good care of your green shag carpeting. And no, it doesn't need to be replaced...

2) You may want to consider washing your dishes and picking up any clothes that happen to be strewn all over the floor of your bedroom, guest room, laundry room, and living room. I didn't think this was something you would have to put on a list of tips, but surprise! -- It is!

3) If you are a smoker trying to sell your home, it may be best to start smoking outside the house so that visitors can actually breathe in your house without gagging. Oh yeah, and if you have emphysema as a result of your excessive smoking, it might be a good idea to empty your bag of disgusting Kleenex tissues before folks come over.

4) If you own eleven thousand freaky ass dolls, I would recommend packing them in a box or hiding them in a closet before people start touring your home.

Just a few ideas I'm throwing out there.

If peeing your pants is cool, consider me Miles Davis

Why a blog?
If there were such things as blogs in 1981, I probably would have had one. (Yes, I would have been three years old, but I’m totally not kidding about this; just ask my mother.) The nature of a blog suits my personality to a T. I like to talk but love to write. I also love reading other people’s blogs. Maybe it’s voyeuristic, but I don’t really care. The way people live and how they express themselves fascinates me. Keeping this blog is more like free therapy for me than anything else.

Mi amore
Ben: extremely bright construction engineer/radio sideline reporter/high school football coach who spends entirely too much time on the golf course. But love him because he always wants me to come along. Ben enjoys re-shafting golf clubs, eating directly from the refrigerator, and quoting the same movies over and over again.

My house
is something we bought in June 2005 and luuuurrrrrrve. It’s a 1931 two-story tudor-ish Beaverdale brick. We have three bedrooms plus an office formerly known as “the sweater room” (also known on occasion as the "poo room" due to old, peeled-off door decals that can be seen to spell "POO" when the light hits the door just right; would love to know this story) upstairs, while there are formal living and dining rooms, a three-season porch, kitchen, and family room on the main floor. Decorating is a non-stop process.

My illustrious, high-powered career
When I was a kid I wanted to be an interior designer or a florist. Then I wanted to write and illustrate children’s books. Then I realized that grown-up journalism or sports journalism was where most of my talents were. After receiving a degree from Iowa State University after three and a half years of paying tuition and working for no pay in order to gain practical career experience, I thought, “How can I continue to enslave myself at this fine institution of higher education?” You guessed it: I got an underpaid full-time job there. After three years in the housing and dining department, I opted for a slightly less underpaid job in alumni relations, where I have worked for more than eight years now. As much as I’d love to bitch about being underpaid, I really don’t see myself moving into private sector corporate journalism or public relations any time soon, and I have to admit there are many perks to my job -- not to mention the fact that I really like it. Most of the time.

My name (don't wear it out)
The name on my birth certificate is Kate Elizabeth. I am not a Katherine, or a Katelyn, or anything like that. My mom always said she wanted me to be called Kate, so she named me that. Special aside for the asshats at Banana Republic, Inc.: So please don’t elongate my name on my credit card statements without my permission! You heard me!

Strengths: Accounts
Weaknesses: Eczema
(If you get this joke, I heart you!)

Things I don't like
Japanese anime, people touching my eyebrows, male chauvenist pigs, plastic lawn ornaments, the term "make love," home improvement megastores, horror movies, "pundits," when non-easy listening music is played at easy listening volumes and/or on easy listening stations, the electoral college, spray-on plastic "butter," hot & humid days, and mosquitoes

Things I do like
cuddling with my baby boy, the smell of coffee, having my hair washed at the salon, documentaries, Rock Lake, March Madness, Sharpies, white noise, Shel Silverstein poems, new socks, tailgating, giving gifts, fresh Christmas trees, libraries, fonts, the Cyclones, Sudoku, salt and vinegar potato chips, Balderdash, names of cheeses, Sichuan Takins, and taking ridiculously amateur photographs

Aruba Travel Journal

4.4.03, 6:00 a.m.: Kate and Ben leave Ames, a giant bottle of Aquafina and a 50 Cent CD in tow.

4.4.03, 11:22 a.m.: Fourth encounter with Illinois tollway collector. He does the ole "arm-raisy thing fake out" routine. Punk.

4.4.03, 12:10 p.m.: We’re in Chicago! Hooray! We’re staying at the H...H....the Ha...you know, that one hotel chain that starts with an H whose name I will not utter because it is the same as a little-known MEAC school that beat Iowa State in the NCAA tournament in 2001. Yeah, that place. Kate rearranges her suitcase.

