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.

Sixteen Cakes. I Mean Candles.

Today Male Offspring turned 16. He was born on Thanksgiving Day. He was overdue, and a big baby, so I'd been wanting him to just get on with it already or start paying rent. We'd been invited to Thanksgiving dinner at a friend's house. For the first time in my adult life, I didn't have to cook! Or do dishes! I was bursting at the seams, had a gait like a defective Weeble, but I was about to be pampered! The night of the 25th, I told the future Male Offspring to hold off until Friday. The whole feast and no-dishes thing really had me going.

Later that night, I felt the first contraction. I spent Thanksgiving day in a hospital bed. At least the ex and the girls smuggled in some food, but I wasn't much into it at that point, after five hours of back labor from my just-shy-of-9-pounds bundle of joy.

So that's how Male Offspring made his grand entry on Thanksgiving Day. And I've been (mostly) very, very thankful for him ever since. Love that kid.

Sixteen years old. It was weird when the girls hit that number -- The Bohemian because she was the first, and Teen Demon because she was the first to drive. But it's weirder when your "baby" hits 16. I don't have kids anymore, I have young people. Next year, I won't have a single Child Tax Credit left. It's an odd feeling.

Teen Demon made him a chocolate cake with a big "16" spelled out in chocolate sprinkles. That was in addition to the multiple cakes, cookies, and brownies that accompanied him home from school. There was a donut cake, a miniature round cake, a giant cake with some kind of food-color-swirled glaze, a heart-shaped cake, and the aforementioned cookies and brownies. "Hey, where'd this cornucopia of cakes come from?" I inquire. I'm informed that they were kindly provided by his "awesome friends". Namely Sophie, Kristen, Hannah, Lindsay, Trinity, Sylvia, Hailey, and Kiahna.  

His cynical aunt queried, "Ask him did any boys make him a cake."

See, this is what Hungarian schools do for a kid. Seriously. In Hungarian school, students moved together as a class from 1st through 8th grade. Like a cohort. For the first four years, Male Offspring and his classmates were even in the same room, with the same teacher. In 5th grade, you get different teachers for each subject, but you still move as a group to each subject. Classmates are seen more as cousins than as potential love interests. Crushing on a classmate? That's one step away from incest. Eeew. By the time 7th and 8th grade roll around, students look to the other classes for their crushes and to their own class for support, friendship, and bickering.

There was none of this "Girls have cooties!" or "Boys! Eeeeew!" business. Male Offspring used to go to sleepovers at his little friend Viktor's house, where half the attendees were girls. No big deal. Girls and boys changed for gym class together right there in the classroom. Even in 8th grade, the Bohemian and her classmates would change into their dress clothes for choir performances all together. Zsuzsi has pink panties? Who cares, she's like your sister, dude. The kids watched out for each other. It really was similar to familial relationships.

Fast forward to 2003, when a very un-American Male Offspring hits US school for the first time in his life. Being a naturally social and adaptable kid, he makes friends easily. Since he was unaware that girls have cooties, he made friends with girls too. The other boys started to notice. In 6th grade, he'd hear from guys he thought were his friends, smirking, "Dude, are you gay or something?" He kept being nice to the girls. They thought him adorable.

Fast forward to 2005. Middle school. The guys, exchanging their smirks for scowls, no longer threw around the G-word. The girls thought him really adorable. Once, I was sitting in the stands for a wrestling match, and heard a gaggle of girls behind me.

Oh.My.God. He.Is.So.Cute.

Yeah, but he's super sweet! It's so funny he's like, a killer wrestler!

Ohmygod, I KNOW!

Is he coming out yet?

Okay, seriously? We have to yell, like, really loud, so he'll see us.

Ohmygod, I know! It's going to be so funny!

He'll be so surprised by our sign!

Ohmygod, I KNOW!

How cute, I think. Young crushes. Poor guy won't know what hit him. Back to the match. Male Offspring's turn, he's out on the mat. Suddenly, the gaggle of girls behind explodes into a cacophony of girlness.

WE LOVE YOU MALE OFFSPRING!!!

Oh. Oh! Is there another Male Offspring on the team? There is not. I turn around to see them furiously waving their glittery sign at my son. Then they're looking me, wondering why this white lady is staring at them. "I'm his mom," I tell them. They blanched. (no one ever suspects I'm his mom. I get to hear all kinds of interesting tidbits that way.)

Fast forward to the present day. He still has tons of girl friends (as evidenced by this year's cake-fest), and has had three serious girlfriends since 8th grade. Well, as serious as it is at that age. He's kept his head about him, for the most part, and continues just to be a kid who's very sweet to young women. Which they find adorable, lord help me.

That's what Hungarian schools will do for a kid. Being handsome, sweet, smart, and living in a household of women doesn't hurt either. Lord help me.


So the boy fell hard via sugar crash last night. He said it felt like everything just slowed down. Like the Matrix but without the badassedness. You don't feed an athlete's body that many cakes with no repercussions.

Happy Birthday, Son. Still thankful for you.

Generation Text

I've probably mentioned Teen Demon's documented addiction to text messaging. When I say addiction, I mean in the literal sense. Last month the girl had 10,000 messages to her credit. Even the US Texting Champion only runs about 8,000 per month. On the rare occasions her phone malfunctions or runs out of juice, she displays classic signs of withdrawal: anxiety, shaking hands, irritability, inability to focus, clammy skin, the whole bit.

It was the facial tics and repetitive hand motions that made me consider an intervention.

She sleeps with the thing under her pillow, for 24/7 access. I'm pretty sure she and her friends will become the next Borg Collective, phones melded to skulls, unable to make a move without the input of the Collective. I once asked her if nighttime texts couldn't wait until morning. After all, if it's an emergency, they'll actually CALL you, right? Anything else probably doesn't warrant waking up at 3:37am. Her eyes about popped out of her head. "Yeah, right!!" she scoffed, clutching her phone possessively. "I wouldn't be able to sleep!"

But seriously, is it really crucial to see, "OMG im so bored. r u sleeping?" before you wake up in the morning? It's like when she was four and thought she'd miss something after going to bed.

Teen Demon is always on the go. Even before she left for college, a goodly portion of our relationship was predicated on texting. Now that she's at college, she's stepped it up to the next level. Things that would be discussed vis a vis in most mother-daughter relationships are presented to me on a handheld LCD screen. That tinny alert from the depths of my purse could be anything.

Like these:

So im thinking of getting a tattoo.

So i don't actually need to pass math to graduate.

Nose piercings r so cute.

Going to a hookah bar.

I'm getting my belly button pierced.

L8r, im in court now.

Court sucks!

College has so many parties!

If you just went by her text history, you'd wonder just what kind of wild, delinquent hooligan I've raised, here. Anyway, I was thinking recently I should be compiling these nuggets of history. Like a baby book, only more stressful. Those are among the more traumatic memorable communications, but hundreds more are forever lost from the memory stores of my brain.

Here's today's entry from the compendium of treasured communications with a loving daughter:

I'm thinking about getting a motorcycle license. It's only $125.

Like I don't have enough to worry about with two of the little devils off to college. My reply? "Tuition is a better investment. Especially since you live in the rain capital of the universe."

Welcome to text hell. I'll keep u posted, LOL. L8r!

Go In Peace, Cadbury.

Today was a sad day. Our rabbit, Cadbury, died today. He was eight years old. The Bohemian got him for her 13th birthday. (I was thinking her 12th, putting him at nine years old, but she says 13th, and her memory on these things is better than mine.) What's really sad is that she's due to come home next week. Teen Demon said it's probably better that the Bohemian didn't see him sick. I guess that's true. He was a funny rabbit with a distinct personality.

