I was in town with my son, 22, when the Hawthorn football mascot walked towards us.

We stopped, shook hands, and I noticed a second mascot with pert breasts and a blonde pony tail.

I believe I said, quite loudly: “WTFf! A lady Hawka! Has the world gone crazy!”

This uncensored moment of political incorrectness wasn’t lost on my son, who seemed to disappear from my side, as if to suggest “who’s that crazy old girl? She’s not with me. Never seen her before in my life? Perhaps she escaped from her carer?”

The Hawka attendant with her membership information clipboard must have been appalled, as was I, when I realised my faux pas.

Before I beat myself too hard, I recalled the club hasn’t yet fielded a team in the Australian Football League Women’s. Hawthorn’s women’s team plays in the VFL.

(You know the VFL ... that’s the league Gillon McLachlin generously offered to Tassie, rather than a spot in the AFL?)

Here’s a question: Why does a mascot, of any shape or purpose, have to be assigned a gender?

Shouldn’t a mascot be an all encompassing representation of a brand?

Apparently a mascot is any person, animal, or object thought to bring luck.

They are at best dorky and fun and quite often weird and wild, like the big kidney for kidney health and dodgy floppy broccoli for nutrition.

Footy teams, in an effort to be inclusive have expanded their mascots.

The Melbourne Demons have Daisy, the Carlton Blues have Nina, and the Fremantle Dockers have Jenny.

But, really?

Did you ever look at Hawka and think to yourself, “I wonder if it’s male or female, LGBTI, black or white, 20 or 80?”

And, in the case of Ms Hawka, who decided a blonde pony tail made her gender appropriate?

I mean, really, a blonde pony tail?  

Do you think a man made that design decision?

And, like those weird car stickers which were all the rage five years back, will we require mini mascots to represent child/fishing/dancing interests?

The potential for all encompassing mascots is only limited by politically-corrected, corporate imaginations. (By the way, I was miffed that there didn’t appear to be a couch, tv or book options for the car sticker families?)

It’s been a week of distractions at our place.

And one of us, got a little bit too excited during a moment of hilarity.

Have you seen the movie version of Get Smart?

It’s funny. Very funny.

In one scene Max, played by Steve Carell, is locked in a loo, with rappelling hooks catching on all parts of his body.

Husband started to laugh and then, stopped breathing.

Here’s where it got interesting. Son dialled triple zero, I took a moment and decided to give my husband four good, hard slaps across his face. (How much fun was that?)

Frankly, slapping was much easier than trying to shift his 95kg from the couch for CPR.

He woke! I bragged about ‘saving his life’ for a few days and started to nag him to get to his doctor or he’d end up dying like Elvis Presley.

Yes, I’m that kind of wife.

Dear reader, it took 10 days for him to make an appointment.

Why do blokes avoid doctors? I’ve never been the kind of wife to accompany a husband to the doctor; frankly three children and four pets were enough.

Meanwhile, I’ll sit nearby during funny movies or demanding footy games! Just call me Nurse Betty. (Google it.)