Key Lime Cupcakes

I know it's kind of faddy, but I love baking cupcakes. There's something about them that just makes me happy, and I am particularly in love with this recipe for key lime cupcakes. So, just in time for summer, here it is!

KEY LIME CUPCAKES

For the batter:
1 c. all-purpose flour
3/4 c. self-rising flour
1/2 c. unsalted butter, room temperature
2 lg. eggs
3/4 c. buttermilk
2 1/2 T. fresh lime juice
1 T. grated lime peel

For the frosting:
1 8 oz. package cream cheese, room temperature
1 1/2 c. powdered sugar
1/2 c. unsalted butter, room temperature
1 T. grated lime peel
1/2 tsp. vanilla extract

1) Preheat oven to 350 and line muffin tin with 12 paper liners.

2) Whisk both flours in a medium bowl and set aside.

3) In a large bowl, beat butter until smooth. Add sugar; beat to blend. Beat in eggs one at a time, then add lime juice and lime peel.
4) Beat flour mixture into butter mixture in three additions, alternately with buttermilk in two additions.

5) Spoon about 1/3 c. of batter into each liner and bake cupcakes until tester inserted into center comes out clean, 20-25 minutes. Cool 10 minutes, then remove from pan and cool completely.

6) Beat together all frosting ingredients in a medium bowl until smooth. Spread or pipe onto cooled cupcakes.

Barefoot, pregnant, and...feminist?

"The world will be changed when dads play an equal role in raising children."

-- Gloria Steinem on feminism and parenting

That makes sense.

Nowadays we're hearing a lot of chatter from people like Blossom, who asserts in her book that spending 24 hours a day, 7 days a week strapped to her children is feminist because it aligns with women's original, natural, biological roles. I guess I can see that, too, but...

Hmmmmm, wonder where this crisis of inadequate-feeling mothers is coming from?

Now, I'm not saying being a "feminist" anything should follow a specific formula -- just the opposite, feminism is about empowering women to make their own choices and be respected for them. Stay-at-home moms who believe in co-sleeping and other methods of attachment parenting can be feminists, no doubt. But knowing our feminist icons believed men and women should share parenting equally and that women should strive to shatter the glass ceiling, it can be difficult to reconcile the increasingly louder voices that say mothers should be permanently attached at the breast to their children until they go to college.

And using a sensationalistic magazine cover to add fuel to the fire of this whole woman vs. woman vs. woman debate -- on Mother's Day, no less -- is just shitty. Looking at you, Time magazine.

Time's new cover story (which I haven't read yet but intend to) is about attachment parenting -- a philosophy espoused by Dr. Sears, a religious nut who wrote 1993's The Baby Book and 1997's The Complete Book of Christian Parenting & Child Care, which asserts that working mothers are destroying society.

Rather than looking at Dr. Sears' writings and saying, "Hey, that seems like kind of a crappy thing to say about women," mothers are increasingly embracing this point of view. Most of them are young, educated, wealthy mothers -- like your Blossoms -- who have the luxury of saying when they will and will not work.

I wouldn't say my mother necessarily had the "luxury" of staying at home with my brother and me, but my father made enough money and my mother (a teacher) made so little that it ended up being the best solution for our family. I loved having a stay-at-home mom. But I also don't think that I would have felt any less loved or have grown up to be a psychopath if my mom had taught junior high English five days a week.

Why? Because my mother used good old-fashioned common sense and good old-fashioned unconditional love in raising me and, because of that, I felt secure no matter where I was...or where she was.

I happen to think following our practical instincts, using a middle-ground, common sense approach, and loving our children unconditionally while striving to lead as comfortable a life as possible can make for a happy, well-adjusted child, even more than following a dictated parenting "style." One of the best pieces of advice I received when expecting my son -- one which would likely cause Dr. Sears to gasp in horror -- was from my grandmother, who said: "Don't forget: Your children come to live with you. They have to fit in your lifestyle."

Because while being a slave to your child's every need (and I'm not talking about young babies, here -- being a slave to them is just a fact of life) sounds good for the child in theory, haven't I also been reading about the epidemic of entitled children, teenagers, and young adults in our society? You know, the ones who make everything about themselves, who lack independent decision-making abilities, and who expect to be rewarded no matter what they do? It's hard for me to believe there isn't a link here.

So where does that leave feminism? I wish I knew. In some respects, the recent surge of interest among young women in domestic activities like cooking, crafting, and homemaking makes me happy because I have always been interested in those pursuits myself. But in other respects, it scares the bejeezus out of me because it feels like my generation is dismissing the progress of the feminist movement -- things like creating equal opportunities for females in the workplace -- as bad or unnecessary, as things that shouldn't have happened because women are supposed to be at home with their babies.

Philosophies like attachment parenting tend to come and go in cycles, but this most recent one seems extreme, cutting to the core of feminism. It seems the common thread in all the motherhood debates is that they marginalize women and cause them to fight amongst themselves and that they don't have an answer.

But what else is new?

My homemade granola 'craise'

So, I have a secret I've been stashing in my kitchen cupboards for about 10 months now: When I was pregnant, I bought every flavor of Ocean Spray Craisins in a single trip to the grocery store.

Here's what's left of the coolsaster
that was my Craisin spree.

Pregnant women can sometimes have interesting relationships with food. I never went nuts with overeating or having crazy cravings, but I definitely had my quirks. And that one summer evening, standing in Dahl's Foods, I went quirky in the dried fruit aisle. I was going to buy regular Craisins, and then I saw the different flavor infusions available and LITERALLY COULD NOT DECIDE which flavor sounded yummiest. I was standing there like a freak for at least five minutes with absolutely no hope of achieving clarity about this very important purchase.

So I threw them all in my cart.

Now of course I didn't go home and eat all the Craisins after that, so it's now almost a year later and I still have several Craisins at my disposal.

But! I've found a good way to use them: homemade granola.

And yes, it's worth the effort to make your own. Soooo much more flavor than store-bought. There are a lot of different recipes out there for homemade granola (and they all sound fantastic), but the basic formula is the same for most recipes: toss old fashioned oats and nuts in a sweetened oil-based mixture, bake, and add dried fruit. I've made such flavors as cinnamon/cranberry, walnut, vanilla almond, "garbage," and everything in between. Here's a basic template to follow for making your own at home.

1) Preheat your oven to 350.

2) Whisk together your "granola glue." For me, this generally consists of about 1/2 cup of oil (vegetable, walnut, hazelnut, grapeseed are all good options), 1/2 cup of brown sugar, and two egg whites, plus any flavor infusers you want to use (honey, cinnamon, vanilla extract, maple syrup, etc., etc.).

3) In another bowl, mix together the oats with any nuts you want to include (almonds, pecans, walnuts, etc. -- if you want to use cashews, wait until the end to add those). Another thing I always add to this mixture because, why not? It's good for you: flax seed meal. Just 1/4 of a cup or so. Pour the "glue" on top of the oat mixture and combine thoroughly.

4) Brush a rimmed metal baking sheet with a small amount of cooking spray or nut oil and spread the granola on it.

5) Bake the granola in three 15-minute intervals. Use a metal spatula to stir it every 15 minutes. With about 10 minutes to go, I like to add the dried fruit (chopped pitted dates, golden raisins, CRAISINS, etc.) and sometimes also drizzle some extra honey over the top to help boost the sweetness and crunchiness.

