Steele Yourself for Some Slum Love.

(The last of the drafts from my sick day. It's outdated now, but what the hell, it's a post.)

So, did you all catch Michael Steele, newly minted chairman of the Republican National Committee yukking it up with a white conservative talking head about giving Bobby Jindal some "slum love"?

Curtis Sliwa: Now, using a little bit of that street terminology, are you giving him any Slum love, Michael?

Michael Steele: (laughter)

Curtis Sliwa: Because he is -- when guys look at him and young women look at him -- they say oh, that's the slumdog millionaire, governor. So, give me some slum love.

Michael Steele: I love it. (inaudible)...some slum love out to my buddy, Gov. Bobby Jindal is doing a friggin' awesome job in his state. He's really turned around on some core principles -- like hey, government ought not be corrupt.

WTF, Michael? You think that's acceptable? You think that's funny? Why would you not call his ass on that? What kind of message is that to send out to a national audience?

Sadly, there's more. Click on the link up there to catch Steele's comments about Obama having bling-bling in the stimulus package, Sliwa imagining Mitt Romney high-fiving Ludacris, offering to play Jay-Z while Steele exits, and more condescending banter.

I find it hard to believe that Michael Steele didn't recognize what Sliwa was doing - almost every word out of Sliwa's mouth was that patronizing crap White folks do when they want to show they're Down With Diversity. Here's the thing, it's good to see Republican POCs in leadership positions within their party, but if the Republican party will only choose those who tout the far-right party line, people who are safe, who will laugh this kind of racist bullshit off -- who will participate in it rather than call it out -- I don't know. I mean, congrats on your new position and all, Mr. Steele, but I'm thinking that in some ways, you're doing more harm than good.

I've written before about the difference I've seen in my son since President Obama's election. I would like for my son to see POCs in leadership positions across party lines. It's healthy to hear differing opinions, apply those critical thinking skills. What's not healthy is for young people of color to see the results of internalized racial oppression played out on a national stage like it's comedy hour or something. What's not healthy is for young white kids to see the flip side of that and get a nice confirmation for their internalized racial superiority that they're probably not even aware of.

How many Indian kids in our high schools and middle schools are catching slumdog jokes this week? Do you feel OK perpetuating that, Michael Steele? Participating in it?

I've heard a lot of talk about how we're now in a post-racial society. Really? Because I'm having more conversations than ever with my son about all of these things. Seems like every time I turn on the news, something else needs to be addressed: the RNC's Magic Negro Christmas CD, the infamous Post cartoon, the backlash to AG Holder's "nation of cowards" speech, Miley Cyrus' I-wasn't-mocking-Asians bullshit, Michelle Bachman's "you be da man" gushing to Michael Steele, the slum love thing ... just to name a few.

Basically, that slum love situation sends a message to young people of color that you'd better step in line, ignore racism, even participate in racist jokes if you want to get anywhere, at least on the conservative side of the house. And you'd best suppress any pain or anger or resentment -- laugh that shit off, because hey, you know we're just joking, buddy. You know we don't mean you. Golly, we don't even think of you as Black! We don't even see color!

Well I'm sorry, but that interview was bullshit. And yes, I know it's easy for me to pontificate from my couch, to criticize, when I'll never have to live Steele's reality as a man of color. Fair enough. But when my son sees Michael Steele laughing with some White conservative hack about Bobby Jindal being a slumdog millionaire governor, my son needs to know that is not OK.

I've a feeling this is just the beginning of a long line of fucked up racist situations to be paraded across our nightly news, as the Repubs get Down With Diversity. Lately, I feel like it's all I can do to keep up, and honestly, you're making my job harder, Michael Steele.

I understand that arming my son with the knowledge to recognize and work against systemic racism is my responsiblity, not yours, but damn, I sure wish he could've seen YOU call it out, Mr. Steele. We expect that stuff from the Rush Limbaughs and the Curtis Sliwas out there, but having to battle against your example with my son ... that's something else altogether. It matters.

Bobby, You're Doin' a Heckuva Job!

