My Mom Thinks I'm a Spinster.

And she aims to fix that.

I got this dancing hamster for the Spring Equinox, aka my birthday. I'm not sure why a dancing hamster dressed in a frog costume made my parents think of me, but it arrived with a note attached. In case you can't make it out in the photo, it reads:

Here's hoping that a kiss from you upon this frog will land you a HUSBAND!

Notice the emphasis on the word HUSBAND.

My mom is bound and determined that I be married. This is very important to her. Normal women, evidently, want to be married. I am just being stubborn. Her motive is not the usual "when will I have grandchildren" deal.  Been there, done that, got the divorce.

I'm fine being single. It's a choice, not a sentence, Mom. I remember when my mom found out, in an unfortunate casual conversation, that I'd actually passed up opportunities to be married again.  I thought she was going to burst a vein. Either that or take the wooden spoon to my ass, a la childhood.

Mom never misses an opportunity to oh-so-casually point out that not every marriage ends in divorce -- just look at her and my dad! Still happy! Still married! Mom is convinced that this whole issue is caused by residual bitterness over my own marriage ending. If I could just get over this silly "fear of marriage", everything would be fine.

I don't feel bitter about being single. I'm thankful as hell that particular unholy matrimony is null and void. Seriously, when I think about who I am now, compared to who I was then, no contest. When I think of who I would likely be now, had I remained in a wifely way... holy hell, a million thank-yous to my ex for his liberal interpretation of those marriage vows.

Didn't see it that way then, but Hindsight is a clear-sighted bitch.

Put it this way: the ex is getting remarried next month. In Las Vegas. No, they don't live there. They're flying from 12 time zones away to be married in Las Vegas. Their "wedding package" (yes, I said wedding package) includes Internet streaming so friends and family can join in the fun. All inclusive, y'all! They may see Britney Spears there. So yeah, there are definitely worse things than being single.

Being single has contributed immeasurably to untold personal growth and self-awareness, not to mention no longer looking like a housewife from What Not to Wear. I also had a hell of a lot of fun in the decade following said divorce.

Mom thinks life would be more fun, or at least more secure, if there were a full-time penis complete with legal papers and a ring around the house. And she ain't talking about the kind with batteries.  By "secure", she means entangled finances, like having a mortgage together and all.

That doesn't sound secure. I win the lottery, I'll feel secure.

Daddy just says, "Well, kid, people marry the first time for love. You see how that worked out. Marry for money. You can love rich as easy as you can love poor."

My dad also says, "Wherever you go, there you are," and "Pull my finger."

Mom knows of a guy who "would be perfect for me". I think his name is John. We are apparently both smart, witty, and like big dogs. In fact, John raises puppies to be service dogs. Pretty cool. John lives in the Midwest, near my parents. He also is a regular at Mom's church. Finally, during a visit home, I told her it would never work. Besides the fact that I live in Seattle, the whole religion thing is a definite no-go. I suspect this plan of Mom's was a Two-Fer. Get me married and get me back in the church. Oh, and back in Ohio. That too.

So, my mom is basically Yente to my Tzeitel. Thus the dancing hamster in a frog costume. I kissed it. Nothing happened.

Whew.

A Day In the Life

OK, so today is shaping up to be a pretty good day.

1) It is sunny today. As in continuous sunshine. As opposed to "sunbreaks", that Northwest phenomenon that seems to make people here happy, but which serves mainly to piss me off. Sunbreak is an official weather term used by meteorologists here. It means basically another grey, cloudy-ass day where the sun might pop out for like, 30 seconds, only to disappear right as your ass starts to get happy about the sun.

It's become a joke in my family. "Look!! A Sunbreak!" "Ooh! Ah!" Whatever. There are also a jillion terms for "rain". You know how there are supposedly like, 5,000 ways to say "snow" in some northern Native language?  That pretty much applies to western Washington and rain. There are so many ways to say rain it's not even funny.

But I digress. Today it is sunny. This is my office window today. That makes me pretty damn happy.