6) Cool the granola on a clean baking sheet and store in an airtight container.

Malted Milk Cookie Tart

Warning: Do not eat this if you are one of those types who only eats nuts and berries you pick up off the ground. There are no healthy ingredients in this dessert -- only mostly butter and sugar. It is easily one of the tastiest, most decadent treats I've tried. So yeah, it's a a favorite recipe.

Next time I post a recipe, I'll try to make it be for vegetables a la whole grain or something like that. Maybe.

MALTED MILK BALL COOKIE TART

1 1/2 c. all-purpose flour
1 c. malted milk powder
1/2 c. sugar

1 tsp. coarse kosher salt

1 c. unsalted butter, cut into 1-in. pieces (room temperature)
1/2 c. bittersweet chocolate chips (do not exceed 61% cacao)

1/2 c. malted milk ball candies, coarsely chopped

1) Preheat oven to 325. In a food processor, pulse flour, malted milk powder, sugar, and salt. Add butter' pulse until moist clumps form.

2) Transfer dough to work surface and gather into a ball. Press evenly into the bottom of a 9-in. tart pan with removable bottom (can also substitute 9-in. glass pie plate).

3) Bake crust until evenly golden brown, about 45 mins. Remove from oven and immediately scatter chocolate pieces over; let stand 5 mins. to soften, then spread melted chocolate over hot crust and into the well that will form as the center sinks.

4) Sprinkle candy pieces over top. Cool completely before removing from pan and cut into wedges to serve.

Noms.

About Pat

I don't personally know Pat Summitt and wouldn't pretend to, but her coaching career seems to have been linked to my life in many ways. So it certainly seemed fitting that, when she coached her last official game for the Tennessee Lady Vols last month, I was there.

Growing up with a die-hard Iowa State fan and hoops-playing father, I knew college basketball from a young age. But I mostly knew Iowa State men's basketball. Two-hour drives to Hilton Coliseum to watch Johnny Orr coach such players as Jeff Grayer and Fred Hoiberg were a fun treat and fond memory from my childhood.

Iowa State had a women's basketball team in the 1980s -- I now know this -- but it wasn't something I was really aware of at the time. When ISU hired Pam Wettig as its coach in 1985, the story was mostly of interest because her sister was an actress on the TV show Thirtysomething. The Iowa State team wasn't very good and the sport didn't have the national respect or parity it enjoys today, so I didn't know much about the team from my favorite school.

I just knew the Lady Vols.

Well, that's not entirely true. I also remember watching Dawn Staley at Virginia, Charlotte Smith at North Carolina, and of course the Lady Techsters with those short-sleeved uniforms. When I was a kid, the ONLY women's basketball you would ever see was the Final Four...so the only teams I knew were the ones that achieved at that level. But boy, did I love watching it and loved cheering for Tennessee. Realizing girls and women could play basketball beyond the driveway (the only place I had ever played at that point) was an awesome revelation to me. It inspired me. Then, when I realized that women could coach women's basketball, I just simply fell in love with Coach Summitt.

When HBO came out with its documentary "The Cinderella Season" when I was a freshman in college, I think I watched it about 10 times. There was something inspirational to me about seeing a woman be so successful and powerful in a stereotypically male role. I guess you could say that Pat Summitt was a natural role model for me.

As a regular media volunteer for these sorts of things, I was fortunate that the Lady Vols came to Iowa for the NCAA tournament twice in my lifetime. Of course, last month I never saw Pat Summitt any time but during the games. Frankly, I think it was a sad weekend for a lot of us: how shockingly sad it was for those of us who aren't close to the program but have long admired Summitt to see how quickly her health really was deteriorating. And how sad it is to think about anyone having to go through what she's going through.

But Holly Warlick was awesome, and I know she'll do a tremendous job taking over the program and building on Pat's enormous legacy.

And perhaps it was she who said it best when a reporter asked about Summitt’s fiery demeanor on the sideline against Baylor in that last game: “That’s Pat. Her love of the game, she’s not lost that. She may forget where her phone is, but she’s not gonna forget to yell at the officials. She’s still competitive. I don’t care what disease she has; she’s gonna go down swinging."

Although I was supposed to remain neutral, I was rooting for Pat not to go down but to keep swinging. But I know, in her way, that she will.

Thank you, Pat!

Let's keep it real

I've had it with the mommy bloggers. (Also: the term "mommy bloggers," but I digress. Already.) But you know what I mean: the ones with blogs organized into categories like "Fashion," "Organic Baking," "Breastfeeding while Jogging," and "Economics Dissertation"? I mean, come on. Just because someone can pretend she has her crap together in a daily blog post does NOT mean she isn't really just like the rest of us: accidentally brushing her teeth with diaper rash cream, creating a borderline Hoarders situation in the guest room, and having buckwild crying jags over things like not being able to open a jar of fancy olives.

Because these things are just part of being a new mother.

It's not easy, but we all feel like it should be easy or else we are bad, bad, bad people. The hormones just totally take over.

I mean, seriously: the crying. I've gone full-on John Boehner over topics ranging from debilitating baby farts and malfunctioning wireless routers to particularly sympathetic Cupcake Wars contestants. Clearly I have trouble discerning what's worth waterworks these days. And when I start to think about what a bad wife, mother, friend, employee, exerciser, or homemaker I perceive myself to be it gets, um, really not good.

So yes, I'll admit it: I am a bit of an emotional mess. A high functioning emotional mess, I'd say -- but an emotional mess nonetheless. And based on some things I've slowly learned from talking to others, I think I can expect to be for the rest of the first year of motherhood. I am annoyed that the books, doctors, and other expert types seem to like asserting that your emotions will normalize in eight weeks. Because guess what? When I didn't stop being an emotional trainwreck after eight weeks, I got a whole lot more emotional trainwrecky.

Not that I'd ever do it, but staying off the innernets would help us all. A person could spend hours online in those perfect little mommy universes and see all the wonderful displays of domestic goddess-ness. But don't go there. It's just an illusion. Enjoy the Instagram photos of homemade peach cobbler and try not to make comparisons. Deep down, we are all nervous wrecks with disorganized piles of baby gear in the basement and toilet paper stuck to our shoes.

Over the last few months I have learned from reading online that, no matter what may be frustrating or concerning you about parenting, you apparently have absolutely no right whatsoever to complain about it. Now, let me be clear: I am not pro-complaining. It's annoying and no one wants to hear it. But just the other day, I saw an editorial piece asserting that parents specifically had no right to complain about any of the challenges of parenting because, well, they chose to be parents.

But aren't most things people complain about things they chose to bring upon themselves? "My boss is a d-bag." (Stop complaining! You CHOSE to work there.) "My legs are sore from this workout." (Shut up and don't complain! You CHOSE to order P90X from that infomercial!) I mean, I suppose these are valid responses to these types of complaints...but I think most people would consider you an a-hole if you actually said them.

So that's something else to feel guilty about. Have I lost perspective? Am I just as whiny and out of touch as the awful subjects on STFU, Parents? Oh, god: I forgot to work in worrying about that when I was busy feeling guilty about not spending enough time with my husband, not baking a birthday cake from scratch, and not blogging my baby's developmental milestones.