Stardate: Monday, March 2nd. Cowbell's Log: Male Offspring is home from school now, but (shh) hasn't taken his computer back yet. I'm assuming this means he doesn't have any homework, not that he isn't doing his homework.

So I'm blogging. I know, I just blogged this morning. Crazy, right? It's almost like having a computer again. I feel like one of those monkeys with unlimited access to cocaine who keep pushing the button until they're coked out. Pace myself, I know. I'm saving this one and another as drafts to publish later. Dole it out. Make it last.

Guys, there have been so many things I've wanted to blog about. When I do get some time, it's hard to write about anything serious, because I know I'll only have the computer for a limited time. Pressure. Like a timed test, but without the number 2 pencil. Of course, now that I have a computer in front me, my mind is a complete blank, but trust me, there's a lot I wanted to blog about. The Inauguration, for one. OK, never mind, too much pressure to put THAT into words. Male Offspring will be here any minute. What else?

Oh, I know.


Fast forward to President Obama's speech last week. How good does it feel to have a competent leader at the helm? And how good does it feel to watch my son watching the President's speech? Every time the man speaks, Male Offspring is right there. He watches the news more now, too. Discusses issues. Ask questions. Talks about his opinions. Says his President rocks. To those folks who "just don't see color", and think it doesn't matter if a role model is green, purple or polka-dot ... it matters. It matters a lot.

So the son and I watch the speech. Then comes the Republican response. People ... what the hell was that? I'm sorry, but Bobby Jindal looked like one of those dolls where you pull a string and he talks. I think they wound his string too tight.

You know how, when people are on stage -- singing, speaking, playing violin, whatever -- and it's so bad that you're embarrassed for them? It was like that. It reminded me of high school, when Scott Fitzgerald sang I Got Rhythm at the spring concert. Except he didn't. Have rhythm, that is. Sweet boy, but ... no. It was excruciating. I remember squirming, watching him stiffly snapping his fingers off the beat while singing at the floor, his voice occasionally cracking. God, I wanted to disappear in a hole for him.

Bobby Jindal was about like that, on the stiff and awkward scale. I kept waiting for someone to use his tie like one of those big stage hooks, and reel him off stage.

He started off like he was in some weird "who's the most ethnic" contest or something. Did you all catch that? He's all like, oh yeah, keep your Hawaii and Indonesia and Kenyan father -- MY parents were immigrants! My mom was 4 months pregnant with me when we got here, so I was like a pre-existing condition! [stretch lips over teeth, force chuckle, hold for 2 beats]

Really? So ... in the Republican response, you not only want to bring up immigration, but immigrants entering the country shortly before giving birth to a child who will then be an American citizen, via the US health care system? Look dude, maybe nobody briefed you, but your party is against immigration. And immigrants having babies here. And immigrants having access to health care. Yeah, it's kind of a major party platform. So ... where were you going with that? And the Hurricane Katrina bit? Whose brainchild was that? Psst, Bobby: your party blew the whole Katrina thing. Bad. It's true. You guys were basically a laughingstock. Not sure where you were going with that one, either.

So I'm sitting there asking, where's the response? He's supposed to be responding to the President's speech. Did he even listen to the President's speech? Did no one forward them a transcript? Did his staff set him up? Because really, there's a bit of a disconnect here.

Male Offspring didn't respond to my questions right away. He was sort of entranced, mouth half-open, brows furrowed. I think the tie hypnotized him.

I really was expecting more. This is the great hope of the Republican party? If he and Sarah Youbetcha Palin are the rising stars ... oh hell yeah, we've got our 8 years in the bag. Bobby you're doin' a heckuva job!

Stalking Anthony Bourdain

I'm home with a roiling gut today. This is what it takes for me to get time on Male Offspring's computer.  I'm on the couch, hanging with my man, Anthony Bourdain. Yes, the Travel Channel. I know, right? Trust, this guy is no Rick Steves or Samantha Brown. No offense to Rick or Sam. Just not my thing.