4.4.03, 2:45 p.m.: Rock on! Let’s see the new shark exhibit at Shedd Aquarium!

4.4.03, 2:48 p.m.: Ben almost beats up a zit-faced Shedd Aquarium employee who makes a smart aleck remark to Kate, Ben, and a family of four who inquire about the shark exhibit, which is apparently not open yet. Like we were supposed to know this. Punk.

4.4.03, 5:35 p.m.: Male seahorses carry their young. The Seahorse Symphony exhibit rocks our socks.

4.4.03, 6:30 p.m.: Kate and Ben have been walking for an hour. We can see downtown Chicago...now we just need to get there.

4.4.03, 6:52 p.m.: Michigan Avenue! Michigan Avenue! Michigan Avenue! Ow, blister.

4.4.03, 7:45 p.m.: Mmmmm...Chicago-style pizza...

4.5.03, 4:12 a.m.: Giant line of people snakes through O’Hare terminal as Delta employees Windex off computer screens, mine in their noses, and stare. We’re never gonna make this flight.

4.5.03, 10:00 a.m.: I’m sprinting...through the Atlanta Airport. Sprint, sprint, sprint. Ow, blister.

4.5.03, 2:13 p.m.: That wacky Ross Geller on the in-flight episode of "Friends" mentions male seahorses carrying their young. That’s two seahorse references. Are you keeping score at home?

4.5.03, 3:36 p.m.: There are no traffic laws in Aruba. Instead of stop signs, they have signs that say "Stop Verbod." Did you get that? No stopping. We. Are. Going. To. Die.

4.5.03, 3:39 p.m.: Kate spots a building labeled: "VanLorp and VanLorp: Attorneys-at-Law and Taxi Drivers."

4.5.03, 8:01 p.m.: Kate nods off while watching Kansas-Marquette on television.

4.6.03, 7:48 a.m.: Kate wakes up refreshed, ready to take a refreshing morning walk. Ben suggests that they walk to the grocery store to stock up on refreshments.

4.6.03, 8: 57 a.m.: It is hot. There are no sidewalks. Are we there yet? I don’t even see the grocery store.

4.6.03, 9:38 a.m.: Must. Have. Water.

4.6.03, 11:01 a.m.: Kate and Ben return to the hotel fitness center, defeated and smelling rather funky. We only made it as far as Taco Bell, but we decided against chalupas for breakfast. Ben and Kate lift weights and score some free tangerines from the fitness center clerk. Mmmm...tangerines.

4.6.03, 12:36 p.m.: Kate decides to have a pina colada for lunch.

4.6.03, 4:14 p.m.: Ben looks at the rocks that extend off the beach in front of the hotel and says, "Don’t be fooled by the rocks that they’ve got." Kate punches Ben in the head. I hate that freaking song.

4.6.03, 7:07 p.m.: Kate serenades Ben with "Ooooooh, Baracuda..." as Ben munches pan-fried baracuda at the Driftwood Restaurant. Kate drinks some more sangria with her seafood pasta thermador. You’ve got to love a country that puts gouda cheese on everything.

4.6.03, 9:11 p.m.: This slot machine hates me. It hates my mom. It hates my grandma. It hates my third cousin twice removed.

4.7.03, 8:58 a.m.: Kate and Ben chase seahorses through the water at the Antilla shipwreck snorkeling site. Holy seahorses, Batman!

4.7.03, 9:44 a.m.: Little guy on Palm Pleasure catamaran snorkeling trip informs Kate that she is fine. Ben is less than amused.

4.7.03, 10:37 a.m.: Kate and Ben strike up a conversation with another couple. They are from Boston, and the woman says the word "maniac" like every 15 seconds. It’s cute.

4.7.03, 12:00 p.m.: Two words: Turtle. Cheesecake.

4.7.03, 4:45 p.m.: Kate buys some new flip flops at Scuba Aruba.

4.7.03, 6:38 p.m.: Kate and Ben get a primo table at Iguana Joe’s.

4.7.03, 9:28 p.m.: How old is Jim Boeheim’s wife? She is smokin’ hot.

4.7.03, 10:03 p.m.: Maybe KU should learn how to shoot free throws.