But that's the thing, isn't it? Apparently the first year of motherhood is pretty much all about feeling like an inadequate person with a virtually limitless list of things to feel guilty about. It's an adjustment of your time, your resources, and your hormones for which you will never actually be prepared. So give up, give in, and give me some chocolate cake and a box of wine.

And try to cut yourself some slack. Have a good cry if you want to. But you know what will always cheer you up at the end of a long day of neglecting your child while doing your job poorly?

WIS WITTO FACE.



Or insert your own favorite face here. Because, seriously: So cute and so worth it!

Vegetarian Tacos

One of our favorite easy weeknight dinners is tacos and, frankly, I think some of the best ones are of the veggie variety. Here are two super easy, super tasty recipes I recommend.

BLACK BEAN TACOS WITH FETA & CABBAGE

1 15 oz. can black beans, drained
1/2 tsp. ground cumin
5 tsp. olive oil, divided
1 T. fresh lime juice
2 c. cabbage coleslaw mix
2 scallions, chopped
1/3 c. chopped cilantro
1/3 c. crumbled feta
Sriraccha sauce (or your hot sauce of choice)
taco shells

1) Mash together beans & cumin in a small bowl.
2) Heat 3 T. olive oil and cook beans over low heat.
3) In a medium bowl, mix lime juice, coleslaw, scallions, and cilantro and toss in 2 T. olive oil. Season to taste with salt & pepper.
4) Fill taco shells with beans and top with coleslaw mix, feta cheese, and hot sauce.

SUPER VEGGIE TACOS

2 T. olive oil
2 medium zucchini, diced
3 scallions, sliced
1 can corn, rinsed & drained
1 can pinto beans, rinsed & drained
2 c. baby spinach, chopped
2 tsp. chili powder
1/4 tsp. ground cumin
1/4 tsp. dried oregano
3/4 c. tomatillo salsa (salsa verde)
sour cream
white cheese
lime wedges
taco shells

1) Heat 2 T. olive oil in a large nonstick pan over medium high heat. Add zucchini and scallions and cook appx. 5 minutes. Add chili powder, cumin, and oregano. Cook appx. 1 min. Season to taste with salt & pepper.

2) Stir in beans, corn, spinach, & Salsa. Cook until spinach wilts.

3) Fill taco shells with veggie mixture. Serve with sour cream, cheese, and lime wedges.

Five things that are saving my life right now

I haven't blogged much lately. Things have been a little, um, different around our house since we added our third family member. And since I went back to work in January and started taking the little guy to day care, things have been downright hectic -- in large part due to the fact that C.J. has contracted 3-4 cold viruses, bronchitis, stomach flu, and a couple of ear infections in that timeframe, most of which he has also been kind enough to share with his mother and father. Things are supposed to settle down with a 4-month-old baby, but for us that's the time when things heated up and got crazy. Now he's almost six months old and I'm wondering if I could get those two months back.

Being a working mom of a new-ish baby has revealed some things to me that have definitely made my life easier. I'll share them with you here in the event they may be helpful to you as well.

1. The Nap Nanny Chill
When I first ordered this item, I was kind of kicking myself in the face for spending 130 bucks on a piece of contoured styrofoam. But it has been WORTH. EVERY. PENNY. Especially through CJ's colds, congestion, and illness. It's a comfy way for him to sleep upright when he's congested (also good for babies with reflux). I use it as a recliner for him to sit in while hanging out with the family, and it's a great place for bottle feedings when the little guy's a little fidgety. These are awesome, though I won't be buying any as baby gifts since they take up quite a bit of space. I'll leave it to new parents to decide if they need one of these (they do).

2. Rotisserie chicken from the grocery store
I used to wonder why they sold these. Duh. They are awesome. When you don't have a lot of time to took, shredding one of these up and adding to a vegetarian dish (Wednesday night I added some to spicy baked macaroni with tomatoes and spinach), salad, or soup is a super easy way to complete a meal with some protein. Have I mentioned my husband loves meat?

3. Mucinex
I have always hated their gross "talking blobs of mucus" television commercials, but this stuff really works. It will knock out your cold, but not you.

4. OneKingsLane.com (home furnishings), JackThreads.com (men's furnishings) and BabySteals.com (baby gear)
These are three of the best websites I have found to get awesome deals on stuff. I actually shouldn't be telling you about these, should I?

5. Walgreens
I am so happy there is a Walgreens within a stone's throw of my house. I am there at least once a week, and not just to pick up CJ's and my many antibiotic prescriptions. This is the BEST store at which to save money on all kinds of things. If you take the time (and yes, it takes a little bit of time) to clip national coupons, scan the weekly Walgreens ad, cross-reference manufacturers' coupons with Walgreens specials, and (bonus!) clip Walgreens coupons, which can often be combined with manufacturers' coupons, you can often save about half off your bill -- especially if you're willing to buy multiples of the same items (Walgreens loves a BOGO deal) and stock up. Seriously. A couple of weeks ago I shopped in there and felt like I was on the show "Extreme Couponing." The people behind me in line asked how much I saved and cheered when I announced it was 62%. Yes, I am a huge baller for getting free M&Ms, deodorant, and grape juice.

Om nom nom nom nom

Since one of my husband's favorite foods, ranking right up there with "meat," is the chocolate chip cookie, it's always sort of been my mission to find the perfect recipe for this sweet treat. I decided to scan the Internet for the most acclaimed and popular ones and landed on two finalists: The Real Simple recipe and the New York Times recipe.

I made the Real Simple cookies back in August, just a few days before, little did I know, I would end up having a baby. So it's not necessarily surprising that I didn't get back to this little experiment until today, when I finally made the Times cookies. The unofficial focus group of two (me, my husband) found both cookies delicious, but I believe the winner by a narrow margin is Real Simple -- in large part for its perfect texture. It's also a simpler (duh) recipe.

There are two items I consider essential when baking chocolate chip cookies. The first is Madagascar Bourbon Vanilla Extract -- it's the best vanilla I've found that is readily available in the Des Moines area. You can get it at any number of grocery and cooking supply stores, including Williams-Sonoma. I also think the key to getting a nice crispy, brown bottom to each cookie is to line your baking sheet with parchment paper. Thanks to my husband's super shopping skills, we have a basement stockpile of the stuff. We were once in the supermarket, where I sent him to get me "some parchment paper" (no, I was not numerically specific) and he came back with four rolls. When I laughed at his excess and asked him to put three of the rolls back, he refused. "The price will never be lower," he said, even though the parchment paper was not on sale. "Might as well stock up." Of course, the irony of this statement is that it turns out there is a coupon for $1 off on the inside of each parchment paper package. But the phrase "The price will NEVER be LOWER" has become a family favorite.


"The price will never be lower."

One of the unique features of the Real Simple recipe is that it calls for a cup of dark brown sugar -- I think it gives the cookies a nice, rich flavor.



The finished product was a really delicious, can't-keep-your-hands-outta-the-cookie-jar creation. Even I couldn't resist eating copious amounts of them, and while I love chocolate chip cookies I don't have a major sweet tooth (though I was eight months pregnant...).