I watched Samantha once. Destination Ireland. The whole time, I was like, okay, is she really trying to do a fake Irish accent? It was intermittent, but definitely there. Weird! And what's with the cheery, eager-beaver act? Girl would be perfect working the Starbucks drive-thru speaker at 5am. That brand of perky just pisses me off. But guess what came on right afterward? Anthony Bourdain's Ireland show! I know, too good, right? I don't know what those folks at the Travel Channel were thinking, unless they're going for a mass exodus of SamFans over to Anthony's side of the pub. Basically here's the difference: kissing the blarney stone with an affected faux-Irish accent complete with cheesy soundtrack, versus quaffing Guinness in a smoky bar after a walk through Belfast, Northern Ireland, touching on the not-so-cheery history between the Protestants and Catholics.

Yeah, pour me the Guinness.

Most travel shows work my last nerve with their exoticism and touristy bullshit. I will actually set a reminder for Tony's show. There I said it. I'm addicted to a travel/foodie show.

He's so goddamn appealing.

This guy is the only smoker and pork eater worshipper that I could consider dating. Or marrying. Or stalking. Whatever. Those of you who know how extremely anti-cigi I am, in addition to my vegetarian status, will appreciate the depth of my obsession, here.

Anthony's show, No Reservations, comes with a parental warning. A deliciously sardonic New Yorker, the FCC's obscenity rules are clearly not foremost in his mind. He tends to drink a lot. I don't mean like sampling a good Cabernet with dinner. I mean like slamming it back and dealing with the hangover later. He also says "fuck" a lot and is basically irreverent, caustic, and sexy in a tall, slightly bowlegged, boots-and-leather-jacket kind of way. He's likely to bust out with a "holy shit!" while masticating a juicy mouthful of meat, and you'll never catch him with an umbrella in his drink. And yes, he can occasionally slide toward disdainful when it comes to his travel and food compatriots:

I think the Travel Channel knows it's not getting Jamie Oliver or Rachel Ray when they throw their lot in with me.

Even Samantha Brown would have a hard time summoning a "wow" for this.

He eschews the tourist traps and five-star restaurants, heading instead for street vendors, family meals, and, as a self-described aficionado of the dive bar, any place where local home brew and home cooking can be found.

He will eat any local specialty, from seal eyes to chicken anus to still-squirming octopus tentacles. What's cool about that though, is that he doesn't do it in that "Ohmygod this is so exotic and freakish, watch me gross you out!" kind of way. (Looking at you, Andrew Zimmern.) No, rather than playing the obnoxious dude-check-this-out American, Tony, for all his general snarkiness, is all about genuine learning, about respecting and honoring the people, cultures and traditions of the countries he visits. He uses his show as a vehicle to challenge assumptions and stereotypes. You can see he is honored that people would invite him to their tables, share their food and their stories.

So yeah, I'm smitten with a travel show foodie. I was considering becoming a full time groupie, when my stalking turned up the inconvenient fact that he's now married, and has a little girl. He's apparently a very proud parent:

...she goes absolutely bat shit over risotto made with wild nettles. And when her Mom dips a finger in the local red wine, she greatly prefers it to juice. This makes me very proud.

Damn. I missed my window. Word on the street is, he even gave up the smoking in the interest of extended parenthood. Cruel irony. Stay sweet, Tony.

Okay, stay snarky. Whatever.

Dear Split End Salon

Dear Split End Salon (Aurora Village in Shoreline, WA)

Thank you for the complimentary hair cut I received at your shop yesterday. Of course, the term "complimentary" loses its value a bit when it means free because we fucked your hair up so badly that we couldn't, in good conscience, charge you.

Please let your stylist Laura know that the Kristy McNichol look is over. As is the Florence Henderson mushroom top with accompanying flip. It wasn't cute then, and it's really just laughable now. The short, choppy layers, the butchered bangs, the feathering? Not flattering, and so not necessary. Let it go. Yes, I admit, I was crushing on Shaun Cassidy in the 70s, but do you really think I want to see an older, fatter version of him staring back at me from my mirror? That shit's not funny. This morning, while brushing my teeth, I had the overwhelming urge to pull a crazyass Britney Spears move with my son's clippers.