2) I got a Starbucks card for the Spring Equinox. A day started with sunshine and caffeine is a good day.




3) Baker Girl (aka Second-Born Daughter) made these last night, and thoughtfully packed one up for me take to work today. She made the dark chocolate "cups" herself, filled them with raspberries, topped them with whipped cream and threw in chocolate chips for a garnish. Hell yeah. She rocks.




4) The college is on break, between quarters. The library is closed, most of my colleagues are out. I will therefore play my CDs loudly on my lame-ass, tiny, tinny, $19 office CD player, and clean the hell out of my office. My office is friggin' out of control. It's like my daughter's room with a desk. I'm serious, it's bad. But with music, I can clean and sing simultaneously. The sunshine will serve as the usual Manic Motivator. It's all good.


5) Male Offspring is competing in the varsity tournament today. He's had a great season, and is turning out to be one hell of a wrestler.

I, of course, am thinking scholarships. You know I am all about the scholarships, baby. You've got a talent? Let it take your behind right on through that college. Hell, yeah. Anyway, he has kicked butt this year on the mat, I'm really proud of him. I've screamed myself hoarse with all the other wrestling parents -- this is intense stuff. Read the "Ready to Rumble" post if you don't know what I'm talking about. Anyway, the tournament is today, he's stoked, the team is stoked, it's going to be fun. I'm leaving early to cheer the kids on.


Not everything is good today, however. As I was crossing the staff parking lot, I realized my feet were cold. I looked down to realize I didn't have my boots on.

I forgot my damn shoes.

I'd been wearing these in the house. Birkenstocks. Not even the cool suede ones. The dorky-assed navy blue ones. With purpley socks. I was wearing them so my purpley socks would not end up covered in black and brown Labradog hair. (Okay, so I need to sweep the floors.)

Anyway, I guess my feet felt like they had shoes on, so out the door I went.

I almost went back for my boots, which, by the way are exceedingly cool. Then I figured, fuck it, no one is here anyway. And, if they were here, I live in the Pacific Northwest, where it is normal for people to walk around in Birkies and socks. So even though my feet look like someone's grandma gone wild, it probably just looks normal. So, whatever. Unless you sign my paycheck, I'm not worried about it.

One of my dear friends complains that after she moved here, her gaydar was way the hell off because she kept thinking she saw butch women everywhere (her particular attraction), and they always turned out to be straight girls doing Pacific Northwest. According to her, she can't tell the straight girls from the granola dykes. I found out I had this term wrong one day when I said something about oatmeal dykes, and she about spit her drink out. Whatever. "And where are all the stylish Butches out here?!" she bitches. "On the East Coast, people knew how to dress, where the fuck is the style? Flannel is not a damn style!"
Oh, well, I don't know about all that, all I know is that today I did not have to go back home to get my cool-ass boots, because Birkies and socks is pretty much normal here. That works for me.

I just have to remember to get my boots before I hit Male Offspring's tournament today.

Procrastination, I Know Thee Well.

One word: taxes.

Gatorade A.M. and The Smiling Milkman

Am I the only one wondering what the hell is up with the new Gatorade A.M. commercial?

So last night, I look up to catch a commercial featuring a smiling Black milkman à la 1930, resplendent in his spotless white uniform, cheerfully delivering bottles of new Gatorade A.M. to customers in a manicured subdivision, all to a jolly tune reminiscent of ice-cream-truck-sounding jingles.
(watch it here.)

I quickly unmute the TV, causing Firstborn Daughter to look up, annoyed at the sound of a dreaded commercial.

Me: Are they kidding? What is this?
FBD: Wow ... what the hell?
Me: Is it just me?
FBD: Um ... seriously, what the hell?

The final line of the commercial goes like this:

Gatorade A.M. -- same science, different time.

And how, Spanky!

The milkman is the very talented (not to mention good-looking) NBA star Kevin Garnett. I don't much follow basketball, being a football kind of gal, but evidently Kevin is the shit on the court.