Real Simple chocolate chip cookies

THE REAL SIMPLE RECIPE

2 sticks unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 cup packed dark brown sugar
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 large egg
2 3/4 cups all-purpose flour
kosher salt
1 1/4 teaspoons baking soda
12 ounces semisweet chocolate chips

1. Heat oven to 375° F.
2. Line 2 baking sheets with parchment paper or aluminum foil.
3. With an electric mixer on medium-high, beat the butter, sugars, and vanilla for 3 minutes. Add the egg and beat until combined. In a separate bowl, whisk together the flour, 1/2 teaspoon salt, and the baking soda. Reduce mixer speed to low and slowly add the flour mixture to the egg mixture until combined. Stir in the chocolate chips.
4. Scoop the dough into tablespoon-size mounds and place on the prepared baking sheets, 2 inches apart. Bake until lightly browned at the edges, 12 to 15 minutes.
5. Cool on the baking sheets for 5 minutes. Transfer cookies to wire racks and cool completely.

So fast-forward to today: the first snowfall of the season -- that I will acknowledge. My holiday decorating is pretty much done, so it was a great afternoon to stay in and bake some cookies before Christmas goodie baking season (which I LOVE) kicks into high gear.

Today I finished making the Times cookies, and I have to admit they came out pretty dang good. A unique feature of this recipe is chilling the dough in advance, but I also think they would come out pretty tasty without doing that.


New York Times chocolate chip cookies

THE NEW YORK TIMES RECIPE

2 cups minus 2 tablespoons (8 1/2 ounces) cake flour
1 2/3 cups (8 1/2 ounces) bread flour
1 1/4 teaspoons baking soda
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1 1/2 teaspoons coarse salt
2 1/2 sticks (1 1/4 cups) unsalted butter
1 1/4 cups (10 ounces) light brown sugar
1 cup plus 2 tablespoons (8 ounces) granulated sugar
2 large eggs
2 teaspoons natural vanilla extract
1 1/4 pounds bittersweet chocolate disks or fèves, at least 60 percent cacao content
Sea salt.

1. Sift flours, baking soda, baking powder and salt into a bowl. Set aside.
2. Using a mixer fitted with paddle attachment, cream butter and sugars together until very light, about 5 minutes. Add eggs, one at a time, mixing well after each addition. Stir in the vanilla. Reduce speed to low, add dry ingredients and mix until just combined, 5 to 10 seconds. Drop chocolate pieces in and incorporate them without breaking them. Press plastic wrap against dough and refrigerate for 24 to 36 hours. Dough may be used in batches, and can be refrigerated for up to 72 hours.
3. When ready to bake, preheat oven to 350 degrees. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper or a nonstick baking mat. Set aside.
4. Scoop 6 3 1/2-ounce mounds of dough (the size of generous golf balls) onto baking sheet, making sure to turn horizontally any chocolate pieces that are poking up; it will make for a more attractive cookie. Sprinkle lightly with sea salt and bake until golden brown but still soft, 18 to 20 minutes. Transfer sheet to a wire rack for 10 minutes, then slip cookies onto another rack to cool a bit more. Repeat with remaining dough, or reserve dough, refrigerated, for baking remaining batches the next day. Eat warm, with a big napkin.

About my evil, science-embracing childbirth

Five weeks ago, I gave birth to my son in a hospital using doctors, Pitocin, and even an epidural.

I've learned that, to some people, this makes me a bad person. I didn't squat over a rainstick in my bedroom while creating a birth quilt with my mother, grandmother, and 17 of my closest female friends chanting in unison. You know, the NATURAL way.

I get it: Pregnancy and childbirth are natural processes that have been happening on this planet since human life first came into existence. Cave women didn't need doctors. 14th-century mothers didn't get epidurals. No one induced Mary Hanks Lincoln's log cabin labor, and look how well that one turned out. This is all true. But you know what else is true? A lot of women also used to DIE DURING CHILDBIRTH. Like, a lot of women.

Fact: If I'd been one of those pre-modern-medicine pregnant chicks, I could be dead right now. My doctors elected to induce my labor three weeks early because I had pre-eclampsia -- a potentially fatal condition of elevated blood pressure that I believe I read affects about 20 percent of all mothers, including several in my family. I could have gotten very sick had I continued carrying my baby until labor happened naturally. Everything else about my pregnancy was normal and healthy. I felt great and had almost no pregnancy complications -- but without the medical care I received I could, like I said, be blogging from Deadsville right now.

I believe medicine -- and, quite frankly, science in general -- gets poo-pooed way too much in this day and age. No, I didn't experience and fight through the pain/illness like pioneer women did. And no, I don't feel guilty about this or like I "cheated" at having a baby. We live in 2011, and I'm okay with what that means. Despite my somewhat incongruous opinions on cell phones, I DO actually believe that technology is our friend.

I've read about hospitals and doctors going overboard with inductions and C-sections, and I don't disagree that there are highly questionable medical practices out there that need to be examined. But in my situation, I'm sure glad I received the medical care I did and that the NICU was available nearby in case my son needed it.

And if you used a midwife and a water tub at your house and eschewed all drugs during childbirth, I am happy for you and wouldn't dream of judging your decision. But there's nothing wrong with me for making a different choice, and I find it annoying that there are people out there who want to tell me there is.

That is all. And now a picture of my cute baby.

Some poor kid is going to have me as his parent. This is serious.

Most of my methods of documenting things are not very useful. For example, there's this blog of worthless drivel. I take photos that don't make a ton of sense to people. I don't really do scrapbooks or fill in the blanks on those special journals you can buy that say: "Today I am feeling _______." Uhhhh. I don't know. Fine? So needless to say, when I became pregnant I did not rush out and buy all the souvenirs for documenting pregnancy cravings and recording doctor's appointments and body measurements and baby kicks and whatnot. I'm 29 weeks and have yet to take a profile photo of my sticking-out belly. And yes, I can hear you gasping in horror through the innernets. I know I am a horrible person who doesn't deserve a baby.

To make up for my lack of pregnancy documentation, I am taking a few moments to jot down the prevailing thoughts that have occurred to me since joining the league of the hormone-crazed. They are listed below for your reading pleasure. Or disgust.

First of all, can I just say that not every person in the world needs to be, can be, or should be a parent? This little fact seems to escape 75% of the people I have encountered on a daily basis over the past decade. Get a clue and mind your own business, people. Our society's overall level of nosiness astounds me. I mean, I've certainly found that questions like "Why aren't you married?" or "Why don't you have any children?" from people who are practically complete strangers are GREAT ice-breakers in any social situation and definitely will not potentially result in someone awkwardly bursting into tears or anything.

If I thought the insensitive comments I heard before I became pregnant were bad, I still wasn't prepared for the ridiculous advice/reaction I received after I became pregnant. I was 32 years old when I became pregnant; I will deliver the baby at age 33. Last time I checked, these numbers do not qualify me for Guinness Book of World Records status. But I have been told both that I am "awfully old" to "finally" be having a child and also that I'm "too young." I have definitely been told on several occasions that I am probably going to kill myself or the fetus due to such factors as eating shrimp, drinking Diet Coke, too much protein, too little protein, flying on an airplane, riding on a bus, coloring my hair, too much sun, lack of sun, carrying a bag of groceries 15 yards, using a midwife, not using a midwife, standing, sitting, lying on my back, and breathing. Okay, I may have made that last one up. But the bottom line is this, people: When you are pregnant, EVERYTHING WILL PROBABLY KILL YOU so you should really try to be more careful and not do anything at all for nine months while taking every precaution but just try to relax and enjoy the pregnancy and definitely don't make any excuses about being pregnant in any situation because women give birth all the time and no one wants to hear about it. You heard me!

