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.

And Another Thing (A Health Care P.S.)

Just a piggyback thought, while we're on the subject of health care and I'm still feeling pissed off about it. (read the previous post, if you don't know why) I recently saw the movie Man of the Year, where a comedian (Robin Williams) was elected president.

Guess folks want a change, even in movie land. Anyway, the comedian-president says,

HMOs will pay for your Viagra, but they won't pay for your glasses.

It was supposed to be funny, but it wasn't actually funny at all on account of it's true. I paid a shitload of money for my daughter's glasses, and I am fortunate enough to have "good healthcare" through my 9-to-5. If, however, I were a man wanting Little Richard to perform, that shit's paid for! Just take this to the pharmacy, buddy, we'll get you taken care of, wink-wink!

What the hell is wrong with this country that Viagra is covered so men can get their dicks up, but opthalmology and dentistry are considered, what, extra? Superfluous? A special privilege? They can get dick-pills so they can get off, but eyeglasses and teeth cleaning, well, hold on just a minute there, little lady, that's not altogether necessary.

Anyway. I just thought of that line from the movie, and thought how ironic it is that some man somewhere was getting it up courtesy of our health-care system, on the same day that a 12-year-old boy died from a toothache, because his family didn't have health insurance.

Goddamn, people. That is just wrong.

The Greatest Country on Earth Handles a Toothache

Last night, just as my son was coming to tell me goodnight, I came across a news article about a boy not much younger than he is, a story I could not get my head around. A story about a 12-year-old boy who died from an abscessed tooth.

Deamonte Driver, some mother's son, died from an abscessed tooth.

In this country. In this wealthyass country, a child DIED from a friggin' TOOTHACHE.

WTF??

So, I'm reading this story, hand over my mouth, not believing it, and my son asked me what was wrong. He looked at the picture of Deamonte Driver, showing the scar from his brain operation as a result of his abscessed tooth, and asked, "But, Anyu, how can that even happen? Can a kid really die from a bad tooth? Couldn't their dentist just fix it?"

Yes, a dentist could've easily fixed it. In fact, the tooth never would've been abscessed at all, had Deamonte had regular dentist checkups, the same yearly checkup my son complains about.

The family did not have health insurance. This American family could not afford health insurance. The abscess in Deamonte's tooth got so bad it spread to his brain. Before he died, Deamonte had emergency brain surgery, had seizures and complications afterward, had a second brain operation, then physical and occupational therapy.

Oh, and they extracted the tooth.

• Diamonte's medical bills totalled out at $250,000.
• Extracting the tooth would've cost less than $100.
• With regular checkups, he wouldn't have needed the extraction to begin with.

How about a comprehensive universal health care system, people? Is this enough of a wake-up call? When is the US going to realize that investing in our society benefits all of us? Preventive health care would save money in the long run; $250,000 worth of savings, in this case.

I am so sick of the Blame The Victim mentality in this country, that whole bootstrapper thing -- you know what I'm talking about: If this family had just pulled itself up by the bootstraps and worked a little harder, why they could've had health insurance like the productive citizens of this great land! If they couldn't afford it, well, they must've been Doing Something Wrong. They must be lazy. Probably a single mother. Probably she didn't have control over those kids anyway, I mean, they didn't even brush their teeth enough! She probably spent their toothbrush money on malt liquor.

No, do not even try and tell me I'm being dramatic, because you know there are people who actually think that shit. 

I am sick of the shortsightedness of this country in everything from health care and education to roads and building construction. Seriously, these things are handled (on the whole) by choosing whatever costs the least in the short run. Whatever is cheapest and keeps things afloat during our watch, that's what we go with. No one wants to pay higher taxes. No one wants to invest in anything or anyone except themselves.

Has anyone seen the UNICEF report on international child welfare for this year? Check this out: (from the International Herald Tribune, 14-Feb-07)

The United States and Britain ranked at the bottom of a U.N. survey of child welfare in 21 rich countries that assessed everything from infant mortality to whether children ate dinner with their parents or were bullied at school.
The Netherlands, followed by Sweden, Denmark and Finland, finished at the top while the U.S. was 20th and Britain 21st in the rankings released Wednesday by UNICEF in Berlin.
One of the study's researchers, Jonathan Bradshaw, said children fared worse in the U.S. and Britain — despite high overall levels of national wealth — because of greater economic inequality and poor levels of public support for families.
"They don't invest as much in children as continental European countries do," he said.
Bradshaw cited thin day care services in both countries, and poorer health coverage and preventative care for children in the U.S.