He was acting sick yesterday. He wouldn't eat - completely unlike him - and wasn't hopping around. He drank a little chamomile tea last night, and today I fed him some with a syringe, but he really just didn't want anything.

This morning I wrapped him in a towel and took him outside. I just had a bad feeling. We sat in the sun for a while, and I held him his favorite way - cradled like a baby. He was just so still. I think he liked smelling the fresh air and being in the sun though.

When I picked Male Offspring up from school, he went straight to see how Cadbury was. That's when we found he had died. He just looked like he was sleeping. It was almost like he waited until after he'd been outside and cuddled one more time.

It's times like this when it's really nice to have a son. He called his big sister. He got the shovel, chose a place in the yard under the trees and near where the rhododendrons, bleeding hearts, and bluebells bloom in spring.

We buried Cadbury with his hay, his toy rabbit that looked just like him, some of his food, and some lavender sprinkled over him. The son arranged big rocks over the top in a circle. We each said things we liked and remembered about Cadbury, and said goodbye.

The Bohemian with Cadbury at about two years old.

Cadbury shaking open his treat box, as a much-younger Male Offspring looks on.

Scratching an itch

Santa Rabbit with Teen Demon

Bad (but clever) Rabbit!


Moving day, heading back to the States. The kids had marked items (Go or Stay) for the movers. Teen Demon wanted to make sure the movers knew that the rabbit was definitely in the "Go" pile.

Cadbury jumped up on the back of the couch. The Bohemian, age 15 or 16.

Rest in peace, Cadbury. You were good, bold, funny, and loyal. We'll miss you.

Vivisection

Do you all remember The Rat? If not, click and go read -- absolutely essential backstory for today's tale of intrigue.

What? You think I don't see you trying to skip ahead? Please, I can hear the heavy breathing from here. You probably read Cliff Notes as a kid. To quote the Brady Bunch dad, You're only cheating yourself Bobby; and cheaters never prosper. In fact, sometimes they end up divorced with an ex-wife who suddenly develops a penchant for voodoo dolls. That's right, Bobby. Think about it.

I'll wait.


Okay, so the other day I come home from work, open up the fridge to grab a beer, and come face to face with ... The Rat. Like you didn't see that one coming.

Yeah, okay, you got me. Ha, ha, very funny, son. But wait ... what's that red ... holy scalpels, Batman! The Rat had been stitched up like a grisly FrankenRodent! It's true. The Rat was sporting an I-incision with bright red stitching, complete with decorative beadwork. Apparently, my eldest and my youngest spent the afternoon in a study session reviewing Male Offspring's freshman biology lab notes.

Here are the gory details. My kids are nothing if not creative. And twisted.

Warning: This presentation is intended for mature audiences and contains disturbing elements of extreme violence, blood and gore. Animals were definitely harmed for this presentation. Procedures not carried out by licensed medical personnel.

Puke & Rally!

The son is projectile vomiting.


He woke up seemingly fine this morning, and was skillfully working my nerves about getting his driver's permit (St. Christopher, I'm ready to believe in you.), when I suggested we go pick up cinnamon rolls and coffee cream. Then things took a turn for the worse.

Male Offspring: If I had my permit, I could drive, and you could go in the store.

Me: If you had your permit, you'd be a sophomore. Oh ... you're a freshman. Sorry. Let's go.

MO: I seriously don't want to go to the store.

Me: Cinnamon rolls? Please. Lets go.

MO: [whining] My stomach feels weird.

Me: You look pretty normal to me. No fever, no swelling. Seriously, you're not driving, son.

MO: Landon's driving.

Me: Sophomore.

MO: [walking to the bathroom] Yeah, but he had his permit when he was a ...................BRRRAAAAUUUGGGHHH...........

I made him ginger & chamomile tea to settle his stomach. "Sip it slowly," I said, for the ten-thousandth time since drawing that first placebo of a Lamaze breath two decades ago. "I know," he replied, chugging it. Three minutes later the tea was hurled into the toilet with a force that made me suspect the boy was on performance-enhancing steroids.

He's in the bathtub now, mere inches from the toilet. Four episodes of hurling. Dry hurling. The boy can't even keep water down. The offspring and the dogs all have one thing in common: emergency medical situations or extreme illnesses only occur on weekends or holidays. Anything after 5pm on Friday is fair game. In this instance though, I'm not really worried. Not yet, anyway.

Male Offspring is affectionately known as the 24-hour kid when it comes to getting sick. He'll pop up with some serious projectile vomiting, or bust out with a 103.5* fever until you can practically see green ickiness wafting from his pores. During these times, the boy will be seriously sick. Until the next morning, when he wakes up feeling fairly close to fine. It's like he takes a normal 5-day sickness and condenses it into this fevered, mondo-puke-o-rama deal.

So I'm hoping he'll feel better by tomorrow. If not, it's off to the urgent care weekend clinic. Whee. As for me, I'm still coughing like a smoker in LA, even though I (finally) am feeling better. The cough just will not leave. I'm thinking I need to cast it out like the devil, with some sort of cough exorcism ritual. I'm finally starting to get caught up at work though, and am actually cleaning the house this weekend. Brain and body have just been operating in such a fog this year; I feel like one of those gross hairy moths emerging from a cocoon of illish yukkery. I'm so ready for spring, both within and and without.

In better news, this is the weekend when I can finally take Batman out for a walk. Tomorrow is Day 28 of his captivity. I haven't been able to let him run since he hurt his leg, four excruciatingly long weeks ago. You try keeping 70 pounds of crazy locked up for 4 weeks. 150 pounds, if you count Mason. Honestly though, I have to say he's been a very good dog considering he's been imprisoned for the past month.

Anyway, I've been trying to get around to everyone's cyberspaces and sling some comments around, but the online stuff has been flagging along with everything else. Such is life. Spring is coming though, and hopefully a big ol' batch of healthy for everyone along with it.
--------------------------
UPDATE:
As hoped, the son is no longer feverish, no longer hurling. The 24-hour kid strikes again. He is asking for a taco and burrito dinner tonight. Always a good sign.

Pay No Mind to That Earlier Unpleasantness.

Why hello, darlings. Feeling much better now, thank you. It's a wonder what that extra three hours of sleep can do for a body! Of course, three hours of exercise and housecleaning would've done it more good, but then I'd still be bitchy. It's a trade off.

I wrote about wrestling here last season, the son's first season ever, how brave these kids are to grapple around in shiny, spandex suits in public while in the throes of puberty, the intricacies of wrestling a female opponent, and how much I respect these young people. It ain't for sissies, and I don't mean just physically either. There's something about the way team connects and looks out for each other, too.

Looking for the link, I realized I missed my first blogiversary, or whatever you call it, which was this insightful, erudite post:

So, this is my fancy blog. Testing, 1 2 3...

Not even kidding. Lame.

Anyway, this is the son's first year of high school wrestling. There are two other guys in his weight class. They challenge each other for the right to wrestle in the one varsity slot for each weight class. There's an older guy who's pretty good, and if the son does manage to get past him, guess who he ultimately has to challenge for that varsity slot?

That would be the team captain. He's a senior.

The son, no fool, said, "Well, I'll just challenge for the experience then," Smart kid. I would not want to be a freshman on varsity anyway. You'd get your ass kicked all the damn time.

Last week, Mr. Team Captain couldn't wrestle for some reason. I get this phone call:

Annoying Ring! Annoying Ring!

Me: Hello?