4.8.03, 7: 41 a.m.: The fitness center plays "Jenny from the Block" for the third day in a row. Have I mentioned that I hate that song?

4.8.03, 9:32 a.m.: Kate and Ben walk out on the rocks that they’ve got in front of the resort.

4.8.03, 1:18 p.m.: Kate wakes up from her nap on the beach in time to warn Ben that he needn’t be fooled by the rocks that she’s got.

4.8.03, 6:56 p.m.: Japanese chef throws a plastic egg at Kate’s head.

4.8.03, 10:12 p.m.: Make Geno Auriemma go away! Please, please, make it stop. Kate buries her head beneath the covers. This is NOT how I wanted to end my college hoops viewing season.

4.9.03, 8:04 a.m.: Kate pounds out steps on the treadmill to the soothing sounds of "Jenny from the Block."

4.9.03, 11:26 a.m.: Our tour guide on the Atlantis submarine adventure is hella funny.

4.9.03, 11:34 a.m.: Check out the groovy seahorses down here!

4.9.03, 11:48 a.m.: The submarine touches the ocean floor: 150 feet!

4.9.03,12:03 p.m.: Kate screeches the lyrics to "Yellow Submarine" in Ben’s ear as the Atlantis submarine coasts back up to the surface.

4.9.03, 12:17 p.m.: Kate purchases a terry cloth skirt-towel-swimsuit cover-up combo thing that says ARUBA across the butt. That is so not like me, but I find it amusing for some reason.

4.9.03,12:33 p.m.: Kate is most definitely not fooled by the rocks that Ben’s got.

4.9.03, 3:45 p.m.: Kate and Ben witness a wicked cool iguana fight.

4.9.03, 6:13 p.m.: Kate and Ben sit down to dinner and are presented with a lovely dish of fried plantains. Kate recalls the time she wrote a story involving an eyepatch and a magical plantain hand. Yeah, you had to be there.

4.9.03, 6:19 p.m.: Mmmmm...fried plantains taste like potato chips. You know what they say..."Fried Plantains: You Can’t Eat Just One."

4.9.03, 8:04 p.m.: Kate continues to be completely unfazed by the rocks that Ben’s got.

4.9.03, 9:06 p.m.: Hooray! Tonight we lost all our money playing nickel slots instead of quarter slots and stingy video poker.

4.9.03, 9:44 p.m.: Kate and Ben, who perhaps had a few too many drinks at Pago Pago, go for a late night dip in the pool but end up on the beach developing an intricate plot for a screenplay called "The Bruns Identity," which involves Ben gunning down some terrorists at the Aruba Phoenix Beach Resort who somehow got into the country despite Chicago O’Hare’s amazingly tight security practices of looking at people’s driver’s licenses and asking them to remove their shoes. The plot thickens as Ben swims away to the Dutch ship waiting for him out at sea, but he gets hit in the head by a flying fish and loses his memory. When he awakens, he discovers that he can speak Dutch and has flashbacks of "ninjing" on the beach. He also knows that he is very intelligent and that the words "the brisket has left the sandbar" is code for something. He must just figure out what. Yep, we definitely had too many drinks.

4.10.03, 8:14 a.m.: Kate is delighted to hear the song "Jenny from the Block"come over the stereo system in the fitness center. Not.

4.10.03, 3:18 p.m.: Kate and Ben finally meet someone from Iowa in the hotel pool. Of course the guy has lived in the Boston area for 22 years, but he grew up in Newton. He said people in Massachusetts have absolutely no appreciation for pork tenderloin sandwiches. Ben wipes away a tear.

4.11.03, 6:40 a.m.: Kate and Ben board the bus for downtown. We have an appointment to go deep-sea fishing with Captain Lorenzo at 7:30.

4.11.03, 8:13 a.m.: Ben and the first mate pull a giant wahoo out of the ocean. Ben gets wahoo blood on his new $180 Nike Shox. He doesn’t care because having giant tropical fish blood on your shoe is cool.

4.11.03, 8:25 a.m.: Yo, LoZo: Got any Dramamine up in this boat?

4.11.03, 12:14 p.m.: Kate and Ben amble toward the nearest restroom to remove the salt that is coating both of their entire bodies. Ew.

4.11.03, 12:19 p.m.: Ben jokes to Kate that they could eat lunch at Sbarro.