Gatorade A.M is a new line created for the perky morning athlete. It comes in morning-friendly flavors, like Strawberry-Orange or Mango, that supposedly won't make you upchuck its sugary sweetness while still bleary eyed and half-asleep.

Coffee is a normal morning drink. Orange sugar-water is not.

Anyway, The milkman's customers are other sports stars -- three female soccer players (one of whom looks to be Mia Hamm), and Colts quarterback Peyton Manning -- all White, all rushing out to their morning workouts.  There is one Black neighbor (Kareem Abdul-Jabbar), out watering his lawn, who nods to the milkman.

So ... the only African Americans in this idyllic production are the only two athletes not portrayed as athletes, but rather as an iconic 1930s milkman and the only guy in the neighborhood doing yardwork.  The white athletes are portrayed as the superstars they are.

So the milkman comes up the walk with his syrupy wares as Peyton Manning rushes out the door for his morning workout. The milkman calmly throws him a Gatorade A.M. while saying, "Playbook."

Oops! Peyton's forgotten his playbook! As he rushes back for it, The milkman gives a satisfied nod, knowing he's helped keep the star quarterback on track. WTF?

Now, I'm thinking, Kevin Garnett is an NBA superstar, on the same level as these happy, suburban athletes, right? He is their peer, their equal. Given that, I'm wondering...

• Why is he playing the milkman?
• Why is he serving the other sports stars?
• Why are he and the Black neighbor the only athletes not being portrayed as athletes?
• And while we're at it, what's up with the lone Black neighbor doing yardwork, instead of heading for a workout with the other athletes and some Gatorade A.M.?

Am I the only one thinking this ad is just a little too close to the ads of yore? Something a little like this, maybe?

Why did this commercial immediately put me in mind of those days when success for Kevin would've likely meant a dapper chauffeur's uniform?  Or maybe a snappy bellhop or porter's uniform.

Or a pristine milkman's uniform.

Success for Kevin in those times would not have come packaged in an NBA uniform, trust.

I did not live in those times. My daughter sure didn't. My mom barely has memories of the milkman leaving glass jugs in the secret little door at the side of my grandma's house.

Why then, did that scene immediately bring a "WTF?" reaction? Why did that scene cause my 19-year-old daughter's jaw to drop?

Because ... those images are part of American culture, and we have absorbed them in a million little ways over the course of our lives. Even now.

The earliest posters and advertising purposely depicted Black folks in ways that made White folks feel superior and safe. From the wide-eyed pickaninny, the broadly smiling mammy, and the harmless old uncle, up to the first "positive" images of the "successful" Black man: smartly attired to happily pump your gas, tote your luggage, or wait on your table.

"Different Time" indeed, Gatoraide.

I know lots of people are going to roll their eyes and say this commercial isn't racist. Golly, how some people sure do look for racism around every corner! I'm sure folks will say, "Hey, good for Kevin, do that commercial, make some bank, baby."  And of course, the usual, "If it were a white guy in the truck, you wouldn't be bitching -- you're the racist!"  Well, guess what, it wasn't a white guy in the truck. And it wasn't a non-athlete serving a diverse group of athletes. So, whatever.  

I don't know Kevin's reasons for doing this commercial, and I guess it's his business. I'd be interested in his thoughts about it. I do plan to write to Gatorade. I am really bothered by seeing this in the media in 2007 like it's nothing.

I have a 14-year-old son who's into sports. It's enough of an issue that our media loves to present athletes as the main role models for African American kids. (Yes, great role models, but they're not the only ones, okay?) Now Gatorade has gone one step farther in presenting this fine athlete not as the successful basketball player he IS, but as a friggin' milkman, in a position of servitude to his fellow athletes, complete with all the trappings from those Happy Days Gone By.

This is what my son is supposed to see as the role of a successful Black athlete? Are you fucking kidding me?

You suck, Gatorade.

I just wanted to point this out, say something, because this is not okay. Rant over.

New Books and an Old State of Fear

So today I went to Third Place Books. I could spend all day in Third Place Books. I should not go there at all, considering I'm on a severely restricted budget these days.