Also, I'd like to point out that the last thing a client wants to hear while sitting in one of your vinyl chairs, is the stylist sucking in her breath with an, Oh, Jesus! I'm so sorry... Yeah, really, that sentence should just never be uttered in a hair salon. In fact, I'm pretty sure that's legal cause for a justifiable beatdown.

Apparently, your current hiring practices include taking on the layoffs from Super Cuts, because I haven't had such a bad haircut since my mom swindled me into getting the Dorothy Hammill in 4th grade. Even the basic training cut I got at Fort Jackson worked better than this. Truth be told, my drill sergeant's cut worked better than this.  And he was bald.

When family, friends and colleagues do not reassure you with the requisite Bad Haircut Platitudes, you know it's bad. When your new haircut draws no comments at all, and you work around all women and gay men, it's a sure sign something has gone awry.

When you pathetically resort to fishing for compliments and only receive So ... what made you cut your hair? or Are you going to grow it out again? that's a clue that someone with some scissors fucked up your head in a major way. (Looking at you, Laura.) My own son brought me pity-coffee at work today. He also snapped a picture of my head with his cell phone before running away. I'm pretty sure it's already been sent to his sisters at college, or possibly posted on the Interwebs.

A military high-and-tight suddenly doesn't seem quite so drastic. I will not, however, be coming to your shop to get it. In fact, I will never set foot in your salon again. I've made sure to tell anyone who asks, exactly where I got my "interesting haircut". Nothing like a living, breathing - and yes, crying - advertisement, is there?

In closing, may I suggest you screen your stylists a bit more carefully? In this economy, I'd imagine you have lots of potential hires to choose from. A little quality control would be nice. You had a good thing going - Adrienne, Halona, or Nicole M. would never have let this shit go down. Your standards have slipped.

And Laura, honey, you need to know that being apologetic and friendly does not make up for me living with this fucked-up, feathered shag on my head. I'm sure you're a nice person, but you should not be wielding scissors in a professional capacity. If I were you, I'd cross the street if you see me coming any time in the next few months. If I knew where you lived, I'd put Nair in your shampoo bottle. That may sound bitchy -- okay, unhinged -- but listen, honey, someone actually used the word "bouffant" in a conversation with me today. Again, that shit's not funny.

Split End Salon, I spit in your general direction. Thanks for the memories.

Disgruntledly Yours,
A Former Client

Ding Dong, The Brick is Dead.

It's true. After years of long and faithful service, The Brick is beyond resuscitation. And I do mean years. For a laptop, The Brick was like that old dude in the Guinness book of world records who lived off yogurt and goats' milk his whole life. Seriously, The Brick is like 114 in laptop years. I think he's 9 or even 10 in people years. He was given to me in 2000 or 2001, and even then, he was a hand-me-down from my boss.

He was practically state of the art at the time. He had a docking station, so I used him at home and at work, toting him hither and yon in a stylish, if clunky, Dell laptop case. This was quite convenient for my boss, what with all those extra hours. Overtime? What is this, the States?

The Brick went about his duties, sitting proudly in his docking station, drawing oohs and ahhs from my buddies working for other subcontractors, still chained to their desktop towers. But that was another era. A time of floppy drives, hard-wired Ethernet connections, and 256MB of RAM. A time when Windows 98 was still kicking ass and taking names, and a GB was just a twinkle in some techie's eye.

In recent days, The Brick plodded along, with his old version of Explorer and his chunky plug-in wireless card, fans blowing hell bent for metal. Plugging in a flash drive caused him to warn me that I was about to use a USB 2.0 device with a USB-Methuselah port. Photos eventually had to be stored on an external hard drive. Also USB 2.0. iTunes was out of the question. But he bravely chugged along even as new computers took up residence for the Offspring, each more advanced than the last.

My frequent outbursts of frustration and yes, even rage, at his sluggish ways, his tiffs with the wireless router, his short memory, and the death of his battery didn't phase him. He just kept plodding along. Well, unless he shut down or refused to connect, but hey, he tried.