Male Offspring: Um, Anyu? I have some news that's going to sound good, but ... it's really not.

Me: [bracing myself] Okay, buddy, what's up?

MO: So, apparently, I'm wrestling varsity tonight. Michael can't wrestle.

Me: That's great! Good for you, buddy!

MO: Um, not really. All the older guys know my opponent. He's like, a beast or something!

Me: Well, okay, this is high school, you expect that, right? Besides, wasn't your nickname The Beast last year?

MO: That was middle school. This guy is seriously a beast. I think he has a beard. All the guys look sorry for me. They told me my goal is just to try not to get pinned. What the heck does that mean?

Me: Oh.

MO: This guy went to State last year! He's like a senior.

Me: Oh!

MO: .........

Me: Well ... okay then, honey! Try not to get pinned, then! See you tonight! Good luck!

Poor kid. Okay, in wrestling, your team scores higher if you win by pinning your opponent instead of just getting more points than your opponent. That's why the son's teammates were asking him not to get pinned -- they're basically telling him, he's going to beat you, but don't give up that pin. Even though you're wrestling a beast in spandex. With a beard.

The son was right. This guy WAS a beast. I mean, like a 152-pound Tasmanian devil. But the son held on for his six minutes. He was tired as hell by the end, staggering a bit, but the guy could not pin him. I told the son that he may have just experienced his most respectable loss ever. His team mates cheered pretty loud for him. Hell, yeah.

The son, getting ready to throw Beast Boy
(That's Teen Demon cheering on the left, the one w/ the hair ribbon)

And he throws him!
(This pretty much set Beast Boy off. He went into Tasmanian Devil mode after that.)

But today is a new day. The son sent me a text message that he won his first match of the day -- got a pin in 47 seconds! Hell. yeah. I'm sure he's feeling pretty beastly about that.

Fright Night

A few Halloweens ago, the Male Offspring and I took a little trip to Value Village, that Holy Grail of Halloween, on a quest for a cheap costume forged from the castaway clothing of others. With an old choir robe, a witch's hat, some reflective tape and some scissors, Male Offspring was magically transformed into a wizard.

Aww. Isn't he cute? He looks so little-boy here; it's amazing what a difference a couple of growth spurts can make.

Mystical symbols of wizardry, or reflective armament against idiotic drivers? Both! It's all about multifunctionality when it comes to cheap Halloween costumes.

These were the pumpkins from that year: Teen Demon's frog, my cat, Male Offspring's tree spirit, and the Bohemian's witchy symbology.

This was Teen Demon's costume. Even cheaper. She's a thrifty kid. The Bohemian put on a Nordic looking hat, a big knitted poncho, a scarf, and some funky boots and went as some type of ... I don't know, someone who lives in a cold place.

-------------------

So anyway, all of that is backstory for today's subject, which stems from that fateful trip to Value Village with the Male Offspring. We were commending ourselves for keeping down the cost of costumery, when Male Offspring stumbled across the perfect Halloween item.

It was a rat. A giant, rubber devil-rat, long yellow fangs bared in a silent shriek of rage, revealing the angry scarlet portal to his despicable rat gullet. A monster rat. The kind of rat that would come flying across the room at you in a Stephen King novel, the kind of lurid beast that would just as soon rip your throat out as skitter through city sewers with his normal-rat brethren.

This was the Beelzebub of the rodent world.

The son and I cooked up a plan. The rat would come home with us, concealed until Halloween night, when he would make his appearance. He would appear on the back of the toilet, which, in that house, was tucked back in a recessed corner of the bathroom. Nature eventually calls. The girls were guaranteed to find him at some point.

Except they didn't, because we forgot to bring the archfiend out from his lair under my bed, by the time the fated night rolled around.

We were so disappointed! I couldn't believe we forgot. No matter; we could wait. The hell-rodent would remain our little secret for the next year.

Mostly he gathered dust, but not too much - there was a dust-ruffle around his lair, after all. Every once in a while though, Male Offspring or I would stealthily take him out. I'd hide him in the son's bed, or he'd put him in my bathroom sink and turn my dimmer way down. It scared the bejeezuz out of us every time. And each time the victim would silently plot revenge, biding time until the rat's next appearance.

We never have remembered to put him out on Halloween for the girls. He's become our own private fright night. Sometimes half a year goes by with no sign of the rat, then one night, I'll pull back my covers, unsuspecting, to discover its hideous. foul visage glaring up at me from my bed. Every time it makes me jump and scream like a girl. And curse. Last night I let loose a string of vilification scaring even the dogs, upon finding this in my bed:












wait for it....

BOO!

The son is so going to pay.

Skank It Up, Ladies!

So Teen Demon calls the other day from Value Village. For those shoppers not acquainted with funky chic, Value Village is a huge thrift store. Halloween is the one time of year when they also get new items in - costumes, tights, masks, hair paint, crowns, capes, sabers, you name it. They are Halloween Central for the bargain shopper.

Teen Demon went to procure a suitable Halloween costume to fest things up at her place of employment. She slings fish part time at a local fast food seafood joint.

Anyway, my phone rings:

Annoying T-Mobile jingle!

Me: Hello?

Teen Demon: So, I'm here at Value Village, and I can't find a costume.

Me: How can you possibly not find a costume at Value Village? They're the holy grail of costume outlets.

Teen Demon: Yeah, if you're a guy. The costumes for girls are either slutty or Goth. Or both. Yeah. It's like, I can be a French Maid, a nurse, or witch that basically looks like a prostitute. They're really skanky.

Me: Oh, that.

Teen Demon: They should just go ahead and make a costume called "Skank Ho".

Me: 'Tis the season to be skanky.

Teen Demon: Pretty much. The guys get all the cool costumes, and they can even stay warm in theirs. They have cool masks and hello, the costumes actually cover their arms and legs. This is stupid.

Me: Maybe get a guy costume?

Teen Demon: Yeah right, like I want to be Frankenstein. I just want a normal cute costume that's not a slutty. Maybe I'll just get a little kid's pumpkin or Raggedy Ann costume.

Photo from Post Secret, discovered by Teen Demon

She ended up getting a pirate costume, which was very cute. Still a bit alarming for her mother, but yes, I'm fully aware that's my issue, due to the fact that she's flippin' gorgeous and a burlap sack would still look too good on her in her mother's opinion. Yeah, whatever, shut up -- you try having a daughter who looks like Teen Demon and see how long you hold onto that progressive and open-minded attitude. Those nasty boys circle around like jackals eyeing a kill. What's good for the goose is definitely not good for the gosling here, people. Not until she's 30.

Her costume was good though, very piratey. Her pseudo-Aunt, (previously referred to here as either My Bitch or that cynical Sicilian lurker) lent her some above-the-knee lace up leather boots that went perfectly with it - she looked great.

Of course, those boots have seen more stories than you'll ever find out about on this blog. I am not even joking. But that's another story. (Start a blog, you lurker.)

So it got me thinking about Halloween costumes and the whole gender thing. That's right, kids! We're hopping back on board the gender train! Halloween costumes are very different for men and women. It's like the costume makers are saying, "Hey gals, now that inner slutty girl we you secretly want you to be can come out with no repercussions!"

And actually ... there's nothing wrong with that. I'm not here to get all Taliban about sexy costumes. Nothing wrong with feeling hot. I think a lot of women appreciate the occasional excuse to indulge in slutting it up a bit. Yours truly included. What's more fun than Halloween in a mini skirt, knee-high black boots, and a cat tail? Meow.

What's not OK is when it becomes an expectation rather than an option.