Books and coffee are my weaknesses. So what. There are worse vices. (Plus, I get a 20% discount there, which makes it way too easy to justify.)

I actually showed remarkable restraint: I only bought five books today, and two were from the bargain table. I should get a prize. Lately I seem to read mostly at bedtime, which lately seems to come later and later, and I only seem to get a few pages read before my ass is asleep.

That could be because the book I'm currently reading sucks ass. I wanted a quick read, not requiring too much brainpower. A distraction. I see a Michael Crichton book at Costco. I remember that I was on a Michael Crichton kick years ago, like back when I wore combat boots for pay, not fun. The book is about global warming. I pick it up. Oh, this'll be good, I think.

Jeebus.  No.

Was my taste in fiction that bad back then, or did Michael just publish a dud? Had my brain brain been somehow dulled by the rigor of basic training? Had the sleep deprivation, pushups and presence of Drill Sergeant White made any literary escape seem wonderful by comparison?

I don't know, but State of Fear is just bad. I mean the dialogue, the character development, the reasoning, the transparent preachiness, all of it. It seriously sucks ass.

I think I won't even finish it (cringe); I almost never do that. I get some sort of weird guilt about not finishing a book. Even with donating the book so I know someone else will read it, it still just feels wrong somehow to leave a book unfinished.

Anyway, if you're thinking about getting it, save yourself some money. If, on the other hand, you're sitting there thinking, "Why the hell would I buy a Michael Crichton book, and what the hell was she thinking?" you're $4.99 smarter than my ass was.

Guess I'll go start one of my new books now.

"Barnyard" -- A Progressive Exploration of Gender?

Last night Male Offspring and I watched the movie Barnyard. It is rated PG for "mild peril and rude humor".

It looked cute. I was definitely up for some mild peril and animated downhome antics. There was, however something different about the cast of Barnyard. Specifically the males of the bovine species.

This is Otis.
He is the main character in Barnyard. Yes, I said he.

Am I the only one thinking something jist ain't right in Cowtown? When I first heard Otis speak in the movie, I was confused. She sounded like a man-cow.

Knowing that people in Hell would, in fact, have ice water before a PG movie in America would feature a transsexual or intersex character, I wondered, what's up with the man-udder?

Did the film makers think if they slap an udder on the guy, they can keep kids from finding about penises?

I glanced at my son, who had seen the movie before.

Me: She sounds like a man.

Male Offspring: He is.

Me: I mean a bull. She sounds like a bull.

Male Offspring: He is.

Me: She has an udder.

Male Offspring: Yeah, so does his dad.

Me: His dad has an udder too?

Male Offspring: Yeah.

Me: Why?

Male Offspring: I don't know. It's a movie. They're also walking on two legs and talking .

Me: Yeah, okay, but why would they put an udder on a bull? I mean, I can see if they don't want to draw his undercarriage on there, but an udder is not even a reproductive organ. It's not like they're hiding a penis in there, so kids won't know about it.

If they're worried about the PG rating, why don't they just leave it off? Like the Ken doll? Like any other male cartoon character who doesn't wear pants? Hello, have they not seen Scooby Doo? Yogi Bear?

Male Offspring: I don't know. It's a movie.

Me: But now kids will think bulls have udders. It will backfire. A kid will see a real bull, and say, "Mommy! What's wrong with that cow's milk-maker!?"

Male Offspring: I don't know. The kid will probably notice the cow isn't walking on two legs, either.

Me: So how do they tell the girl cows?

Male Offspring: They have a bow in their hair.

And they did. The girl cows had bows on their heads.  Pink ones. The bows and the smaller, more feminine, humanized body shape distinguished the girl cows from the boy cows.

Which, evidently are not to be confused with "bulls".

No, really. According to the cast list, Otis is a "Boy Cow". Either these artists are seriously repressed, or they need to start from scratch with the birds & bees.

If they're going to do this whole udder-on-a-bull thing, why not actually do something with it, instead of just pretending not to notice this pink and perky plastic-looking man-udder.