Ummmmmm...so now what? In January, two days after I got a positive result on a home pregnancy test, I went to the doctor and took a blood test to confirm that I was actually pregnant. They called me with the results: "Yep, you're pregnant. Come back in eight weeks and bring your insurance card." Huh? Eight weeks? Shouldn't someone be telling me not to smoke crack or prodding my uterus or something? Or telling me when my baby is due? Anything? That was so weird to me. I actually said, "Oh, okay...I guess I'll get some books or something..." before I hung up with the nurse. No response. Did I mention: So weird? And terrifying. How do they know I'm not a total moron who's going to go home and chew on some Comet cleanser or something? Then, to up the ante, a few weeks ago I came across a blog post that scared the bejeezus out of me -- apparently after you deliver the baby they let you just take it home even if you don't know what you're doing. My friend Marsha did assure me that, at least where she lives in Arizona, they put you through a short "don't shake your baby class" (her terminology) before you are discharged. So there's that. Uhhhh, books! I'll get some more books or something!

Mommy knows best? Is the female parent in a male/female relationship supposed to do 90-100% of all parenting, because HOLY TURTLENECKS I DID NOT GET THAT MEMO. Everything I see is "Mommy this" and "Mom's that" -- even the neutrally named Parenting magazine is marketed with a tagline that it is "mom's favorite magazine" or something like that. Dads are apparently too clueless to even try and function...? Yes, I know that women make 80% of household consumer decisions, and that fact clearly plays into this phenomenon, but wow is it sexist on so many levels. When I asked my husband if he was offended by this disparity, I had to chuckle at his reaction: "Well, actually...now that you mention it..." And I see men are starting to mention it more and more.

Why, yes, I AM wearing rubber flip-flops to work because my fe-fi-fo-feet don't fit in any other shoes. Get over it. Despite being a superhuman supergiant, I have unusually tiny wrists and ankles and rather narrow feet in real life. But now that I'm pregnant I'm Fatfoot McCankleston. Guess I am officially not qualified to run for president. (Sorry; latent Hillary-related angst.)

I have craved all of the following foods so far: Wheat Thins, Cheetos, Three Musketeers bars, BLTs, toasted marshmallows, non-toasted marshmallows, nachos for breakfast, strawberries, strawberry yogurt, strawberry malts, really hot french fries, pickles, plain vanilla DQ soft serve, and peaches. The good news is, I haven't really craved the one thing I usually crave the most -- sashimi -- since I am technically not supposed to really be eating it. And I haven't, though some California rolls are sounding pretty damn good right now. All food sounds good right now, actually. Of all the myths you may hear about pregnancy, the one about being extra hungry is definitely in the "it's a real thing" category -- even if the "you're eating for two" one is not. Now go get me some Cool Ranch Doritos and let's try not worry about it.

All of the above being said, I have to say I rather enjoy being pregnant. Feeling the little baby kick is all-too-cool, and for the most part I feel healthier than usual. My friends and family have been exceedingly kind, generous, and supportive -- they'll even tell me I'm glowing (which I think is code for "your face is a puffy, sweaty ball of flesh that's enveloping everything upon it"). I haven't thrown up or any of those things they say will happen to you during pregnancy. Most of the time, I don't even really remember that I'm pregnant. (Don't worry, I do remember at the bar and on the golf course.)

While I am 100% utterly, completely, totally, redundantly terrified about being someone's parent, I have learned that it is clearly not the logical part of your brain that allows you to leap into this whole "having a kid" thing. Otherwise, you would never do it.

Because at the end of the day, the main thought in my head is "he's going to be SO cool."

Now if he can just overcome the world's most not-so-cool mother, we'll be golden.

Prelude to a hot mess

Okay, I'd like to officially put ESPN on blast for its coverage of the 2011 NCAA women's basketball tournament. Because, I'm sorry, it sucks.

This year ESPN has really tried to zazz things up, apparently, but I'm not sure any of the following "enhancements" were good ideas:

The addition of a "social media report" for the Final Four. No, it did not enhance my enjoyment of Sunday night’s national semifinal to know that “buzz1108” thought the keys to a Notre Dame victory were rebounding, shooting, and defense (Are you sure, Buzz? Just those three?). Attention, all people who work in television news: reading people's random, inane tweets on the air is NOT news. (Nor is showing other people’s YouTube videos or sharing the "scientific" results of your online opinion poll, but I digress.)

By the way, if you ARE going to read tweets on air, may I suggest “NCAAWomensBKB,” which offered these actual tweets Sunday night:

What the heck? Where’s the “there’s 54 seconds left in the game” tweet? The "56 seconds left" tweet? I demand a second-by-second live tweeting of the game clock...and NO OTHER game information, dammit. Just observing the passage of time on Twitter is enough to give me a thrill.

Nothing can beat the excitement of tweets that are just hashtags. Fancy!

The appalling addition of halftime player interviews. No college athlete should ever be asked to do an interview DURING a contest. EVER. This is very inappropriate.

The extra-appalling addition of IN-GAME coach interviews. Seriously. In case you missed it, they interviewed the coaches DURING TIMEOUTS in the national semifinal games. What's next? Breaking to interview a player at the line before she shoots free throws? Oh, how I wish I was being sarcastic.

Yes, add these awesome features to ESPN's already-stellar non-biased coverage of women's basketball, and you have yourself an experience that definitely does not make you want to shove a pencil in your eyeball. The UConn-ification of ESPN is no new phenomenon, but Geno Auriemma's success with the Huskie women's basketball program has definitely elevated it to new heights.

Look, Maya Moore is an excellent basketball player. In another life I may have been a great admirer of Moore's, but life with ESPN has made me utterly recoil at the sound of her name. ESPN has clearly decided that people only care about women's basketball because of Moore (and maybe also Brittney Griner) and that it really isn't the network's responsibility to try and expand its viewers' horizons. I spent a full 20 minutes Sunday night listening to Doris Burke assure me that Connecticut wouldn't lose its semifinal game to Notre Dame because it was "Maya's time" and Maya was really "percolating" and that it was "all about Maya Moore, baby."

Well, guess what? It wasn't. Maya did her best and performed well, but there was another team on the court that played AS A TEAM and won the game while Maya was repeatedly forcing up shots. And while that winning team was celebrating its hard-earned victory on the court, ESPN chose instead to show a live on-court interview with the losing coach. Oh, and later broke into SportsCenter to show us that losing team's live press conference. I think the last time I saw anything like this was, well, when UConn lost to Stanford this season. A UConn loss is apparently always more interesting than any other team's victory -- even a victory over UConn.

Hey, I know there are not as many people interested in the women's tournament as there are in the men's tournament. Not even close. And hey, I'm not out to convert those people. But maybe ESPN should be. This year CBS utilized four networks to broadcast the men's championship. ESPN, which has more channels than the Panama Canal, mostly just used ESPN2 to cover the tournament's early rounds -- while typically using its flagship station to show "sports" that can be played while sucking down a Pall Mall. (Looking at you, World Series of Poker and PBA Tour.) In the early rounds, they brought us the "most compelling action" at any given time. Apparently my definition of compelling action doesn't align with ESPN's. The "most compelling action" was almost always a No. 1 seed thumping an opponent. Those of us who are fortunate enough to get ESPN3 on our computers at least had a semi-alternative to being so gosh darned compelled.