He outlasted The Bohemian's laptop, new to her in 2005. And I'd still put him up against that Vista crap on Male Offspring's flashy machine, any day. (Yes, even dead, I'd put him up against Vista.)

So, no, I haven't been blogging, checking emails, or twittering. The Brick has finally given up the ghost, and I am without technology. Reduced to watching bad TV and (gasp) reading books. Call it a mourning period. Or call it being cash-strapped after the damn Roof Debaucle of 2008. Whatever. I am working on procuring a new computer - not that any new machine, with its megabytes and glossy widescreen could ever truly replace The Brick, but my blogging career is suffering, and I feel cut off from the information highway. I never realized how many questions I pose to the Oracle of the Googles every day until The Brick's untimely death. Well, I guess it wasn't really untimely, but you get my meaning.

Please keep The Brick in your thoughts, as he journeys to the next phase of the cyber realm. May he have Explorer 8, many gigs of RAM, and USB 2.0 in the afterworld. Rest in peace, my boxy, recalcitrant friend ... your work here is done.

As for me, never fear, I'm sure I'll have much to bitch about. One word: Vista.

So I Lied.

"So, I'll probably actually be blogging again for a while."

Yeah. So I lied.

If anyone knows what it means when your computer powers up, the background picture shows up, but nothing else on the desktop does, let me know, mmm-kay? Yeah, no task bar, no icons, no Start button, nothing. This happened after I got 2 quarantine notifications from Norton. Damn Trojans. Always slipping in and making trouble.

Those notifications came after a certain Teen Demon used my computer to "communicate" with her friends. I put forth a mandate, long ago, clearly stating that no AOL, MySpace, chatters, or their ilk shall ever be installed or accessed from The Brick. Henceforth and whereas. Put that crap on your own machine. Mine can't handle it. But, being snowed in, and her computer having access problems after coming back from the college network, she ignored my edict and indulged in a day's worth of friending, chatting, and LOLing. The next time I powered up, hello Norton notification, goodbye desktop.

I told you! But noooo, Mom's just being silly. She doesn't know what she's talking about. AOL never hurt anyone. MySpace doesn't spam. Look, I may not be the world's foremost computer expert, but I know The Brick. It's a very sensitive machine. Only the basics. If I say no crap spam-meister LOL OMG stuff, I mean it. Damn it.

SO not ROFLing here, folks.

So if anyone knows what the hell that no-desktop business means, or how to fix it, let me know.

Oh, and Happy Friggin' New Year.

Christmas in the Northwest

It snowed last night. Again. They've predicted another wave for this afternoon. We're way past White Christmas here, folks. Picture, thousand words, enjoy.

Holly berries



The little apple tree in the side yard.



Snow on green leaves



A lone leaf hangs on.



Bird house




Icicles over the back door




A side street in our neighborhood.



The main highway being cleared didn't help this semi truck.



And from the archives, especially for Yellow Dog Granny, who asked where the heck our snowman was, a snow goddess from Christmas past.

Snowbound

Well, my two-week vacation has turned out to be more like house arrest. House arrest with three teenagers bouncing off the walls from cabin fever. Not a Norman Rockwell scenario here, folks. And to think, just a week ago, I was excited at the prospect of finally, just once, Christmas shopping during the day, like a person of leisure, instead of battling the mobs after dark with all the other frazzled, bleary-eyed, homicidal after-work shoppers. Sounds like a little thing, but I was really fucking looking forward to that. 

You may have heard, since we apparently made it onto the national news, that western Washington got a visit from Jack fucking Frost.

Snow doesn't bother me. I was practically born with a snow shovel in my hand. I've spent 95% of my life in big snow areas. Areas that actually have snowplows. And salt. Areas that know how to deal with snow. When it snows in Seattle, it basically shuts the joint down. Seattle has about 25 plows for the entire metro area, which is akin to putting out a fire with spit. They ran out of de-icer, and the next shipment can't make it over the pass from eastern WA.