I mean, if Otis isn't a bull, then what is he? Well, let's see.

1.) He has an udder.

2.) He is a "boy cow".

Logically, this means Otis is intersex or transsexual.

No, I'm serious now --- why not do something positive to educate kids? Some possibilities:

• Barnyard: Exploring the Third Gender
• Otis the Intersex Bovine
• I'm OK, You're OK, I'm XXY
• Udderly Transcending Gender Roles

Yes, as a matter of fact, I do know it's asking too much to actually think Nickelodeon and Paramount would tackle things like gender roles or intersex and transsexual people. I mean, we're so afraid in this country to discuss sexuality and gender in healthy ways with kids as it is, let alone delving into the "radical" aspects of it.

There's no way anything like that would make it past the Focus on the Family crowd anyway. (Even though we apparently have no problem with injecting extreme violence into films and TV to the point where kids are desensitized to it.)

I just don't get what the artists were going for. Were they really confused? Repressed? Milk addicts? I know that kids don't get to see much of nature these days, but come on!

Or ...

Maybe, just maybe ... the writer or producer or someone IS actually intersex or transgender, and it's hir way of Sticking It to the Man!

Now that would be some funny shit.

Ku Klux Klowns

OK, so I just watched a two-hour documentary about the Ku Klux Klan on the National Geographic Channel. Whew. These are some crazy-ass bastards in sheets and fucked up hats.

Klan Tale
My personal introduction to the modern-day Klan was in Georgia. The ex and I were stationed in Atlanta back in the military daze, and unknowingly got stuck in a six-month lease in the redneck oart of town. Not long after moving, I stopped for a red light at a busy intersection of Tara Blvd. and was dumbfounded to see four Klansmen in full regalia -- hats, honor badges, the works -- handing out their newsletter or some shit.

Being young, naive, and a "Yankee", I remember thinking,
(1) Is this shit LEGAL?!
(2) Holy shit, we can not live here, and
(3) Those are some seriously fucked up hats.

One of them leaned across the hood of the car next to me in order to offer me his newsletter. Being young, naive, and a "Yankee", I indignantly yelled, "I don't want to read that ignorant, racist bullshit!" and continued to get my rage on, with something along the lines of "And get your filthy bedsheets the hell off her car ..." when it dawned on me that the Black woman on whose car this asshat was leaning was staring straight ahead, like she did not even see him reaching over her car. Like she did not even notice this exchange going on over her hood.

That slow-motion moment was a moment that helped me grow the fuck up. Fast.

I shut up. The Knight in White Satin spewed threats and venom my way, and as the light changed, the woman next to me glanced at me, like Happy now? Stupid child. As the Grand AssKlown shook his fist in my rear view mirror, I thought, shit, that was dumb. I lived a couple of blocks away. If he and his buds spied the true nature of my race-traitoring ... definitely not good. Well, there were racial incidents during our stay in Dixie, but the men in white sheets never did come a-knockin'.

Let's move on. Here are some interesting factoids that will never show up in your Trivial Pursuit game.

Klan Trivia

• The Klan was founded in 1866 in Tennessee as a social club, "much like a college fraternity", not as the horrific, violent group of inbreds it became. It was seen as a positive institution, stressing the defense of white women and limiting Black voter participation -- necessary in those confusing post-Civil War days, when white folks lived in fear of being overrun by savages and having to lift a finger a for themselves.


• The name comes from the Greek kyklos, meaning "circle". They tacked "Klan" on the end, just because it sounded cool and showcased their alliteration and spelling skillz.


• The Klan has a special vokkkabulary; further evidence of the aforementioned alliteration and spelling skillz.
  
  

  Klonvocations: secret meetings or gatherings
  Klavern: local KKK unit (your friendly neighborhood chapter)Klecktoken: membership fees
  Kleagle: recruiter
  Kludd: chaplain (Man of the Fiery Cross)Kloran: ritual book (So ... I guess Obama is to Osama what Kloran is to Koran? Come on, can't have it both ways, guys.)