It's not so fun when 9 out of 10 "girl costumes" at the costume mega-store involve you displaying your wares, when you're not about displaying them. Especially when the "guy costumes" actually show some creativity and imagination. And keep them warm.

Some of the names, too, just scream MALE FANTASY! Like Fallen Angel just above, with the black Goth wings. And hot boots. The witch up at the top of the page? Candy Corn Witch. Yummy! And this little lady to your right is not a Pirate, oh no, not even a Lady Pirate. No sir, this here's the Captain's Wench, maties. Ruffled, for his pleasure.

Oh, and who do we have here? Why, it's the Heavenly Devil! Madonna-Whore, anyone? *Yawn* Some imagination please, guys.

As a mother of teenaged girls, I must admit that Sexy Scholar down there causes me to morph into a downright prude. And Cowbell is not usually about the prudery. Come on guys, don't you have nieces or daughters? I don't know why the school girl fantasy is such a big one. Grown women too intimidating? The lure of flesh unspoiled by rivals too appealing? Or is your ego loving the fact that - since she doesn't know what she's doing - she'll think you're a sex god? If it's that whole Daddy figure thing, seriously, go get therapy, dude. Yes, 15 is a child.

And I won't even go into how all the models here are young skinny blonde white chicks. Oh, I take that back - Heavenly Devil is a young skinny brunette white chick. My bad. You can bet that my ass is not squeezing into one of those costumes, that's for damn sure. Somehow I doubt that the Candy Corn Witch costume has the same effect in a one-size-fits-all version.



I was talking to the Radical Bohemian about it on the phone, and she brought up an excellent point: guy costumes are about anonymity. Guy costumes mask the wearer, literally.

Guy costumes are also largely about power or fear. Monsters, psychos, superheroes, prisoners, muscle men, biker dudes, pirates, wizards ... characters that allow men to feel powerful or to inspire fear or respect in others. Anonymously.

Women's costumes, by contrast, are not anonymous, they are about revealing us. They are not about power, they are about availability and packaging us up in a way that appeals to typical male fantasies.

Interesting.

Sexy costumes and scary costumes are both fun, in different ways. So why not spread the love?

Costume manufacturers: more imaginitive - and warm - costumes for women that do not revolve around your fantasies, please. And try to not to be too disappointed when I want a scary costume that covers me from head to toe. And more sexy costumes for the mens, please. Can we get just some options and equity when tricking and treating? Is that so much to ask?

Tonka: Built for Boyhood!

I've got toys on my mind. No, not toys for grown-up ladies, you naughty freaks. Toys for kids. Specifically, girl toys and boy toys.

Gender-specific toys.

Our favorite Big Ass Belle recently posted about "girl toys" by PLAYSKOOL. Meaning, of course, pink and flowery toys that revolve around, what else?

Housework!

Lynette's Girl Toys post brought to mind a Tonka commercial I saw recently, advertising their toys which are "built for boyhood". Yep, Tonka is Celebrating 60 Years of Boyhood! It turns out Hasbro is the parent company of both Tonka and PLAYSKOOL.

That's right, PLAYSKOOL, of Rose Petal fame, and Tonka, built for boyhood, wedded together to helpfully model gender-appropriate play. How precious. The commercials for PLAYSKOOL's Rose Petal Cottage include this sugary sweet melody:

I love when my laundry gets so clean,
Taking care of my home is a dream, dream, dream!
In Rose Petal Cottage, my home,
A place of my very own!
So "taking care of my home" is the dream, dream, dream PLAYSKOOL wants for Teen Demon and the Bohemian? Because they're girls? I'm sorry, but washing socks and mopping crusty bits off the floor isn't exactly what I dreamed of for them while watching them sleep in their cribs.

It's sure as hell not what they're dreaming of for themselves. I know this because of the dirty socks and crusty bits on their floors.  No interest.  They could a Rose Petal attitude adjustment, come to think of it ...

At Hasbro.com, we learn that the Rose Petal Cottage

empowers preschool girls to use their imagination inside and around their very own play space, featuring everything they need to role-play alone or with friends.

From baking muffins to washing clothes to caring for their dolls, girls now have a place where they can set their imaginations free.

"Everything" a girl needs to set her imagination free? Is there no one in their marketing department without a penis? See, this is what happens when there's no diversity in hiring, people.  Maybe a toy kitchen is one thing to set imagination free.  And guess what, Tonka, my son loved the hell out of his toy kitchen.


And Tonka. Here's what their current commercial has to say about our future heads of households:

Boys! What can you say? They're just built different.
And now ... they can play their way!
It's built around what he does naturally. It's a shape sorter - or not!
Then, it helps him learn to walk. And chase!
Then [it's] his own sweet ride - from baby to big boy. All in one toy.
Let's face it; boys are built different.
And Tonka's got the blueprint.

Built different?  (Also, differently*, Tonka.  Adverb.)

So ... boys "naturally" exercise their minds and bodies by sorting shapes, running and chasing, while girls need nothing more than a pink playhouse to serve as "an entire world where your little girl can play, discover and explore."

Entire world?

Trouble with that is, the world they want my little girl to discover and explore is comprised of only a laundry room, nursery and kitchen. Probably she'll be expected to clean up after Tonka-boy, since he's shown tracking mud all through the house in his commercial, while mom smiles indulgently.



I find this purposeful gender-based marketing very disturbing. The unspoken gender expectations are ingrained so deeply within our society, it's virtually impossible to avoid them. So when toy companies purposefully SAY things like "boys are built different" and "taking care of my home is a dream, dream, dream", it leaves no doubt in kids' minds as to what's expected of them. What is "normal".

When toy companies purposely perpetuate gender roles, that pisses me off, because they're making my job harder as a parent.

If my little boy believes certain activities are more suited for him, likewise he will develop the belief that other activities and expectations are more suited for the girls and women in his life. Not only will he feel comfortable playing with trucks or light sabers, he'll also feel comfortable expecting the girls in his life not to do those things.

Tonka has told him that trucks are "built for boys". If I do nothing to balance the messages Tonka and PLAYSKOOL are sending him, he may one day feel comfortable with his mother, sisters, or wife in their Rose Petal kitchens, making that sandwich for him while he's out in the living room watching the game.

Um, no.

Male Offspring knows that females are all about watching the game. He would no sooner expect me to hit the kitchen before half-time than he would expect me to sprout wings and fly.



So, what about little Suzy, careening her Tonka truck around the living room? What about the little boy who loves playhouse tea parties and hates mud? How do they feel after seeing these commercials? Especially little Johnny. Society can deal with a tomboy, but a girlieman? Not so much. Chances are, Johnny will soon learn to keep that shit under wraps and play with the damn truck. At least when people are watching.

Both of them are getting a clear message about what it means to be a "normal" girl or boy.



My kids had gender-specific toys, sure.

Teen Demon was a wild hellion in her day. She loved her Little Tykes kitchen, and her pink doll stroller -- pink is still her favorite color -- and the girl bakes like, well, a demon. But, she also rode her Tonka truck like demolition derby time. She personally brought out my appreciation for that whole Tonka Tough thing, before Male Offspring ever came on the scene. She had a toy tool belt that she wore everywhere. With pink hiking boots. She didn't take any guff from little boys.

Yes, Male Offspring loved him some trucks and 'dozers. Tonka would've loved to have his rough-and-tumble boy-behind in their commercials. He was all about the boy toys. They probably would've cut scene, though, when he came clacking onto the set in his sisters' dress up clothes, sporting a pink tutu, white gloves and pearls with a purple straw hat. He adored the pastel pink Little Tykes Cottage. Especially talking on the toy phone, which should've given me some warning as to the boy's future cell phone addiction.