I live north of Seattle, where there are even fewer resources to battle the white stuff. The idea of a snowplow making it even to the main roads where I live is a crap shoot, and you can forget regular neighborhood streets. Also, they don't put the blade all the way down where they do plow. They leave about 2" of snow, which gets compacted and turns to ice. They don't use salt, either. Apparently, it "damages the roads". Much like snow plow blades, I guess. Maybe so, but places like Ohio and Minnesota and friggin' Kaposvár, Hungary seem to do fine with the damn salt. Come on, how often would we even need to salt here anyway?

It started snowing about a week ago. Christmas is Thursday, and I've been stuck in the house for a week. Worse, everyone else in the PNW has been stuck inside as well. The crowds will rival Black Friday if I do make it out. Which is doubtful. More snow predicted, starting tomorrow night.

Fuck you, Jack Frost, and the cold front you rode in on. Seattle is NOT the place for this level of Winter Wonderland.

The dorky channel 5 weatherman is in his element. He's practically sporting a snow-boner every time the news comes on. He's one of those guys who fancies himself suave and debonair. He's got a 70s mustache and somehow manages to swagger from behind his big weather desk. He wears a leather jacket on-air sometimes. I bet he was a football player back in high school. I can just see him reliving the glory days with the guys over a case of Bud Light. I'd also be willing to bet he uses the term "little lady". Anyway, he's a headliner now. Forget the anchors, bitches, Local Weather Guy's at the top of the hour now. Yeah. I watch the other channel with Steve Pool and his Double Doppler Radar.

My normally cynical friend remarked that it must be so cozy being snowed in with family, "with all your babies surrounding you". (Why no, as a matter of fact, she doesn't have teenagers.) She, incidentally, is house-sitting for a mutual friend in a gorgeous abode perched atop one of Seattle's famous hills, with no cable or Internet access. Fantastic view, though. She's going nowhere except out of her mind.

Let me tell you, my "babies" have no interest in kicking it with dear old Mom in the midst of this frost fest. I haven't even had the nerve to suggest popping corn and bringing out ye ole board games. Male Offspring has followed the siren song of his PlayStation, cloistering himself away in his hermitage room.

Early on, there was the requisite fighting with Teen Demon about taking her car out in this mess. She is somehow under the impression that the ability to drive in snow is genetic. An inherited trait, like curly hair. Or sarcasm. After the first day or two, she quickly realized that the hills are alive with the sound of crunching metal, and left her car safely buried in the driveway. Not to be deterred, however, from the critical activity of Hanging Out, she donned her little felt boots and cute little fashion coat that literally does not cover her navel, and her cute little yarn gloves, ready to set out hiking and meet her friends. Five miles away. Yes, of course I tried to stop her. Words were exchanged, shall we say. You forget, she is over 18, and therefore knows everything. I did make her trade her faux boots for my hiking boots, causing much eye rolling and gnashing of teeth.

Then, the Bohemian, who is usually sensitive to my concerns, and whose time in DC has raised her awareness of risks to one's personal safety, hears that Main Street has been closed to traffic. Main Street is a colossal hill, or more accurately, series of hills, descending all the way down to the ferry docks. She shrieks this news to her younger brother, announcing that they HAVE TO go sledding on Main Street! It's a once in a lifetime opportunity! I, boring, mean mother that I am, crankily brought up such foolish notions as, how would they get there, what about the fact that we have no sleds, that Male Offspring has no boots, that Main Street is about five miles from our house, and the like. No matter. Once in a lifetime opportunity! Adventure! Thrills! A journey of exploration and discovery! (Yes, she actually said that to me.)

Yeah. Main Street shrouded in snow. The gateway drug to skydiving and bungee jumping.

I'm so done with snow. I just wanted to go to Zoo Lights, plan some fun outings, and have a normal Christmas shopping experience. Is that too damn much to ask? Whatever. Anyway, for your viewing enjoyment, here's a taste of the past week's snow extravaganza.

Batman & Mason playing Find Your Toy in the Snowdrift


Mason gets cold easily.

It's never too late to support your local legislators and judges.
In fall, a campaign election sign. In winter ...

... custom candidate snowboards.


Male Offspring shredding the slopes on a piece of Formica.

