Don't make me come over there ...

I work in a testosterone-heavy environment: the sports department of a regional newspaper. Including me, there are eight sports full-timers -- seven of the XY variety.

My official responsibilities are varied: story budgeting, copyediting, fact checking, headline generation, art selection and manipulation, page building. 

My unofficial duties, well ...

Peacekeeper. Hand-holder. Interpreter. Ego-stroker. Sounding board. Negotiator. Mother hen. If I may borrow an idea from "Frasier," I am the marshmallow middle that holds the hard cookies together. 

Please don't misinterpret me; I enjoy the company of the males of our species and get along well with them. In fact, I experience a freedom to be myself that I don't always feel when surrounded by women. 

And these are good guys. They are strong and conscientious writers, responsible employees, and well-humored men. 

But there are days -- infrequent days, fortunately -- when I realize the work portion of my life would be far simpler if I were allowed to order my coworkers to sit in the corner, facing the wall, until they learn to play nice. 

I'd give them ice cream after.