So yeah, my kids loved their girl toys and boy toys. Not like you can really avoid it. Nevertheless, according to Tonka & PLAYSKOOL, my kids were a bit confused as as to proper play for their respective genders.




Well, fear not - no more fretting over ambiguous gender behavior! Tonka, in order to help you navigate the gender divide, has helpfully provided Parenting Advice for Boys.

(Hey, Tonka, I'm pretty sure you meant to give parenting advice to parents of boys, not the little tykes themselves, right? How much do you pay your editor?)
Anyway, if your little darling sports a penis, don't worry, Mom, help is on the way:

Little boys can seem like alien creatures, especially to Moms who were raised as little girls! So to help you speak "boy language," here are some tips from Lawrence Cohen, PhD, Playskool Advisor and author of Playful Parenting.

Heavens! How did I ever manage to raise Male Offspring without learning to speak "boy language"? No worries - Doc Lawrence has tips to help clueless moms decipher their little boys:

(Yes, this shit is actually up at the Tonka site )

9-18 months: During this stage, your son will be learning all about himself, including what it means to be a boy... you can keep the emotional connection going by having your own truck that rolls alongside his (or sometimes gently crashes into his!).

My own truck? Are you sure, Lawrence, because ... I'm a girl. I'm "built different".

2-3 yrs: This is also the stage where "boy humor" begins; this type of humor--filled with jokes about body parts and bodily functions ... seems to be a product of some combination of boy biology and boy social training.

So fart jokes come from "boy biology"? What does that even mean? Is there a gene for fart jokes?

3-5 yrs: Some mothers try to eliminate every expression of aggression from boys’ play, but that doesn’t work--and besides, if we got rid of all aggressive stories, we’d have to exclude stories from Shakespeare, the Bible, and even history books!

The Bible? How'd that get slipped into a toy site?

And get this:

All Ages & Stages: Recognize that your son is absorbing all sorts of information from TV and movies, including many messages about what is expected from boys and men. The media -- and our own expectations -- can give boys the wrong idea that there is only one very narrow definition of masculinity.

No shit, Lawrence! Media like ... Tonka commercials and this website, asshat! How did they not catch that?

I call bullshit, Tonka. This guy should not be giving parenting advice. You should not be paying him.


So ...

---What if ... all types of play were presented as a choice for all kids? Without the frilly pink or tough blue packaging.

---What if nobody thought a thing about Johnny having tea party with his teddy bears, or playing with playhouse dolls?

---What if Suzy could play Pop Warner football or collect model cars instead of Barbies ... without being called a tomboy, without folks assuring her mom she'll "grow out of it"?

---Maybe then, Johnny grows up to be a sous chef in some fancyass restaurant. Or an awesome stay at home dad who knows how to fix a furnace and connect with his kids. Maybe Suzy fixes cars or runs a corporation.

---And maybe, if that were the case, taking care of a home might truly be seen as an option for both genders, not an expectation for one. In which case, it would probably be valued a lot more than it is now. Then role models - and advertising - for kids would be a whole lot different.

Maybe then Suzy feels OK being a cheerleader ...

... and a football player.

And maybe her brother grows up thinking his sister is pretty cool, and not necessarily girlie ...

...because he remembers

carrying that cheerleader's

football pads.

Yes, as a matter of fact, that was a shameless excuse to post cute pics of Teen Demon and Male Offspring. But there is a related point:

Teen Demon recently found out that her school no longer allows male cheerleaders. What? Apparently, there used to be guys on the football/basketball cheer squad. (Teen Demon cheers for wrestling - because the football/b'ball squad is a bunch of Barbie-bitches. According to her.) But the advisor - an adult - decided she didn't want guys on the squad about three years back.

What's sad is Teen Demon actually knows a couple of guys who would like to cheer. And, she said, it would actually make a better cheer squad, on account of the awesome stunts they'd be able to do with guys in the mix.

Male Offspring was in the room during this conversation, and he didn't snicker or make faces. What he said was, "That sucks. If girls can do wrestling and football, it's not fair that guys can't cheer. That's just dumb."

No, son, it's not fair, and it is dumb. I'm glad the kids were bothered by this, rather than thinking "cheerleading's for girls". If it were up to Hasbro, however, that would've been a different conversation.

And that's what's pissing me off about these commercials.

This Old Motherfucking House: Episode II

Episode II: Snakes in a Drain

I was just saying the other day, in the midst of my furnace frenzy, that I'd make a great reality show: some chick living in a tiny, old house she can barely afford and doesn't know how to fix. I was thinking This Old Shithole of a House, but I actually like this better. It's snappy. If anyone can hook me up with a producer, let me know.

Screw that, if any of you can hook me up with a friggin' handyman, let me know. And I do mean hookup in every sense of the word. Including the biblical sense.  But that whole plumber's butt thing is a definite no-go, people. Just so you know.

Anyway, after I wrote about my furnace woes, my drains backed up. Not just the sink, no, we're talking toilet and shower here, baby. When my house gets rebellious, it doesn't screw around.

Did I mention I only have one bathroom?

While in the process of purchasing this "cozy" one bathroom house, I foolishly thought that the scheduling of the shower was the main thing to consider. Yeah. I know. I did, to my credit, also consider those occasions where the toilet might be in high demand. My family, however, is not prone to gastric distress -- go vegetarian, people -- so I dismissed that worry. I figured, work out the shower schedule, we're home free. While my house appreciated wildly, thanks to the booming housing market.

Yeah, I'm a regular friggin' Pollyanna.

For any of you who have not foolishly traipsed down this road before, let me save you the trouble: the main consideration when moving into a one-bathroom home, is not "how will we work out the shower schedule?" No. It's "what the hell will we do when there's a problem with the shower?"  Better yet, (you know where I'm going here) the toilet?

Yeah.

Here are some snippets of family talk at Cowbell's house over the weekend:

Teen Demon: So, is the toilet okay yet?

Me: Ummm...

Teen Demon: Did that clog remover stuff work?

Me: Can't you wait a while longer? It said to wait six hours.

Teen Demon: It said 30 minutes.

Me: That was for the super-max power clog-remover gel. This is some enzyme stuff to degrade all organic material.

Teen Demon: Eew. So, like ... when?

Me: Aren't you working today? What time do you go to work?

Teen Demon went to work in a bit of a rush. I went to Lowe's, again, for more supplies and a trip to their lovely restroom. Male Offspring doesn't have a job, and it wasn't a school day. I don't know why I didn't take him to Lowe's with me.

Male Offspring: So, can I use the bathroom?

Me: Ummm.... to do what?

Male Offspring: Are you kidding me right now?

Me: It's dark. Come on, you're a guy ... can't you just go outside?

Male Offspring: (gawking) Are you kidding me?!?

Then there was the shower. In the process of trying to clear the drains, we attacked both tub and toilet with the plunger. One of the offspring plunged the tub. You know who got stuck with the toilet. I came in later to find rust, black flakes, hair, and something that looked like The Blob in the bathtub.

Well, what were we supposed to do with it? It's not like we can rinse it down the drain!

Kids are always helpless when it comes to crap like that, but remarkably ingenious when coming up with logistical arrangements for going to the dance or to see Superbad for the fifth time.

It's been 96 hours since my last shower, folks. Good thing I'm single. Even after 96 hours, though, it was no relief. Turn the water on, get wet, turn it off. Shampoo with the water off. Rinse, fast. Shampoo again, because my hair was a friggin' oil slick by this time. Rinse, fast. Soap up, condition hair. Rinse, faster.