4.11.03, 12:39 p.m.: Kate and Ben sit down for a nice lunch at a restaurant that is not Sbarro. Kate looks down and observes that the skin rash she has been keeping her eye on for the last few days is getting worse. Kate casually scratches her arm, then places her hand behind her ear and knocks a giant chunk of salt off her head. Ew.

4.11.03, 12:46 p.m.: Further compounding her problems, Kate dumps an entire glass of lemonade directly into her lap. Now she is salty, itchy, and sticky. Ew.

4.11.03, 12:51 p.m.: Kate suddenly wishes she were at Sbarro.

4.11.03, 1:17 p.m.: Ben goes into the jewelry store to pick up their free 5-carat topaz while Kate, too embarrassed to go into any public place, waits on a park bench and reads Dave Barry.

4.11.03, 1:33 p.m.: Ben emerges from jewelry shop and presents Kate with the pendant and a chain he purchased to go with it. Kate tells Ben not to be fooled by the rock that she’s got.

4.11.03, 5:30 p.m.: Kate and Ben mess around on the beach for a while before having dinner at the Sunset Bistro for their last night. Kate is especially amused by the photo she had Ben take of her posing with the word "EMAW" written in the sand, which she will send to her mother for entertainment purposes. It’s just one of those inside jokes I just can’t let go of.

4.11.03, 6:08 p.m.: Ben gets started on his first Sunset Cooler.

4.11.03, 6:27 p.m.: Ben orders a second Sunset Cooler.

4.11.03, 7:09 p.m.: The guy at the next table keeps badgering the waitress about foods being on skewers. Apparently he wants his meal served on a skewer. Kate will spend the rest of the evening calling him Skewer Man.

4.11.03, 7:14 p.m.: Kate develops a sudden hankering for some fettucine alfredo on a skewer.

4.11.03, 7:19 p.m.: The sun sets rather unceremoniously due to some clouds on the horizon. Ben decides on another Sunset Cooler anyway.

4.11.03, 7:54 p.m.: Kate and Ben decide to lounge on some beach chairs and look at the stars.

4.11.03, 8:39 p.m.: Mmmmmm...beach hammock.

4.12.03, 9:01 a.m.: Kate and Ben eat Raisin Bran and watch more CNN.

4.13.03, 12:01 p.m.: Hey, they have a Sbarro at the Aruba airport! *groan*

4.13.03, 12:03 p.m.: A man in the airport gift shop points out some seahorse coffee mugs to his toddler son, saying, "Hey! Look at the pretty seahorses!" Kate’s seahorse reference-o-meter busts right to bits.

4.13.03, 7:13 p.m.: Kate and Ben enjoy a lovely dinner at the Atlanta Airport’s...wait for it...Sbarro. The revenge of the Sbarro gods is sweet.

4.14.03, 12:07 a.m.: Kate and Ben crash at the Baymont Inn in Rockford.

4.14.03, 1:03 p.m.: Home sweet home. Guess we missed a snowstorm while we were gone. What a pity. Kate heads to the ISU softball game, where there are no seahorses or Sunset Coolers. Dammit.

Boise Travel Journal

12/28, 7:12 a.m. Leave driveway for Jacobson Building. Kate wonders if Ben should have called his boss at the radio network and informed him that we would be departing from Ames rather than meeting the travel party in Des Moines.

12/28, 8:57 a.m. Ben and Kate, sitting on the bus and watching all the melee on the tarmac at the Des Moines International Airport, notice Ben's radio network boss standing around seemingly looking all over for someone.

12/28, 9:11 a.m. Kate notices that the Miami Air aircraft they are about to board is named “Lois.”

12/28, 9:27 a.m. Radio network boss smacks Ben as he walks by him on the plane. He was looking all over for us. Kate refrains temporarily from declaring, “I told you so.”

12/28, 9:46 a.m. The cheerleader sitting next to me on the plane is reading the Trivial Pursuit 20th anniversary edition cards. Preparing to cheat?

12/28, 10:24 a.m. I see snow-capped mountains out the window!

12/28, 11:35 a.m. Miami Air #649, a.k.a. “Lois,” lands safely at the Boise Airport. Kate is impressed with pilot’s ability after landing is unexpectedly gentle.

12/28, 12:40 p.m. Kate plays with her new digital camera outside the Doubletree Riverside, then drags Ben with her for more playing with the digital camera.

12/28, 6:45 p.m. Kate and Ben excitedly board bus for “Heroes Welcome” tailgate party at the Boise Convention Center.