So there you have it. As rich as we collectively are, we are failing our children because we are not interested in a collective, because we are interested in individuals who can pull themselves up by the bootstraps.

Funny how the top ranked countries have universal health care. The topped ranked countries are interested in a collective. They are investing in their society.

I wonder when a Norwegian or Finnish kid last died of a toothache?

I am ashamed and angered and so, so sad that this little boy died over something so goddamned stupid and unnecessary. I am amazed by the fact that had he been born Swedish, instead of American, he would still be alive.

Dr. Phil the Younger

My son has a girlfriend. He's 14.

She's great, by the way. Smart, quick smile to go with an edgy wit, doesn't put up with crap. She doesn't even do the TeenSpeak thing to excess, which, ohmygod, is like, soooo awesome? So, if my youngest of offspring must have a girlfriend (Seriously? You can't wait until you're 35, son?), I couldn't have picked a better one. Plus, she'll keep him in line.

So, my son, still fresh in the blush of Young Love, suggests that I may want to rethink my stance on relationships. Apparently, I should be dating more. Or dating period.

I'm a single mom. Three teenagers, two big dogs, mortgage, full-time job. I currently do not have the time or inclination to take on a relationship. This, of course, could instantly change, should Antonio Banderas, Johnny Depp, or Denzel Washington suddenly come a-knocking. Or should I win the lottery and suddenly have time to shave my legs and paint my toenails.

These scenarios could easily occur around the same time that monkeys fly out of my ass.

Dear Son: Yeah, so, I'm just saying, you maybe should think about how you look at relationships. You know, you're always saying a relationship takes work and energy, and you already work and have kids and stuff, but maybe you should think about that in a different way.

Me: Different way?

Dear Son: Yeah, you know, like it's someone to talk to and know about, plus it's fun. Maybe it would give you energy instead of using your energy, or something. Like maybe it's a good thing, not more work.

Me: ...

Dear Son: So, like maybe you're not thinking about it fairly.

Me: What are you, Doctor Phil?

Are you serious? The kid whose stretchmarks I bear dispensing advice to the lovelorn? Is he not here as a direct result of a heartily embraced relationship? Well, that and The Best of Barry White.

Scratch that.

So, it's all fresh and exciting for him. Relationships have not yet evolved to include such mundane things as Effort and Work. Good for him, I mean that. Damn, I love that kid. And he's probably right. To some extent. You, Gentle Readers, understand the many layers and phases of love, and he'll get that someday. Hopefully slowly, and weighted toward the joy end of the spectrum.

I look at his (too) handsome, earnest face, and know there's no explaining it. He'll learn it all -- good, bad and ugly -- as we all do. Young love: nothing better.

So, I've been Dr. Phil'd by this young man whose diapers I changed. WTF?

Well.

It probably wouldn't hurt to consider his thoughts. Throw off a bit of the (well-earned) cynicism. I wasn't always cynical. I was once a fresh-faced romantic. Of course, I also wore acid-washed, pleated jeans with tapered ankles. You move on. With wisdom comes a certain amount of cynicism. That's just the way of it. But, don't we all sometimes think on those days when it was just fun and your heart was close to bursting?

Go on with your bad self, Young Dr. Phil. Just not too fast.

Sunshine In a Box

This is Seattle this week:

I took this picture at work. Some people say, "Oh, look, the fog has rolled in off the Sound! It feels so cozy!"  What is wrong with these people?

Cozy my ass.

I am so sick of rain and fog and GREY I could puke. If only I had the energy. I am going through some serious sunlight deprivation here, folks. It's been going on for three years. What is this, Alaska?

Seattle has a reputation for rain. "What did she expect, moving to Seattle?" A valid question. You think I just moved here on a lark? From across the Atlantic with three kids and a rabbit?

Yeah, let's just do that without thinking it through.

I researched the hell out of locations before moving. I built a spreadsheet comparing my six finalist locations. I quizzed Seattleites online about everything, including the weather.

Especially the weather.

What I didn't realize then is that a Seattleite's perception of weather is completely different from mine. Here's how a typical chat would go, back in those halcyon days of Researching Seattle:

Me: So is the rain really as bad as they say?

Seattleite: Naw, we just say that to keep people from moving here!
Especially the Californians!
Miami's rainfall is way higher than ours!
Dude, we actually have drought conditions in July and August!

Me: Wow, I didn't know that! So ... it really doesn't rain that much?

Seattleite: Well, only in the winter.
But hey -- no snow!
And no thunder or lightening, just a light drizzle.
You don't even need an umbrella!

Me: That doesn't sound too bad. What about summers -- I really love the sun, does it get hot in the summer?

