Slow news day today, so let's talk about... oh, I don't know... pregnancy.

One of the funny things about it is that many people think your pregnancy grants them license to give unsolicited advice. It seems to come most often from people who have never themselves carried a child.

It comes on all topics — from epidurals to episiotomies to soft cheeses (which are, in fact, probably safer, listeria-wise, than most fruits and vegetables) — and of course the big one: booze, booze, booze.

Unable to handle the social pressure, Sara regularly hits the bottle and goes right to the rock. Nice going, assholes. Your overbearing nonsense has backfired again. If my crack-baby daughter has a low basketball IQ and loses her chance at fame and fortune, I'm blaming you.

Bonus topic: patronymics, raised yesterday by Volokh, picked up elsewhere.

When we announced our hyphenated name, our parents (or rather, my parents — funny that) became briefly and mildly hysterical. They made three points:

1. How will anyone find you in the phone book?

Presumably, unless cognitively impaired due to prenatal soft cheese consumption, they'll look under "S", the first letter of our last name, and that's where our name and number will be. (Plus, who uses phone books?)

2. What will your kids do when they get married?

Whatever the hell they want to. With luck, they'll join same-sex polyamorous unions, possibly including cousins and animals, and they'll take the names of all 18 members, thus entering the Guinness Book with the longest hyphenated name.

3. How will it fit on the back of a jersey?

You got me there — I hadn't thought of that. Our very civilization hangs in the balance. (But I'm hoping that my daughter will be such a badass that she'll only go by one name, like Madonna or Nene... well, maybe more like Madonna than Nene. Maybe she'll just ditch the surname and go with her in-utero name, Glove, which has persisted despite our luke-warm feelings toward Gary Payton.)