Little brother gives the Bohemian a push as Batman looks on.

Batman isn't the most effective sled dog.

Teen Demon gives the Bohemian a good pull.

Male Offspring rides his Judge Lucas sign down an unidentified hill.

Aaaahhh.

I'm off work. As in actually OFF WORK. I'd planned to take two weeks off during the break between quarters anyway, which is something for me. But seeing as how Seattle has been hit with snow -- or, if you're the Seattle news media, a BRUTAL WINTER STORM SYSTEM -- I ended up with additional days off. So, not only have I been off since Wednesday, I'm basking in the knowledge that I don't have to go back to work until January.

Hold up, let me say that again: I don't have to go back to work until January.

Before the Bohemian got back, I had told her I'd take some time off. She sighed and said, "Anyu, you always say that. Every year. And you never do." I started to say, "Yes I do!", but then I realized she was right. I do take time off around the holidays, but it's piece meal. A day here, a day there, decided at the last minute. Completely different than knowing you have a solid stretch of time. A day here and there doesn't give you the same mental break. Which I really need, being basically mentally unstable.

So, I'll probably actually be blogging again for a while. I know. Close your mouths.

I even have pictures to post. And not from the Internet, either. Seriously, close your mouths. I even have pictures of a meeting with a totally awesome fellow blogger that should've been posted months ago. Oh well, all the better to surprise you with, my dears.

So. I feel like my whole body has heaved a sigh of relief. Later, bitches, I'm off to play in the snow.

Cakes or Consequences

Occasionally, whilst engaged in the business of parenting, you get to witness your child absorbing a life lesson with no input or effort on your part whatsoever. Consequences, for instance. One of the toughest lessons to drill into a kid, right? I mean, let's face it, how far into adulthood do most of us get, still struggling with the concept of consequences? Reaping what one sows and all that.

Male Offspring started wrestling season a couple of weeks ago. Last year he wrestled in the 152-lb weight class. This year, as he's still a growing boy who drinks his milk, he's been weighing in at a steady 157 lbs, meaning he'll move up to the 160-lb weight class for his sophomore season.

Doesn't sound like much of a difference, but moving up a weight class is tough, especially when first breaking into the new class. It often means wrestling older, more experienced guys. He's been lifting the weights and practicing hard in anticipation of going up against those 160-pounders.

So today, he goes for a hydration test and a weigh-in.

163 pounds. Uh-oh. Up 6 pounds in less than a week. Shot right past his new weight class.

Think the Great Cake Fest of 2008 had anything to do with it? *

Unless he wants to jump two weight classes, and suddenly be wrestling those 172-lb boys, I'm thinking he'd best jettison the remaining cake bits still populating my kitchen.

Good luck, Son. And let that be a lesson to you. Consequences. That's right. Cake Karma. The hard truth, Son, is that cake is evil. That icing may taste sweet going down, but it's Satan's ambrosia. It will cling to your ass like a bitter conservative clings to guns and religion. It's time you knew the truth: the wages of cake is death, at least on the wrestling mat.

Welcome to the hard reality of consequences, Son. Now you understand why I can not allow Oreos into the house.


*At least I hope it was the Great Cake Fest of 2008. If not, that means it was the Thanksgiving food. And I've been eating that mess like a mo'fo for days.


RETRACTION:
It seems I was mistaken. The lesson on consequences did not have quite the lasting impression as I'd hoped. Oh, he did learn about the consequences of eating multiple cakes on top of Thanksgiving leftovers. He learned a right hard lesson when he stepped on the scales that first day back to practice.

For about a hot minute.

Then he lifted some weights. Then he rode his bike from his high school to the neighboring high school for the required early-season hydration test. Probably 10 miles, round trip. Then they wrestled. Then he weighed himself again.

159 lbs.

I'm sorry ... what? What is there, a tapeworm in there? Who gains six pounds in less than a week, then loses four of it in a few hours? So apparently, he's fine. Good to go. Ready to wrestle.

Brat. Mark my words, Son, in real life, there are consequences. Serious consequences. That's right. Consequences for cake. Mark my words.