Seattleite: Dude! Summer is the best part!
Yeah, it gets hot, but not crazy hot, not like sticking to your clothes.
Never too hot, never too cold!
And the mountains and water? Seattle summer is the bomb!

So I'm thinking, wow, sounds good. I'm glad I checked with these folks. I can deal with winter drizzle if my payoff is this legendary summer! Hell, yeah! After moving, I found out the following things which had not shown up in my research:

1. "Hot" to a Seattleite is 72F - 74F. With no humidity. And a maritime breeze


2. "Winter" goes from September to April.


3. They say May and June are"summer". They lie. May and June are just April Showers, continued.

1. Summer is actually only August and half of July. Make it count.


2. On Winter Solstice, it's dark when I arrive at work and dark when I leave. At 4pm.


3. The Emerald City moniker doesn't just mean "green all the time". It means you are not in friggin' Kansas anymore, Dorothy.

Seattleites live in a weather bubble. A snowglobe without the snow. The Seattle comfort zone ranges from say, 62F to about 72F. Below or above that is considered "freezing" or "burning up".

A day that hits 80 (no humidity, mind you) is "a real scorcher".

If it hits the low 90s (again, no humidity), people lose their gottdamn minds.

Meteorologists break into TV programs with heat advisory warnings, and folks are advised to hit the malls or theaters to avoid heat stroke. You'd think it was Armageddon. Get to the A/C, where it's safe, people! Watch those babies and old folks, too.

I have not worn shorts in three years. I can count the times I've worn short sleeves. I am the color of a corpse. I wear undershirts and socks year-round. I miss real weather. I miss thunder and lightning and snow. I especially miss people who know how to drive in snow. And snowplows. But I miss heat most of all.

Hindsight is a clear-sighted bitch.

I am now researching Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD. Go figure). This is actually a big deal, because I am basically a suck-it-up-and-drive-on type of girl. What, a crisis? Sounds like a personal problem to me, soldier. Depression? Not me. PMS? For wimps. Feeling blue? Best fit that shit in after taking care of business. This of course, only applies to me. Everyone else is allowed to feel blue or have PMS.  That's "different".

I am allowed to feel crappy, I'm just supposed to keep that shit boxed up nice and tidy. Let it out of the box, and then who's going to take care of business? So to even think I could join the Ranks of the Depressed was a huge internal battle.

Whatever. I'm over that. This endless drizzly-assed GREY is depressing as hell.

I don't think SAD covers it though, for me. I have diagnosed myself with MFD-SAD, or Manic Fucking Depressive Seasonal Affective Disorder. I don't need a medical degree to know this is true. It's the manic part that confirms it.

The sun came out two weekends ago. I was as one possessed. I cleaned and organized the garage; cleaned the yard, driveway, and street of the storm debris that had been sitting for weeks (Yes, we actually had a real live storm!); got all the Christmas decorations down, packed and organized; cleaned house; did laundry; walked the dogs; cooked dinner; and finished a big project for work.

Those are the parts I remember. I get so freaking deliriously happy when the sun comes out, it's like a drug.  I swear I get high on sunbeams. That could be a song. I Get High On Sunbeams.

Fortunately, I now have Sunshine In a Box. I arrived one morning to find it outside my office door, with a Post-it note attached. A dear friend and colleague apparently heard I was about to lose my fucking MIND, and lent me her lightbox. I could kiss her boots. I considered setting up a shrine for her, the better to worship her like Ra, the sun god. Yes, a shrine. This is how twisted and desperate a sun-whore's mind becomes in the absence of sunlight.

This is Sunshine In a Box:

(Yes, that is my G.Dubya Bush countdown calendar on the right. We have 713 days left in his reign.)

The light box is the blazing white rectangle, lower left. This sucker is bright. Either it's working, or the  incrementally longer days are having an effect.  More likely, my mind is pulling some sort of psychological trickery on my ass. The placebo effect. I don't care.

I do not care.

Beats drugs or therapy.

Rock On, Senator.

My daughter heard Barack Obama speak. Shook his hand. And, perhaps best of all, had the perverse pleasure of shoving past a FOX news reporter to do so. Go, baby. She skipped Arabic class and took the Metro to GMU in Virginia to watch history in the making.

That's pretty goddamn exciting.

She reports he is a magnificent speaker. He is also left-handed, which she promptly added to her list of things they have in common: biracial, single mother, went to school in another country with another language, left handed.  "We're practically twins", she stated. In the spirit of Senator Joe Biden's recent comments, I guess she could add "so well-spoken" to the list.