• Klan US Presidents: Calvin Coolidge, Warren G. Harding, Harry S Truman, William McKinley, and Woodrow Wilson.


• President Coolidge evidently allowed the occasional cross lighting on the Capitol steps and watched the giant Klan parades of 1925 and -26.
  Whoo-eee!  Gives a whole'nuther meaning to term White House, y'all!


• In 1915, the obscenely racist and wildly popular film Birth of a Nation was released, depicting the Klan as the last bastion of  'Murkan integrity, defending the honor of virtuous white women against the advances of the animalistic, defiant Black man. President Woodrow Wilson, after a private screening in the White House, gushed,
  
  

  It's like writing history with lightning. And my only regret is that it is all terribly true. (WTF?)

  This piece of racist propaganda was evidently The Shit in its time, as far as pure technicalities of cinematography go. It introduced all manner of kick-ass advances in film making, so much so that it was actually voted into the National Film Registry in 1993 (!), and voted one of the Top 100 American Films in 1998.
  
  Yes, I said 19fucking98!
  Of course, both of these honors stirred up a buttload of controversy, but this was some film-making genius shit in its day. It was the first true "blockbuster", and was the most profitable film for 20 years, until Disney's Snow White and the Seven Dwarves came out in 1937. Of course, Klan membership surged after its release. Amazingly, this three-hour pack of lies is still used for Klan recruitment today. Unfuckingbelievable.
  Read about this epic masterpiece here.


• In 1925, 40,000 Klansmen held their own march on Washington, displaying their national power and ability to mass-produce dunce caps out of old sheets.


• And for the ladies, the Women's Ku Klux Klan (WKKK) had an estimated membership of 500,000 white, Protestant women. These feisty gals fought for equal gender rights while supporting the caste system imposed on their Black sisters and those scary Black mens! Oddly enough, some present-day WhiteIsRight wingnuts blame the rise of today's uppity femi-nazis on these early Klan womenfolk.


• The Klan had four million members by 1925, but suffered mass defections due largely to corruption and immorality within its leadership. Members felt this cast them in a bad light. Membership fell as low as 100,000 by The Depression.


• The IRS put a $650,000 lien on the Klan for unpaid back taxes in 1944.


• In 1946, the Klan was restructured to individually governed units with no national affiliation, thus avoiding those pesky back taxes owed by the national group.


• A more militant version of the Klan rose again in response to Brown v. the Board of Education and the Civil Rights movement in general: little Black boys must not be in classrooms, buses, or swimming pools with little white girls, y'all.


• This resurgence and renewed fervor eventually led to a recentralized organizational structure by the '60s, the United Klans of America (UKA).


• In 1997, Henry Hays, an Exalted Cyclops in the KKK, was executed for the 1981 random lynching of teenager Michael Donald. (Another kkkolleague was given 99 years for providing the rope, another got life.)
  ---Michael's mother, Beulah May Donald, was awarded a $7-million wrongful-death verdict, financially destroying the United Klans of America. Hell, yeah. They did not have $7 mil, but deeded her all their assets, including their headquarters, which she sold for $52,000 and bought a house. She died a year and a half later.
  ---In 2006, the street where Michael was beaten, hung, and his throat slashed, was renamed Michael Donald Avenue in Michael's honor.

Of course, the Klan managed to survive that too. It's alive and well in various incarnations and sick spin-off groups all across this Great Land.
They keep breeding hate and each generation passes the torch to the next.

These pictures are sad.

OK, I'm tired of Klan-talk. My son wants to watch Barnyard, a film about friendly farm animals, rated PG for "mild peril and crude humor". Sounds good.

Loser.

I did not win the Lottery.

Goddamn It.

Screw You, Cold Season

Well, at least I don't have Bird Flu. My throat, however, does feel oddly like rabid seagulls have pecked and torn at it in a feeding frenzy.

I'm home for the day. I slept like a rock 'til noon. (what a dumb saying) I will probably take a stab at being productive by posting all my half-heartedly begun rough drafts on my many passing thoughts. Nothing that requires any real thought, though.

