In case you don’t recognize it, the title of this post has been gleefully stolen from a book of the same name by, in my opinion (considerable that it is—also in my opinion), one of the best writers alive. Well, I assume he’s alive. He’s never called me, which is a shame because I have no doubt that we’d get along like gangbusters: I’d fawn and he’d preen. But, since he hasn’t called me, I guess I just don’t know whether he’s really, truly alive. I could query the wide world of Internet, but hell, anyone can make a dead person a zombie, given an anonymous proxy and five minutes to play around on Wikipedia.

So, William Goldman, if you’re still kicking things around (avoid buckets), give me a call to let me know how you are. You can then yell at me for stealing the title of one of your books. Until then, however, I aim to borrow it. And by “borrow” I mean “unabashedly steal like the little thief that I am”.

But, back to me. Or, more aptly, back to the lovely Tricia. (It’ll come back to me. I promise.) Now, Tricia had commented on my last entry, and had asked a question. Not one to miss an opportunity to write yet another blog entry to hear myself talk, I thought I’d devote a whole new entry to her question instead of answering in the comments. Lucky gal.

Boy or girl, she asked. (Wiggy, she’s referring to. Not me. I’m pretty sure Tricia knows what I am, and I know I know. But, just in case no one else knows… I’m a girl. No, boy. Damn.) Are the Insta-Princess and I, Tricia wants to know, going to find out whether Wiggy will be wearing next year’s exciting Spring collection of hoo-ha or kickstand?

In a word, no. (In a longer word, noooooooooooooooo.)

The Insta-Princess and I have no problems with soon-to-be parents finding out the gender of their kid. After all, there are perfect names to consider, colors to choose, toys to buy, clothes to get ready, and, most importantly, fights to have over whether a loving parent really should put his or her child through the most outrageous infant torment ever devised: The Harrowing Headband of Hell

For us, though, we’re going a different, headbandless route. We choose yonder path of surprise! Neither of us has a favored gender, so as long as Wiggy is intelligent, accomplished, talented, can fly, has the right number of nostrils, is a natural on the harmonica (just like his old Pa, no matter what anyone else says), and can convert base metal into gold, there will be love enough to spare. (No alchemy, though, and no bedtime stories. I remain anchored to that belief.)

Girls are adorable and funny and fun and for all of them that aren’t related to me, great to snog. They do, however, have this teensy-weeny social paranoia problem come the age of the teen. I’m afraid that, as good as I might be in other areas (computers, Halloween, books, and um… harmonica), I’ll fail as a fatherly paragon of good advice when it comes to the teenage years. Hell, I spent my teens lusting after the gals, not actually listening to them. The only sagacious advice I’ll probably be able to offer a Her-Wiggy would be, “Don’t get pregnant.”

Also, “You’re grounded.”

The last, admittedly, isn’t much good as advice, but I figure if she’s grounded, she can’t get pregnant. (Danae and Zeus aside, that is.) On the other ovary, however, girls can break gender roles much easier than their trouser snake counterparts. So, if she wants to be a king when she takes over the world, no one will blink an eye–or if they do, they’ll be executed, because that’s how Wiggy will roll. The reverse regal title for a He-Wiggy wouldn’t quite be viewed the same way. (Don’t look at me. I don’t make the rules; I just make bad jokes about them.)

Boys are hellions when younger. I wouldn’t have the same worries about a He-Wiggy when he reaches the teen years, but what if the little rascal kills me by virtue of having waaaaay too much energy? I don’t even take my dog for a walk on a regular basis, and the law quite clearly spells out that I can’t tie Wiggy to a leash and let him run around the yard in a circle until he’s exhausted. (Meddlesome, do-gooder politicians.) Still, men are judged by more than just their looks, so it’s possible that, like his Pa, he could still lose his hair and score a hot babe like his Ma. (Not his Ma, though. Just so we’re clear. I’m open-minded and all, but limits, folks, limits.)

So, the Insta-Princess and I are delaying these worries by not finding out beforehand. We figure we’ll freak out enough when the equipment, no matter ball or basket, comes popping out. (Or, I will. The Insta-Princess will be happy and content and sublime and totally, absolutely, out-of-her-mind, drugged. Go figure.)