That would've been bad enough, but to add to the frivolity, it was a frigid 58* in my house this morning, because ... oh yeah, I can't turn my heat on yet. You've heard that saying, colder than a witch's tit? I'm pretty sure I know how cold that is.


Yeah, my shower did not resemble those steamy relaxing commercials where some smiling, skinny chick massages her sudsy tresses with her eyes closed, while virtual flowers float around her. Not even a little bit.

Yes, Virginia, People Do Still Say That Shit.

So here's what happened to my son in history class the other day. First off, preface this with the fact that my son is the only black student in all of his IB* classes -- a fact he noticed the first day of school.

(*IB is the International Baccalaureate program -- a worldwide honors program. The US is pretty new to it. The number of US schools offering it is limited, but growing. I chose this particular district specifically for IB, as it was the closest I could get to the education the kids had been getting in Hungary. Students of color are underrepresented in IB, African American kids in particular.)

Okay, so Male Offspring is taking Non-Western IB History this year. (the non-Western part is something, at least.) Last Thursday, the teacher is giving the lesson about how human life originated in Africa, the migration of the peoples, yada-yada. One young lady raises her hand and says it makes sense that life would've begun there, as it's

warmer there, and stuff can probably grow better than in a cold place.

OK, she's getting her reasoning skills on. She continues with,

Plus, black people have the really broad foreheads and noses. They look like monkeys, so it makes sense that they would've come first, since they're the ones closer to monkeys.

Oh, yes, she did.

And every child in that classroom turned to look at my son.

Because that's what happens when you are the only person of color in the classroom. At that moment, my son was not "Male Offspring", he was "the black kid in class".

My son could not tell me what the teacher said in response. He said he was shocked, everyone was staring at him. He said the teacher looked stunned and didn't really know what to do. She did say something to the girl, but he couldn't tell me what.

He said all he could hear was noise in his ears.


----------------------------------------

Now, I know there are a lot of folks living under the shiny illusion that this shit doesn't happen any more. People invariably respond with, "That's terrible! It's 2007!" Well, it happened in my kid's classroom last Thursday. If you're surprised by that, either your kid is white, or you don't live in this country.

I met with his teacher. Like you all didn't see that coming. A friend who works me in the parent group and who knows Male Offspring came with me.

We thought she was a student. No joke, people. This is her second year of teaching. She graduated from this very high school in 2001. She was like, soooo totally young! I had some assumptions and biases of my own, my first thought (besides "Holy shit, she's not a student?!) being "Oh, this little girl is not going to be able to handle this situation." I had to check myself, however, as we talked.

I had an idea about how to address what happened -- more about that in a minute -- but I wasn't sure how that was going to go. I can imagine if I were a teacher in her position, I might be nervous about meeting the parent. I might feel defensive or embarrassed. So I thought maybe she'd see any suggestions on my part as a judgement, as overstepping into her area.

She didn't.

I tried to get across how that felt for my son, the history behind that remark, the fact that he had no allies in that classroom who understood. Yes, other kids were shocked, thought it was wrong, but no one really understood. And no one spoke up.

I asked how she had initially responded to the young lady in question, and actually I think she did pretty well for being a new teacher caught off guard with such a loaded comment. Better than certain veteran teachers I know, that's for damn sure. Also, I should've said earlier that she did apologize to my son after class, and admitted to him that she hadn't quite known what to do.

I told her that SHE was my son's ally in that classroom, she has to be that for him, because every kid looked to her for direction on how that situation was going to go down. I told her I did not hold her accountable for what comes out of a student's mouth, but I do hold her accountable for addressing it. I fully expect her to have my son's back in that classroom.

I thought Miss Thang would get defensive or make excuses or gush about how she toootally understood. She didn't. Girl may be young, but she's sharp; I'll give her that. She looked me in the eye and said "Okay. That's my position, then." All right. She also said, "Obviously this student has missed some things we've been talking about in class. That says to me it's time to reteach."

It's time to reteach. Go on, girl.

I went into the meeting with 3 objectives:
1) I wanted the student to know her remark was inappropriate and hurtful, and I wanted her to get the correct information so she hopefully won't be spouting that shit again.
2) I wanted the other kids in the class to get the correct info, and to have an example of how to address comments like that.
3) Most important, I wanted my son to come away from this feeling empowered, not humiliated. I wanted him to know that he does not have to accept those statements, and I wanted his expectation to be that the adults in life will address that shit immediately.

Anyway, Miss Thang was on board with all of it, she wanted to learn how to be prepared for the next time. Which was a nice change. I told her my idea:

I wanted his class to see Race: the Power of an Illusion, a three-part PBS documentary.

Part I involves a high school science class in which the students do DNA swabs and blood pricks, then type their DNA. Before they get the results, they form hypotheses about whom they believe they'll be most closely linked to genetically.

Not surprisingly, they predict along racial/ethnic lines; the black kids believe they will be the closest, genetically speaking, to other black kids, the white kids predict they will be most like other Caucasian kids. Ditto for the Asian and Latino kids.

The results, of course, come back the opposite of what they'd thought: one African American young man finds he is genetically most similar to a blond, Russian classmate. A Caucasian student finds that in addition to having a 100% match with someone in the Balkans (which he expected, given his family history), he is also a 100% match for an African individual, which he did not expect. Another white student is most similar to an Asian girl in his class.

The film goes on to talk about race being a social construct, and the history behind that. It talks about the two migrations of people -- the first dying out, the second being modern humans. ALL of us. It covers how we all came about on the same timeline, that there are no separate species of humans, no lines from an earlier time, no group that is more/less advanced, and how any visual differences are a result of geographic adaptations after migration, not from genetic coding.

In other words, none of us are closer to monkeys than any of the rest of us.

Basically, it breaks it down in scientific terms that race has no biological basis; no gene, or group of genes, is common to a particular race. Race cannot be identified genetically. I was surprised to learn that there is twice the genetic variation between two penguins -- which, to my eye, look identical -- as there is between any two humans.




But ... past science did make a false connection between genes and race and intelligence, past science was used to purposefully construct the social aspects of race. In fact, the film covers how the Nazis actually had used US racial research to form their bullshit theories.

We all know how that turned out.

Here's the thing:

If a particular group of people can be shown, according to "scientific evidence", to be savage, to be less intelligent, less capable of self-governance -- closer to animals than your own group -- how much easier to justify taking their land and confining them to reservations? How much easier to rationalize enslaving those who are less than human? How much easier to convince ourselves that beating, lynching those who are "closer to monkeys" is necessary to keep them in line? That selling them as property is okay? How much easier is it to send those who are "inferior" to concentration camps? How much easier to justify Jim Crow laws, miscegenation laws, if some folks are shown to be closer to animals than others?

Pretty damned easy, according to history.



So the monkey comment, besides being incorrect and ignorant, has a whole shitload of history attached to it, even still, today. If you think the monkey comment was no big deal, that particular bit of history most likely does not apply to you and yours.

My son will remember that little girl opening her mouth and ignorance falling out, he will remember every eye in that room turning to him. He'll remember hearing nothing but white noise roaring in his ears while the teacher struggled to address it, struggled to find something to say to this girl.

Something that wouldn't humiliate her too much.

He will remember that time in 9th grade history class when his classmate said black people look like monkeys. He'll remember how that felt. And he will be fully aware of the history behind that belief, enabling it to still be voiced in 2007.  He will also remember he has a voice.