This is just one of the many Very Cool Experiences she's had since leaving the Left Coast for Howard U. in DC. She's but a stone's throw from W. and his minions. In fact, she was at the White House just last weekend for an anti-war protest. She walked with a group from the NOW headquarters, and also helped them sort through all manner of interesting hate mail from pro-lifers, which was evidently entertaining as hell, and definitely not carrying Christian messages of love. ("Jesus hates you!" Seriously?)

I don't know yet if Senator Obama is the best person for president, and I don't know if America is ready yet to finally cross race and/or gender lines in the White House. What I do know is that Barack Obama, while surely inspirational to a great many people, is especially and critically inspirational to my daughter, in a way that John Kerry or Wesley Clark could never be for her. Barack Obama means it's possible.

For her.

For people of color. For people from single-parent households who went to public schools. Barack Obama means that maybe important qualifications are things like activism, principles, integrity, and vision, and not things like privilege, or your great-greats coming over on the right ship, or a family legacy at some fancy-ass academy with a brick wall around it where boys will be boys and the headmaster golfs with Grandfather.

Barack Obama in this election means another barrier knocked down. A big one.

Senator Obama is fighting to squeeze through a pinhole in that glass ceiling, and better yet, he's got company. With Hillary Clinton and Bill Richardson throwing their hats in the ring, we could see the nation's first Black, female, or Latino president. What do you know, we've got a diverse hiring pool for the job of commander in chief! About time. I hope they smash the fuck out of that glass ceiling.

Batman's Amazing Gastro-Adventure

Speaking of dogs...

Mason, our recently adopted, eight-year-old, previously abused, and therefore slightly neurotic chocolate Labramutt has separation anxiety issues. Every once in a while, if there is some paper, cardboard, or something interesting left laying around, he'll shred it a bit.

Evidently this allows him to focus on something other than the fact that his MOMDOG IS GONE.

He apparently grabbed a container of blue plastic toothpicks -- I'd left them on the coffee table, disturbing the norm, and therefore, his comfort level -- and destroyed the container, scattering hundreds of toothpicks all over his dog bed. For Mason, that's enough. Just a moment of frenzied distraction. (ohmygod, where is she, when is she coming back, ohmygod my mom is gone, holyshit where the fuck are my people ... look ... toothpicks ...)

Batman, however, must've thought Mason had unearthed some tasty treat. I found several slimy toothpicks, bent into strange shapes and flattened with toothmarks. Batman slunk over to a corner with the whites of his eyes showing.

Great.

Batman eats anything. He's not a chewer; our shoes and other belongings are safe. He eats any vegetable or fruit, things most dogs would not touch. He'd make a great vegetarian. The dog eats lettuce for Pete's sake. (No, my dogs do not share my vegetarian diet. Dogs need meat.) He also loves candy. That's the downside.

There is one other thing he likes.

For those of you unfamiliar with Batman's sordid past, he got into the bathroom trash not long after we adopted him. Evidently, tampons are pretty much like candy for dogs. Yeah. Cost me $1,700 (plus vacation days and some sleepless nights) to rid my dog of three intestinal blockages.

Anyway, fast-foward back to the toothpicks. It took me about five seconds to assess the scene. I should join the CSI crew. I can not deal with the cost of another dog-surgery right now!

Shitshitshitshit!

I hope against hope that he hasn't actually SWALLOWED any of the dangerously pointed toothpicks. They look like miniature javelins spread out on the dog bed. I hope that if he has, in fact, swallowed them, he will have chewed them into a soggy soft mess, blunting the ends. I hope that canine stomach acid is as strong as it's reputed to be. Strong enough to digest plastic before it perforates tender intestinal walls.

He's not talking.

Later, Batman found my daughter's two-pound bag of jellybeans. She had eaten less than 1/3 of the bag. He left only a small piece of the bag itself. Great. What are the odds? The last time he ate something like that was ... well, you know. Now, twice in one day!

He didn't want his dinner. NOT normal. Even during the Great Tampon Escapade, he ate his dinner. Wolfed it, actually. True, he puked it up immediately afterward, but he damn well tried to eat it. I hope against hope that the jellybeans have just made him lose his appetite. Like a two-year-old with too much cake.

He pukes up the little bit of dinner he did eat. And an assload of jellybeans. And half a dozen toothpicks. He manages to place this mess so that it spreads over the edge of the dog bed and both dog blankets onto the floor. He's nothing if not thorough.

Shitshitshit. He did swallow them. I spend the next two days following him out in the yard with an umbrella and a flashlight, waiting for evidence that his poop routes are open. He finally gave the all clear. No dog surgery.

Thankyouthankyouthankyou, Saint Francis of Assisi.