12/28, 7:02 p.m. Kate and Ben arrive at “Heroes Welcome” tailgate party at Boise Convention Center. This is pretty boring.

12/28, 7:41 p.m. Mmmmmmm…they have beer at this thing.


And when I've had enough beers, I'll gladly get my pic with Cy.

12/28, 8:22 p.m. Maybe just one more beer. Have I had anything to eat? Just a tiny hot dog. I should take it easy.

12/28, 9:14 p.m. Mmmmmm…hotel bar. They have beer. Owner of local Amoco service station buys Ben and Kate a beer.

12/28, 9:55 p.m. Stupid Colorado. They lost to Wisconsin. Kate wishes she had potatoes to throw at the TV screen. You would think they’d have bowls full of the stuff just sitting around in Boise bars explicitly for that purpose.

12/28, 10:25 p.m. Hey! There’s Marjean. I love Marjean.

12/28, 10:27 p.m. Hey! There’s Tom my old boss. I love Tom my old boss.

12/28, 10:35 p.m. Maybe I’ll just have one more beer to go with these chicken nachos.

12/28, 10:36 p.m. Hey! There’s Rufie from the weight room. I love Rufie from the weight room.

12/28, 10:59 p.m. Kate once again reflects upon how stupid Colorado is and searches for non-existent potatoes as she finishes her beer.

12/28, 11:11 p.m. Ben and Kate saunter over to chat for a few with Mike and Andy. I love Mike and Andy! No more beer for me, though.

12/28, 11:35 p.m. Hey, Chuck from the Associated Press is leaving the bar. Bye, Chuck from the Associated Press. P.S. I love Chuck from the Associated Press. Nope, I’m good, bartender.

12/29, 1:42 p.m. Kate and Ben are soaking up downtown Boise. And everything is closed. I forgot it was Sunday. This stinks. And these boots are hurting my feet.

12/29, 2:43 p.m. I don’t think I’m an unintelligent person, but I am just not understanding this modern art exhibit. Why is this man’s hand whimpering while clutching yellow fabric, and then whimpering while clutching red fabric? Help! Someone! Do you have anything by Monet in this joint?

12/29, 3:10 p.m. Ben blows a giant soap bubble at the Discovery Center of Idaho.

12/29, 3:48 p.m. Kate calls her mom to get the basketball score, thinking that the game was at 2 p.m. when it was really not until 7 p.m. Oops. Mom asks Kate if she is in a bar.

12/29, 5:24 p.m. Kate is served soup at a Thai restaurant. Ben looks disturbed as Kate freaks out when realizing that Gen, the cracked-out designer from Trading Spaces, has designed a room around this very soup.

12/29, 5:33 p.m. There are juicy bits of corn in my crab fried rice. Yum.

12/29, 6:08 p.m. Kate and Ben are greeted in the hotel lobby by a slew of their friends, who invite them to go along to the Boise 21-Plex Movie Theater.

12/29, 6:55 p.m. Eight dollars and twenty-five cents for a movie!

12/29, 7:11 p.m. Mmmmmm…Raisinettes.

12/29, 9:24 p.m. “Catch Me if You Can” is a fantastic flick.

12/29, 9:33 p.m. We realize we are going the wrong way on the expressway for the third time this evening. Kate shrugs and says she really wouldn’t mind going to Oregon. Roger, who is driving the car, asks his wife if she knows where his glasses are.

12/30, 8:30 a.m. Kate straps on her sneakers and heads outside for a walk by the river with Joni and Sarah. Ben snores.

12/30, 8:41 a.m. Though Kate was not available to document it, it is a safe bet that Ben continues to snore.

12/30, 9:42 a.m. Kate grabs a yogurt off the breakfast buffet, thinking it will be the perfect finishing touch to her meal.

12/30, 10:15 a.m. Kate tries to get someone at the table to take her yogurt, which she is too stuffed to eat.

12/30, 10:44 a.m. Mmmmmm…hot tub.

12/30, 12:54 p.m. Am I really lounging around the hotel room watching HBO? What is wrong with me? Must. Do. Something. Productive.

12/30, 1:12 p.m. Productively, Kate buys a new stick of deodorant from the hotel gift shop.

