BUCKING THE SYSTEM: PROFESSIONAL WRASSLING: A SOAP OPERA BY ANY OTHER NAME...

* Yes, Jerry, I do smell what The Rock's been cooking.

The male version of the soap opera has become a bi-weekly staple in my household of three men and a mom.

What, you're not familiar with male-directed soap operas? Well, I can sum it up for you in one word: Wrassling.

That's not to be confused with wrestling, which is a hand-to-hand athletic contest that requires opponents to struggle within a confined space and with specific rules of engagement.

No, I'm talking about wrassling, the no-holds-barred athledrama in which incredibly muscular and/or statuesque men and women compete in rings, on floors or on top of giant steel cages to be world champions of some sort or another.

More specifically, I'm talking about the World Wrestling Federation, which includes such famed athletes as Mae Young and the Fabulous Moolah, Stone Cold Steve Austin, the Big Show and Triple HHH.

I hate that I know these people. Unfortunately, I've reverted back to the days when my mom used to be hooked on soap operas: I've got to watch it because it's the only thing that's going to be watched on our televisions.

My husband, Patrick, became a true WWF fan about three months ago, and he sucked our poor children right into the mania. He started as a channel surfer, but now he rushes into the living room on Mondays and Thursdays -- incidentally, the only two days I truly like to watch primetime television -- and demands three hours of viewing time.

"I've just got to see what's going to happen tonight, Tam," he says as he snags the best spot on the couch. "They're gonna to get it on tonight."

Fine. As I head into the kids' room to watch "Everybody Loves Raymond" or "ER" while sitting in the desk chair or on the edge of the bunk beds, I get the call: "Tam, you've got to see this! Hurry up!"

And so, I wind up missing my shows for the opportunity to hang out with my family and watch these fools demean women and hit each other with metal folding chairs.

The worst part of this is my sons both have assumed the personalities of their favorite wrasslers. Thanks to my husband, our son Jerry actually believes he is The Rock, one of the more popular black wrasslers in the WWF.

"I am the People's Champion. Do you SMELL what The Rock's been cooking?" my 3-year-old screams as he launches his little body towards me for a tickling session. After I give in and laugh, he stands up, tries to give me the arched eyebrow that is making The Rock famous, and begins stripping off his clothes.

I used to wonder why he would always strip to his underwear whenever wrassling began, but then I figured it out: The Rock comes out wearing a small pair of briefs and some ankle boots that look like socks, and so Jerry can't really be The Rock until he also is half-naked.

And poor PJ, who is barely a year old, has no real idea what's going on. However, he understands that when Daddy calls him Cactus Jack -- who used to be Mankind, The Rock's tagteam partner -- he's supposed to stick his fingers in the air and say "Bang Bang!"

It's truly comical to watch all of this unfold each week.

The telephone goes unanswered unless Patrick thinks it's one of his friends calling to talk about something that just happened on the show. And the kids know that their daddy will let them stay up an extra hour so they can watch The Rock, who is always one of the last wrasslers to compete.

And then there's me, the person who is an unwilling participant in the whole thing. Have you noticed how much knowledge I have about the show? That's because I'm starting to enjoy it against my will.

When Patrick has to leave early to go to work, he now knows he can call me and find out what he missed. And I understand all of the WWF jargon that my kids will spew at any given moment.

Yes, Jerry, I do smell what The Rock's been cooking. You didn't know? Well, you better call somebody.