So why does ESPN pretend UConn is the only women's college basketball team that exists? Certainly the network's headquarters in the state has something to do with it, but if I take a less cynical perspective on this issue I will freely admit that the Huskies have been dominant. Certainly they have deserved extensive coverage, and probably even more coverage than any other team. But when ESPN only covers UConn, it does nothing but help perpetuate this "image problem" that women's college basketball lacks true parity and helps, frankly, make it come true.

I've been watching games all season, but I'm merely a casual fan. Yet I knew both UConn and Stanford were vulnerable this year -- so why didn't ESPN? And now, we have tonight's national championship game: the thing ESPN most feared -- one without UConn.

How are they going to sell this one? I guess we'll find out soon.

2011 the end of 2 eras?: Why my phone & I have been together longer than Urban Meyer and Florida, but with less Tebow and more shift key malfunctions

Watching today's Outback Bowl between Florida & Penn State got me thinking about finality and whether my cell phone is more like Urban Meyer or Joe Paterno -- that is, whether the end of its career is definitely happening this year or if it could have another year in it or if its fate is even more mysterious.

As I have mentioned before, I love my old school, ridiculous dumb phone. It's this one: the Nokia 6800 -- basically one step up from the "Jitterbug" senior citizen phone. Whenever I flip it open to write a text message, people actually grab at the thing and remark about how cool it is (it DOES have a neat fold-out keyboard that's really easy to use). But then they see how old & janky it is and have only one other comment: "WHEN did you get that thing?" I actually can't remember when I got it. I think it was a Christmas gift in 2003...?

The menus on this phone are really confusing. The Nokia 6800 doesn't have a camera or voice recognition or a telescoping arm that wipes your butt for you or anything like that. You can't really put it on "silent," and to be honest, it doesn't even let you answer it sometimes. One of the shift keys on the keyboard stopped working for about 6 months a couple of years ago, but hey -- it eventually bounced back.

It's been dropped in the Iowa State Center parking lot no fewer than 30 times, and it's been all over the world: to Italy, Central America, Alaska, New York City, and several college bowl games. Some of the numbers saved in it are people to whom I haven't spoken in years -- or contacts from very old interviews I never bothered to delete in the event I needed to follow up (I haven't). There are numbers for a few takeout places that aren't even open anymore. It's been a witness to history -- at least my history, I suppose.

It probably saw its heaviest all-time use on Oct. 24, 2009, when it nearly blew up during Iowa State's 9-7 football win at Nebraska. (Turns out my friends were just a teensy bit excited about this.) It held up like a champ.

And while I remain hopelessly devoted to this piece of antiquated technology that fits perfectly in the front pocket of my "gameday purse," I'm starting to think that my phone may not live to see the 2011 Cyclone football season -- or hardly any of this new decade, I'm afraid -- because:

A) I'm not really sure how much more embarrassment my husband can take when I whip this baby out in public. A couple of years ago, I came home and excitedly told him about a gas station attendant who showed me his identical phone and said, "Wow. I thought I was the only one who still had this phone." (Keep in mind that this was two years ago. And that this was a gas station attendant who probably makes $7/hour. And that chances are good there is only one of us who is still rocking the Nokia 6800 and it ain't him.) Ben's reaction was expected: "And you're bragging about this?"

B) It seems to be losing some of its power. One thing I have always loved about my phone is that it holds a charge for up to five days. Not so much anymore. I fear the end is near and that replacing the battery will be simply out of the question since I believe it may be powered by horse or Windows 95 or something like that.

It's just that, of all the things I enjoy spending money on, cell phones are not among them. Ben tells me I should be able to get T Mobile to give me a new one for free (seeing whereas I have been a loyal customer using my glorified Jitterbug for something like 7-8 years now). So maybe the day will come in 2011 that I'll venture over to T Mobile and see what kind of deal I can get.

Provided I can get a new phone that is exactly like my old one, of course. Because who wants a Muschamp phone, really?

Why being a giant dork is a lifelong labor that involves memorizing the design of Minnesota's natural resources license plate

In the summer of 1991, my parents took my brother and me on one of those "explore the west" minivan vacations. You know the trip that includes stops at Yellowstone, Mount Rushmore, the Black Hills...and, if you were a savvy travel researcher in the pre-innernets era like my mother was, the Corn Palace in Mitchell, South Dakota, and the Jolly Green Giant statue in Blue Earth, Minnesota. It was the classic American family vacation for two children who were classic American whiners.

Mom & Dad certainly knew my brother, David, and I were giant pains in the ass. They knew that, unless they were brilliant and strategic in planning the trip's activities, they would spend hours trapped in a Dodge Caravan listening to "Owwwww!," "I'm not touching you," and "Shut up."

So they planned some games for us, the chief one being "License Plate Game," which involved watching vehicles through the window and being the first to shout out the states in which they were licensed. For example, if you saw a car from Virginia the goal was to be the first to shout, "Virginia! I got it!" And then you could count Virginia as "yours." And as long as your opponent hadn't "gotten" that state, you could continue to call out cars from Virginia as a defensive move. Winning required an intense dedication to observing oncoming traffic lanes, parking lots, and the handful of cars my safety-conscious father would dare pass ("Dad, drive FASTER," was a common command from the back seat.) Mom even gave us each one of those dry-erase U.S. maps and markers so that we could color in the states as we "got" them. Needless to say, David and I didn't like this particular game.

We motherfreaking loved it.

By the time we reached South Dakota, we were so consumed with this competition that we could barely function outside of the "License Plate Game" bubble. In fact, when we arrived at Mount Rushmore, David began racing through the parking lot, "getting" license plates instead of viewing one of our nation's most inspiring historical tributes.

Because c'mon: Only we could turn the thing that was supposed to prevent us from being annoying into the most annoying thing EVER.

And I've now been playing "License Plate Game" for two decades.

It was early in my relationship with my now-husband that we took a car trip together and I shouted out, "North Dakota! I got it!" His life has never been the same. He's become my primary "License Plate Game" opponent, even though we don't have the maps and no one's really even keeping score. We're just sort of always playing. And I'm sorry to say he's a terrible opponent. My eyes are much better, and I have a firmer grasp on our nation's many license plate designs. In fact, his only hope is to beat me when I'm not in the car -- which is something he certainly tries to do.

Because if my husband had been our third sibling on that van trip, he would have been right there with us, shoving my brother out of the way in order to "get" Alaska at Mount Rushmore. It's a freakish nerd quality about him that makes me know we're the perfect match. I can't help but smile when I receive a random text message in the middle of the work day that says, "Delaware. I got it."

Pshaw. I got Delaware at the Jolly Green Giant in 1991.

Just saying.

Defending women or defending journalism? Why I'm pretty peeved that I've been forced to make this choice.

Some news stories are so annoyingly anti-feminist that the best policy is to just ignore them until they go away. That being said, I'm going to jump in and become part of the problem by talking about the Ines Sainz situation.

First of all, let me express as absolutely as possible that I am not a victim-blamer. Nothing makes my skin crawl more than "she was asking for it" defenses of sexual harassers and assailants. And though she now says that she wasn't offended or wasn't actually harassed or was harassed but not really or whatever her current story is about the New York Jets situation, I do not condone any real or hypothetical harassment of Ines Sainz. Professional men should behave professionally on the job, whether or not their profession is playing a game. Period.