-------------------------------------
Afterward: (ha, look at me trying to play author and shit.)Miss Thang showed the film to all her classes. She had the kids write their ideas of race before the film. Afterwards they wrote how the film did or did not affect their views. She said it went well, that she was encouraged by some of the kids' papers.

She said she'd like to incorporate that film into her classes every year. She's going to bring it up to the science teachers, and try to put something together with them for later in the year.

And for the record, no, that is not the usual response.

I was impressed with Miss Thang, and yes, I checked myself on my own assumptions that I'd formed upon seeing her bouncy blonde ponytail and wide-eyed. perky smile. I learned a lesson too.

So, my son will not forget this experience, it will leave its mark; but he will also remember that the adults in his life dealt with that shit, and he'll be more prepared next time. He'll remember that his class learned that shit is not okay and not correct. And hopefully, he'll remember that a little change was made in his school as a result of addressing that ignorant remark.

In Which My Pants Go Marching Marching

See the radical protester in camo fatigues, holding back the media with her awesomeness and blinding attire? That would be my kid.
There's more.

My pants were at the March on Washington. As in my soldier girl pants. My former BDUs. (that's Battle Dress Uniform in civilian lingo.) From when I wore combat boots for a living. That's them, there on the right.

The boots in the picture, though, are all hers.

I'm so proud. Not only was my daughter an organizer in the March, she donned her mother's old army pants to do so. There's a certain irony there. A certain je ne sais quoi. Oh wait, yes I do: a certain Fuck You, Georgie, and fuck your war. Here's one former soldier whose ass you didn't get to control.

And whose ass no longer fits in those pants, which is why the Radical Bohemian is in currently in possession of them. Yeah, I really hate that part. That part pretty much pisses me off. Almost enough to make me get up and exercise.

Anyway, my teenager is fortunate enough to be wearing those BDUs to march on Washington, rather than wearing them to march through Fallujah or Baghdad. I've been thinking more than usual about the mothers whose kids are wearing desert fatigues lately.

Good job, baby, you rock.



(Why yes, as a matter of fact, I am posting about the March and my daughter ad nauseaum. My blog, my kid, important event that BushCo. wants to stifle. Whatever.)

The Radical Bohemian in the News

I got an email from the Radical Bohemian this morning informing me that she has been photographically featured in the Washington Post online. (much thanks to Sling for sending me the screenshot -- I owe you a shot.) The media, as I've been bitching about, threw a few bones out here and there, but pretty much it was slim pickins as far as coverage of the ANSWER Coalition's March on Washington. If, however, you wanted to know what OJ was up to this weekend, no problem there.

Guess our Commandant in Chief would rather that We the Sheeple don't know how strong the anti-war sentiment really is. Better to keep us all docile and happy and thinking about Britney's custody case.

According to this photo series, "dozens" of protesters were arrested. Okay, if you want to call 196 "dozens", technically you're not wrong, but when I hear "dozens", I tend to think of a number more like 36 or 48. But that's just me.

Anyway, she is picture #7 in this series of pics. She says they were shouting "shame" at the time it was taken. She says there is another picture out there somewhere of her holding back the media from the caution tape line. I guess she told one guy, "I don't care if you're CNN, that doesn't mean you can cross our line!"

Anyway, that's my daughter, in the blindingly lemon yellow ANSWER shirt and security vest, with the hat and braids. Go baby.

----------------------------

Oh, and the police took her bike, Spirit the Unicorn. She thinks. She and some of the other protesters left their bikes chained up -- in a bike rack -- near the starting point of the march, as it's not so effective to wheel your bike along on a march. And riding in a march, well, that kind of defeats the purpose, doesn't it?

Anyway, the Officer Smirks-a-lot told her, "We took a lot of bikes that weren't supposed to be there. Did you have it registered?" (she didn't, it was fairly new) "Oh, well, in that case, you know, we give a lot of bikes away to kids."

Already? In the middle of the night on Saturday when you were busy dealing with all those folks you arrested? In other words, damn lefty, stirring up our weekend, that's what you get.

She was told she could not file a report of theft until she checked with the police holding area on Monday. He did not seem hopeful that Spirit the Unicorn would be there.

This Old Motherfucking House: the Prequel

The Prequel: Kenmore Blues

I wrote this prior to the realization that problems with This Old Motherfucking House would be frequent enough to warrant a series. Consider this the prequel. 

My washer broke. Times like these are when I could use a sweet hookup with a Maytag repairman.

Well, I may not have an in with a hot repairman (my Maytag repairman would not be that guy from the commercial), but I do have a strapping young son who likes taking stuff apart. Plus, it was his crazy unbalanced load of sheets and smelly football jerseys which broke the washer.

Digression: Speaking of smelly football gear, here's a little aside from Friday:

Son, getting ready for football practice: Hey Anyu, have you seen my cup?

Me: No.

Son: Are you sure? You didn't see it out here?

Me: Yes, I'm sure. It better not be out here -- and you probably need to wash that thing.

Son: Not really...

Me: Oh, I'm quite sure you do.

Son: Huh?

Me: After all those football practices? Please.

Son, holding up handful of ibuprofen: ... um, my glass? My cup of water?

Hey, the boy was readying himself for football practice, getting his gear together, what do you want? Like you wouldn't have thought the same thing. An honest mistake.


Anyway. Back to the washer.

I figured if we installed a new toilet together, using only directions from The Internets, we could fix a washer. The old toilet, by the way, was from 1964. Older than I am. The new one is a veritable throne. Anyway, I formed a hypothesis about which part we needed for the washer and ordered it through a local shop.

That evening, the son and I faced our adversary, armed with screwdrivers and a flashlight.

The part in question involved wiring and connectors. Great. The son gets the new part put in. I clean the nasty gunk built up in various and sundry places around the washer's innards. This stuff is a sticky mess borne of fabric softener, soap scum, sweater lint, and dog hair.

Seriously people, everyone should dismantle their washer and get that crap out of there. It's nasty.

The first time we reassembled the washer, I forgot to reconnect the bleach dispenser hose. Crap. I poured water in the bleach receptacle, hoping I was wrong. Water ran straight out the base of the washer. Crap. The son went on for a while about how could I have forgotten to reconnect the bleach dispenser, yada-yada.

The second time we reassembled the washer, it still wouldn't spin. By this time, tempers were a bit short, because we could smell the burritos that Teen Demon was preparing, and the son wanted to watch the movie we'd rented: Blades of Glory.

Oh, please. Get off your high horse. You try living with teenagers, and tell me you don't watch stupid movies.

Anyway, a semi-heated discussion followed, as the son was convinced that there was, in fact, something ELSE wrong with the washer after all. I had checked the rest of the washer while it was flayed open, and was of the opinion that Boy Wonder had neglected to connect something, or something was hooked up backward, upside-down, or otherwise not fitting with Kenmore's finicky standards. This meant I may be able to live down the bleach-dispenser oversight. Silver linings, people.

We took it apart again. We knocked a small part down into the guts of the thing. Crap! Oh, and a long plastic piece, known to us as "The White Thing" had been falling off and getting jammed between the cabinet and the back since we started. Every damn time we touched any part of the washer, The White Thing would slip off.

I figured if we could get The White Thing to stay, that would free up my hand, enabling me to help with the cabinet, and protecting my foot from getting crushed by the cabinet, since I had to stand so close to the damn thing in order to hold The White Thing in place. So I'm yelling for Teen Demon to bring some Scotch tape to hold The White Thing in place while we're farting around with the cabinet.

Teen Demon informs me that there is no Scotch tape.