I am also watching a 2-hour documentary about the history of the Ku Klux Klan, so I'm feeling sicker by the minute.

Are You Ready to RUUMMMBBLLE?

So, the Male Offspring got a busted lip at his last match. The boy kept wrestling, too! They disinfected the the mat, and WrestlerBoy had to go stand over the "blood bucket", which is considered amazingly cool in the wrestling world. The boy got back in and wrestled two more rounds. He did not win, because the referee did not know a pin from his ass.

No, seriously, he didn't.

I know, I know what you're thinking. I thought it too: I was turning into one of those sports parents. So, before I lost my mind and pulled a Flying Insane Wrestling Dad move on the ref, I remembered that I don't actually know that much about the finer points of wrestling. Looked like a pin to me, but what do I know? The ref is the expert, right? Actually, no. My suspicion about the ref and his lack of familiarity with said ass was confirmed by the coaching staff and two wrestling parents who are Freakishly Knowledgeable About Wrestling.

Apparently, it was not the only bad call, judging by the barely suppressed outrage of the coaches and those parents freakishly in the know. Fortunately, this was a middle school match, and good sportsmanship prevailed. One coach did have a burning question for Bumbling Ref, after WrestlerBoy's match:

Coach: No disrespect intended Sir, but how long have you been at this?
Bumbling Ref: Actually, this is my first match ... please bear with me.

WTF?

What's that? You say it's only middle school? Please. Obviously you have never witnessed two young athletes battling for the title of King (or Queen) of the Mat. It's brutal. I thought football was bad. They may plow into each other on the football field, break a bone or two, but this is a whole'nuther level of brutal.

This is hand-to-hand combat, people, this is some serious shit. No shoulder pads or helmets on the mat, just your shiny spandex singlet between you and your grunting opponent.

And I'll tell you something else, these young athletes have already stepped up to the mat just by putting that singlet on.

Think about it, these are adolescents fresh in the throes of puberty. They're either smack in the middle of a growth spurt, trying to figure out their new body and how to hold the damn razor, or they haven't hit the growth spurt yet, and are feeling self-conscious around the guys who already have leg hair, an Adam's apple, and a six-pack. And you want to wrap all that up in some spandex and send them to grapple around with -- omg -- another guy? In front of an audience?

Please. These are some tough motherfuckers before they even hit the mat. You put that singlet on and grab another guy's ass while your face is buried in his sweaty armpit. Now try it at age 14 and do it in front of a screaming crowd.

And that does not even address the possibility of wrestling a girl.

Yes, I am all for girls kicking ass on the sports field. Or mat. Three years ago, Teen Demon was the first girl to play on the middle school's football team. She was on the line, people, not kicking field goals. The next year, two more girls followed her. Way to break barriers, baby. Now she cheers for her high school wrestling team and kicks ass on the track team. It gives guys pause to know she can likely kick their ass. While in her cheerleader skirt. So yes, Title IX all the way.

That said, coed wrestling brings different issues. Again: 14, puberty, shiny spandex, grappling around together on the ground in front of an audience. Try these scenarios on for size at that age:

• You get beat by a girl.


• You beat a girl.


• You wonder where it's okay to grab.


• You have a physical reaction to being wrapped around a real live chick. In front of your parents. In a spandex suit.


• The reality of straddling a girl and physically forcing her into submission, when she's desperately fighting to get away freaks you out and just feels wrong.


• The idea of letting her up just because you can't handle her girlness seems disrespectful to her as an athlete.

You see what I'm saying? These are some tough young men and women. We don't have any girls on the middle school team, but there is a young woman at the high school who absolutely rocks. She went to State this year. Hell, yeah!

Anyway, Male Offspring's lip is still looking mighty rough, but he didn't need stitches. He's still drooling a bit. There was much grumbling about Bumbling Ref, but the coaches coached, did the post-meet locker room talk, modeled good sportsmanship. The guys know how they wrestled.

As for the parents, I did hear tell of a covert take-down plot, but that was just a baseless rumor.