But I do have to blame Ines Sainz, at least in part, for one thing: the resurrection of more obnoxious attacks on female sports journalists that veteran professional Andrea Kremer told the New York Daily News this week she thought had been laid to rest years ago. Because while the Jets players apparently weren't behaving very professionally when Ines Sainz visited their practice a few weeks ago, it doesn't appear that Sainz is exactly a shining example of professional journalism, either.

I realize that sex sells. It sells in every industry, and especially in sports -- a world where men clamor to get front row seats so they can ogle the big-haired women in spandex bun-huggers at NFL games and where Danica Patrick ranks fourth among U.S. female athletes for earnings despite recording just one win. And even though it's taken from this testosterone-fueled, less-than-serious world of sports, I believe that Ines Sainz is just another example of the ever-blurring line between journalism and entertainment.

Check out the directory of the reporters on Sports Illustrated's Web site and let me know if any of their bios come with photo galleries that include bathing suit shots. Maybe ESPN's Sage Steele will change her Twitter background to a montage of images that includes a photo of her wearing an evening gown on a tennis court. Then again, maybe she won't. It seems that Sainz has built her career around "hey, look at me" stunts like flirting with athletes, dressing inappropriately on the job, and yes -- intentionally creating a media circus around this incident in New York.

Situations like this put female sports journalists like Kremer and even me -- someone who, yes, has had her ass patted in a working football press box -- in a tough position. Women in sports have had it very rough for decades and have been repeatedly harassed, demeaned, and ignored while trying to do their jobs. No, covering sports isn't as serious as covering U.S. foreign policy or Wall Street or even local city council meetings -- but it's still journalism. And all journalists should be treated with professional respect, just as they should be expected to behave professionally.

Keith Olbermann put it harshly when he recently named Sainz one of his "worst persons in the world," but I think he was largely correct: Ines Sainz puts all female sports journalists in the (necessary) position of defending her against the poor treatment she received, but also the quandary of whether or not they also have to defend her as a journalist (something she claims to be but which all evidence seems to indicate she is not), and in the process diminishes decades of work that serious female sports reporters have put in to gain the respect they deserve.

Does Ines Sainz have the right to make a buck off her voluptuous body? Sure, it's the world we live in. But don't expect me to only view her situation through the lens of whether or not I'm offended as a woman -- I also view it through the lens of a journalist who has watched almost exclusively pretty faces and thin bodies pop up on football sidelines and behind anchor desks over the last 20 years.

And when women's credentials for doing a job -- any job -- are reduced to whether or not they won the genetic lottery, all women lose.

Even Ines Sainz.

I'm apparently the lyrical gangster.

One recent oppressively hot spring day, I found a new hobby I didn't even know I was looking for while I was doing one of my least favorite activities -- getting my hairs done. (I realize most women view a trip to the salon as "pampering," but I loathe it. And now that I'm in my 30s I have to color away the fields of gray on my scalp, which means my hair appointments have been extended in their length of torture by nearly two hours. Spending that much time on any grooming activity, much less one that involves chemicals and gale force bursts of hot air being applied to my scalp for an extended period of time, tends to make me a little stir crazy.)

In an effort not to burst into tears and climb out of the chair like a 3-year-old having a tantrum during these hair appointments, I look for distractions -- usually the salon's music. On this particular day, the music was Sirius/XM's 90s pop music channel.

Song after god-awful song that came drifting out of the overhead speakers was something I hadn't heard in at least a decade but to which I could sing along, and in most cases indentify by title and artist. There was "Sadness: Part 1" by Enigma, "Love Will Be Right Here" by SWV (which stands, I remember all too clearly, for 'Sisters with Voices'), Skee-Lo, The Soup Dragons, Matchbox 20, Sister Hazel, The Gin Blossoms, Coolio, and an endless parade of other crap that just made me laugh out loud and which, to be truly honest, I at one point owned on cassette single. I even heard Inner Circle's cringeworthy "Sweat," which to this day you can't tell me isn't about date rape (How was that even allowed to be played on the radio?), and Ini Kamoze's "Here Comes the Hotstepper." (Murder-ah!)

The whole experience illuminated the power of popular music as a memory trigger. How does Extreme's "More Than Words" NOT immediately make me think of every high school dance I ever attended? And my college days will always be associated with Third Eye Blind's "Jumper," which my fellow intern, Josh, used to sing to me while we were endlessly scanning football players' head shots in the back corner of the sports information office. I also can't hear Savage Garden's "I Want You" without remembering those days working in the back of Jacobson Building with only a boom box to entertain us -- and the fact that our boss repeatedly referred to that particular tune as "the chicken cherry cola song."

These days, I listen to very little pop music. I don't know any Justin Bieber songs and only very recently decided that Lady Gaga was worth a listen. But I still consume massive amounts of new alternative rock and feel like music is a big part of my life. But apparently my current music consumption pales greatly in comparison to that of my teen years. In addition to knowing all the songs on the 90s pop station, I can also sing you everything by Nirvana, Soundgarden, and Sonic Youth.

So my new commute-time hobby is switching back and forth between XM's 90s pop channel and XM's 90s alternative channel (These both exist!) and seeing how many songs I can identify by title and artist. It's actually an alarming number. I even shocked myself the other day when I immediately came up with "I Know" by Dionne Faris and "I Nearly Lost You" by the Screaming Trees in the same car trip.

If you're close to my age, I highly recommend this ridiculous but highly amusing activity. I mean, where else but 90s on 9 are you ever going to hear the remix of Maxi Priest's "Close to You" or suddenly have a vivid flashback of the 1992 presidential election?

And with oil continuing to gush into the Gulf of Mexico and the Pac-10 trying to destroy the last vestiges of parity in college athletics, I certainly don't want to listen to the news or sports right now. So I'll take my 90s music, which might as well finally finish the job of rotting my brain that it started all those years ago.

I mean, come on: I know what Bo don't know. I'm the lyrical gangster.

I'm so cool I didn't even know I was cool. At all.

So one of my favorite stores, Raygun, has a new T-shirt on the shelves that proclaims, "I listened to NPR before it was cool." In what is a likely a telltale sign that I am most definitely NOT cool, I did not realize that listening to public radio had become cool and am not really sure how to handle this revelation that something I do is considered "cool." It got me wondering if some of the other things I do had suddenly become cool. Please let me know if any of the following have become cool or are likely to become in the near future:

• saying things like, "Oooh! It's almost 9 o'clock! We can go to bed soon!"
  
• watching "Top Chef" when it first airs and then watching it again when it is rerun over the weekend
• wondering if a statistical detail of a sporting event is nationally significant and then actually going to the trouble of looking it up (or, actually, any obsession with/mild interest in sports statistics)
  
• facial depilitory
• knowing how to use a semicolon
• taking pictures of your food at restaurants
• watching CSPAN (and possibly even CSPAN2)
• being able to recite all the presidents in order of service and all the U.S. states in alphabetical order as a result of past elementary school choral performances
• Al Gore crushes
• pen/marker collecting
• watching Sesame Street as an adult
  
• unflattering, uncontrollable, pants-peeing laughter
• actually having Erasure songs on one's iPod
  
• vacuuming mishaps

Because I'm gonna want the T-shirt.