I know there is Scotch tape, because I personally commandeered a fresh roll out of the gift-wrapping basket (which sounds very organized but is pretty much a joke) and installed it in the tape dispenser which I commandeered from the surplus pile at work, and which currently resides in the "school supply" section of our desk.  Also pretty much a joke.  I know there is Scotch tape as surely as I know there are ballpoint pens: not only did I raid the gift wrapping basket for tape, I had also wisely purchased three dozen cheap ballpoint pens at Office Hell one day, while in a rage over how there are never any pens or sharpened pencils in my house when I need one. Cheap pens because good pens don't last but overnight. Good pens disappear into backpacks and into oblivion in the blink of an eye.

Then I realize that I had just been in another pen rage not two days ago, as the run-of-the-mill Bics I had so thoughtfully purchased were now gone. If the pens are gone, chances are the tape is gone as well. There is, however, a dried up glue stick available, with approximately 1/2 millimeter of old glue that I could possibly dig out with a fingernail.

Crap. I continue to keep The White Thing in place with one hand, while adroitly holding the flashlight in the other so the son can fish out the tiny part from the innards of the washer. There is the requisite discussion about how to prevent the tiny part from falling out again, ending with the son's exasperated, "I got this!"

We finally decide to leave the washer until after burritos and the movie. Thank goodness for Teen Demon's burritos that night. I call them Détente Burritos. Burritos, however, need lettuce, and there was only a sad tiny pile of limp lettuce available for burritos. Lettuce is not high on Teen Demon's list of burrito ingredients. It is pretty much a necessity for my burritos. I take off for the store with much squealing of tires to procure some lettuce. I don't know why I didn't get pens and Scotch tape while I was at it, but I didn't, so we're still out.

After a rousing round of burritos and Men on Ice, the son ventures back out to the garage.

Um ... the washer's fixed. I kind of forgot to connect the ends of the wires.

Vindicated. Also, that kid rocks.

If I ever win the lottery, I'm going to break my new bigass washer on purpose, just so I can enjoy calling a friggin' repairman, and let somebody else fix that shit for us.

Taking on the Man

Okay y'all, wish me luck. Today is the big day when my fledgling parents' group meets with the school district superintendent and his minions. We've been working our asses off for this meeting. It's a grassroots group. It started off with a few of us sharing our stories, and realizing how many stories were out there, and how many "isolated incidents" were not isolated incidents at all, but a reflection of a systemic lack of awareness of the issues that students of color deal with every day. The more parents we spoke with, the more commonalities emerged.

Each parent thought it was "just them". In each case, the child was seen as the "issue". The commonalities were too blatant to ignore, though, and the kids are the ones internalizing this shit. It's amazing what's been going on with these kids! None of us knew the big picture until we started digging and talking to other parents, hearing their stories.

Anyway, it's been been me and three other women organizing this. This is on top of us all being single moms/aunt to teenagers and working. Yeah. Monday we put four hours in. Yesterday, three more. I spent the weekend doing a power point presentation. Last night I wrote the summary after the airport, got to bed about 0230, then got up to go with the son to freshman orientation at the high school.

Orientation -- please. I was expecting to get some actual information, but the "parents' activity" was coffee and muffins in the staff lounge. What? I don't have time for chatting over muffins, are you kidding me? Where's the friggin' information? I got pressured to sign up for the opening BBQ, some bake sale, some other fundraiser, some ticket selling thing -- hello, been there, done that, working single mom now, thank you. I don't have time to bake for my family, let alone some function. I also got hear about where so-and-so had bought her cute bag; how Sally was SO devastated about not making cheer, and she was better than that other girl anyway; how so-and-so misses her husband so much and doesn't know HOW she'll survive with him being gone for a week on business! She doesn't work. Please. You can't handle a week without your man and you don't even go to work? Buck up, honey, you'll live, I promise. I was out of there in five minutes.

I do digress. This was supposed to be a quickie. And you all know how good I am at brevity. (Stop the fake coughing JP, I see you.)

Anyway, today's the meeting, I ditched the orientation and am going over my summary. How I got stuck with the damn summary I have no idea. Well, yes I do. Let the white girl do it, she's less of a threat to white men in power, they'll listen to her. Which is sadly true. "If a white person notices racism, then it must actually be true, because they don't have 'ulterior motives' or a 'chip on their shoulders'."

It "goes down easier" coming from another white person; this has been documented. Which is ridiculous, because really, I'm not the one who has the innate understanding/experience to explain this shit. But, I've seen how it works: person of color starts a dialogue about his/her experience with racism; white person's sphincter immediately tightens, s/he goes on the defensive, secretly thinking that the PoC has "pulled the race card" and is "too sensitive"; white person either clams up and nods with a tight smile, or attempts to explain to the PoC why they have not actually experienced racism, they have in fact simply misunderstood, or been overly sensitive.

I really hate when white folks try to tell folks of color what racism is and isn't.

Okay, y'all, I know I'm on about this stuff a lot. I know some of you may be like,

Damn, Cowbell, lighten up, can't we all just get along? I never see this stuff going on. Pull the racism stick out of your ass and get back to writing about how your mom wants you to marry a preacher!

I know it sounds soapboxy to those who don't have to live with it or see it going on. I realize this.

You all think I just woke up one day and say, hey, I'm going to all of a sudden get a stick up my ass about racism and white privilege! That would be fun! No, it's not fun at all. What happened is that I see the effect on my kids, subtle and blatant. Particularly since my son has been hit with the puberty stick -- folks' perception of him has changed before my eyes, which breaks my heart and pisses me the fuck off. (He's good, he's kind, he's a kid for godssake, don't be scared of him, he's not going to steal your stupid greeting-card-store knick-knacks, bitch.) I see the bullshit in the media. I hear the comments. I see how it is subtly woven through our institutions. And when I talk to other parents, I hear stories worse than mine. Much worse.

My kids are kids of color, but the reality is that they are riding the coat tails of my white privilege. A teacher may make an assumption about my son, may send him out of the classroom while smiling at his white buddy who was also talking in class. To my son. When I show up to talk about it, the look of relief is plain to see, ("Oh, YOU'RE Mom! Whew!" Because I will "understand", I will not "be difficult".) On the phone, the administrators may not want to put my son in advanced classes, may not want to answer my questions about why I didn't receive the application packet in the mail. When I walk in though, when they see me, suddenly he is of the caliber to qualify for these classes.

Their perception of his home life, his support, his ability is suddenly different.

On the other hand, boy do they value his ass on the football field, the wrestling mat, the track. They are sending my son a message about where he is valued, where he is expected to excel.

My experience in the school principal's office is much different than the experience of my friends of color. Which is bullshit.

Goddamn but I do digress. Sorry.

Anyway, I'm doing the summary, in order to avoid the clenched-sphincter phenomenon brought on by "playing the race card." Well, these boys don't know it, but I'm about to pull the white card on their asses. I am going to connect with them on their level. I am going to talk about how, as white people, we are not born with an awareness of this. I was not born knowing about this. I floated along for years, blissfully unaware of what other people were living every day. I had to learn it. It was my responsibility to learn about it, in order to effectively parent my children. And the district has that same responsibility to educate themselves, because our children are their students. It's their school too, and they deserve to be appreciated and valued for who they are, not for how effectively they can assimilate into the dominant culture to avoid problems. Not for how well they learn to suppress that shit.

Anyway, they think they can "relate" better to me, okay, I'm expecting something from them. So we'll see how it goes. It's been a lot of work, and the damn overhead projector had best be working right.

[Climbs down off soapbox.] I really do suck at brevity, don't I?