12/30, 1:55 p.m. Hooray! Kate’s parents and brother are finally here. Kate invites them to come eat lunch in the hotel restaurant, since their hotel restaurant is closed for the holiday season. *snort*

12/30, 3:01 p.m. Marjean suggests that we all go to the “Personality Room” for a drink. She meant Hospitality Room.

12/30, 4:12 p.m. Kate engages in a rather lengthy conversation with Seneca Wallace’s brother in the Personality Room.

12/30, 5:08 p.m. After receiving a tip from a Personality Room guest, Kate investigates the rumor that the Cyclone Spirit Rally has been cancelled. It has. Kate announces this to the group, who would throw potatoes at her if they had them. What is up with this place?

12/30, 6:25 p.m. Kate gets dressed for the dinner with her family, Mike, and Kathy at Mortimer’s in downtown Boise.

12/30, 7:11 p.m. Our snooty waitress at Mortimer’s informs us that we are about to experience a perfectly-portioned, excellent dining experience. She clearly thinks we are all dumb Iowa hicks for her to poop on.

12/30, 7:35 p.m. Our snooty waitress asks us if we have a problem. Ummmm...you?

12/30, 8:42 p.m. Mmmmm…berry sorbet.

12/30, 10:14 p.m. After a six-course meal, Mike, Kathy, Kate, and Ben wait outside the restaurant for the hotel shuttle to pick them up. It is cold and raining outside, but the group is afraid to go back inside for fear that the evil snooty waitress might bite them.

12/30, 11:43 p.m. Kate requests a 6:30 a.m. wake-up call. Tomorrow is the big game.

12/31, 7:30 a.m. Kate and Ben get on the bus for the game. It is dark and morning, and we are going to a football game. What is wrong with this picture?

12/31, 7:41 a.m. Someone on this bus does not smell good.

12/31, 8:08 a.m. So this is Bronco Stadium. The turf is very, um, blue.

12/31, 8:16 a.m. Cyclone Radio Network is on the air, live from the presidential suite of possibly the smallest Division I college football press box on earth.

12/31, 9:45 a.m. Kate can’t believe she is actually working in this press box. She announces that if anything happens between the 25- and 35-yard lines on either side, she won’t be able to see it as there are giant beams obstructing her view.

12/31, 10:16 a.m. This does not feel like a bowl game.

12/31, 11:46 a.m. Halftime. We’re up. Things look good. Kate drinks a Diet Coke.

12/31, 12:58 p.m. Kate begins working quite feverishly on the postgame notes, since she really isn’t too interested in watching what’s going down on the field.

12/31, 2:06 p.m. Kate adds “most points scored by an opponent in an ISU bowl game” to her list of postgame notes and bangs head into table.

12/31, 3:14 p.m. Kate and Ben ride the bus from the stadium to the airport. We are standing because there is not enough room on the bus.

12/31, 3:18 p.m. Everyone on this bus is an idiot. Boise sucks. Let’s go home.

12/31, 3:57 p.m. The flight attendant examines the carry-ons that are ever-so-slightly protruding out from under the seat and actually says, “Bad exit row, bad,” to Kate, Ben, and the mascot squad member who are seated in Row 19 of Air Force Three (the pilot had announced to the passengers that they were riding on the plane that carried George Bush and Dick Cheney when they were campaigning, and this is how it earned the name “Air Force Three”).

12/31, 3:58 p.m. Lois was cooler than Air Force Three. Oh, how I long for you, Lois.

12/31, 4:17 p.m. Ben wonders why, if Air Force Three was all pimped out for the prez, they turned it back into this crappy plane with uncomfortable seats.

12/31, 5:10 p.m. Kate informs the guy sitting next to her that, if they served the meals in order of who was grouchiest, she should get hers first.

12/31, 5:36 p.m. Ben, who has barely uttered a word since leaving the stadium, begins singing a montage of Weezer songs in Kate’s ear. Kate laughs uncontrollably for, seemingly, no reason.

12/31, 7:16 p.m. Ben does the squirrel dance.

12/31, 7:41 p.m. Ben tells Kate that she seems drunk. She is not.

12/31, 9:17 p.m. Kate and Ben finally figure out what’s wrong. Being a Cyclone fan has officially driven them insane.

12/31, 11:59 p.m. Kate rings in the new year sitting on her couch and reading a magazine with a bird on her head while wearing a Humanitarian Bowl stocking hat. At least the basketball team beat Arkansas-Pine Bluff. Go Clones.