Captain Weirdo has a stat sheet, and she's not afraid to use it.

In the mid-to-late-1980s my favorite toy was an avocado green manual typewriter on which I put together regular editions of the "Daily Tribune," a newspaper of fictional stories written and illustrated (with pencil drawings inside black magic marker square borders) by me while I sat on the living room floor, hunched over the machine that emitted a musty metallic odor as I told it tales of fake petty crimes, fictional football games, and imaginary international crises. I gave myself deadlines and critiqued my headline choices. I collated and numbered the pages and paid careful attention to creating ads below the fold. For me, this was playtime.

From an early age, I was obsessed with the idea of a career in journalism. More specifically, I was obsessed with a career that, until almost a decade later, I wouldn't even know existed.

At age 18 I discovered it and was even offered an opportunity to do it: sports information -- the art of compiling and distributing information about athletics teams and competitions.

You see, though I was the faithful editor of the "Daily Tribune," one of my favorite childhood projects was actually a postseason Iowa State men's basketball review that I created as a gift for my father by writing news blurbs and cutting and pasting news articles, statistics, and photos onto looseleaf pages in a red binder. I was reminded of this project yesterday when I was filling a red binder with articles, rosters, and statistics that I'll need to use this weekend at the NCAA women's basketball tournament's first and second round games in Ames. Saturday through Tuesday, I'm volunteering to help out one of my former bosses -- a lifelong friend acquired during the three years I spent working as a sports information student assistant -- who is coordinating media relations for the event. We are both out of that line of work nowadays, but we both relish the opportunity to volunteer at tournament time. Because, well, we are both still sports info geeks at heart.

It's this time of year, when the excitement of March Madness is at its peak, that I most regret not pursuing an SID career. (Though, if I'm being honest with myself, I'm probably better at the job I do now.) There's just something exciting about the yards of blue carpeting and the smell of freshly-copied stat sheets and the pressure of deadline as the sneakers squeak out a countdown to the next tipoff.

It takes a special breed of weirdo to appreciate it. And here I am: Captain Weirdo, reporting for duty. I can't wait to collate.

Fore.

None of my personal possessions are as well-traveled as I am, but I need to give a shout out to December 2009 for probably being the most adventurous month of travel my Titleist Ultra Lightweight Stand Bag has ever seen.

On December 21, it boarded a semi trailer for Tempe, Arizona and was whisked to the desert with 600+ carefully-tagged friends. But less than two weeks earlier, there were moments of doubt that my clubs would even survive to see their morning of abuse at Papago Municipal Golf Course. Because in five minutes on an icy December morning, they took a lot more abuse than I could ever have inflicted upon them in 18 holes' worth of sandtrap hacks.

It was, well, the ride of their life.

Let me just point out that I am a person who has both vacuumed her face and hit herself in the mouth with the leg of an ottoman. I once lost my car key, um, on my person while out jogging. I have torn my earlobe in half falling onto a wrought iron chair, lost my prosthetic tooth in a steak sandwich, and slashed my own tire while parallel parking. I've had bread stolen from me by a goose and been knocked on my face by a grounder in beer league softball.

So is it really any surprise that, on Dec. 7, I backed over my golf bag and dragged it 3 1/2 blocks to a quickie mart, all the while littering my neighborhood with clubs that were shooting out from beneath my car like graphite-shafted primitive warfare projectiles?

Yeah, I didn't think so.

It's our new Blu-Ray player's fault, actually. Because I had purchased the device as a Christmas gift for my husband and hid it in the trunk of my car just a few days earlier, I didn't put my golf bag back in my trunk after a joint Sunday morning practice session at the golf dome. I didn't want Ben to see his gift and figured I'd just leave the bag sitting behind my car and stash it when I left for work the next morning.

But there was a problem: I was the first to leave for work the next morning. I slipped through the door on the side of the garage, pushed the button to raise the garage door, threw my shoulder bag on the passenger seat, and started out of my driveway for work.

Upon starting down the street, I immediately noticed that the roads were icy and that I was having quite a bit of trouble getting my car to accelerate down the road. My car drove almost like it was dragging something. Stupid ice, I thought. I need to fuel up my car, so maybe I should reassess my decision to commute to work this morning when I get around the corner to the gas station.

By the time I turned the corner, I became convinced that I actually was dragging something under my car. Stupid chunks of snow and ice that get stuck under your car, I thought. When I pull up to the pump, I'll just kick that stuff off my car and it should drive better.

So I pulled up to the pump, started the auto fueling process, and took an exploratory lap around my Honda. I found no attached chunks of snow and/or ice. But, dammit, I knew there was something dragging under there. Determined to solve the mystery, I moved to the front of the car and bent all the way down to the ground, almost placing my ear on the snowy ground as I looked underneath the car. That's when it jumped out at me, peeking out between blackened pipes in vivid white script embroidery: "Titleist." The previous day's events finally came flooding back.

Holy nerds. I ran over my golf bag.

There is only one thing a person can do in this situation: Start to cry; decide that crying would be pathetic and sort of stop crying but not really; stick your arm under the car and lunge at the bag, which you have no hope of retrieving because it's in the exact middle of your car, you're wearing heels, and it's snowing; pull only your golf towel and one catty-wompus club out as they are the only items you can reach; call your husband, because surely he will know what to do; and sit in the car and be a total pussy about the situation.

So that's what I did.

When my husband arrived at the gas station it was quickly apparent that he, too, would be unable to reach the bag without mechanical assistance. But he did make one discovery that for some reason had escaped me until then:

"Ummmmm... Kate... There aren't any more golf clubs in this bag!"

He threw me the keys to his Ford Escape. "Go. Find. Them," he said. I shuffled toward the car, panic-stricken.

"Wait," he stopped me. "I need to go home and get my jack so I can get your bag out from under the car. I'll come with you."

So we left the Honda and golf bag parked at the gas pump and started up the icy road toward home. When we turned onto our street, that's when we saw it: Our neighborhood looked like a Dick's Sporting Goods. A cluster of irons lay in the middle of the road, and my other clubs were scattered randomly about. Brightly-colored head covers dotted snowy front yards on both sides of the street. I drove the car slowly with the window rolled down, pointing out clubs as we crawled toward home. "There's my driver next to that person's lampost!" "There's my 7 iron next to that dumpster!" My husband picked them up and filed them in the back of the car. I can only imagine what was going through the heads of the motorists who passed us, what with me driving three miles per hour in the Escape while my husband walked alongside the car clutching a handful of golf clubs, barely able to get traction on the ice-covered road. At 8 o'clock on a Monday morning.

We found all but four of the clubs. Remarkably, none of the ones I found were damaged. Ben was able to pull the bag out from under the car after he jacked it up, and even the bag still works! (It just has a couple of new dirt stains. I'm planning to send my story to the Titleist Corporation.) I figure there is a chance those four missing clubs might turn up when the snow melts this spring, so I decided to leave notes in my neighbors' doors. A normal person might simply have written, "I had an accident with my car and lost some golf clubs. If found, please return to Kate." But that's just not my style, so I left a note for my neighbors that told the whole story, ending with a statement of absolute and humiliating fact:

"I'm sorry to say this is probably not even the stupidest thing I have ever done. But it's at least in the top five."

Some day I may have to put this up to vote.