I can confidently attest to the fact that today's WTH vignette has all the elements of a classic: reproductive organs, senseless violence, sorcery, and a liberal sprinkling of the absurd. My friends, today we discuss a very serious topic: lynchings in Congo due to penis theft.
Yes, penis theft. Kinshasa, the nation's capital (I take issue with the country's legal name, as it is neither Democratic nor a Republic...however, all sides seem to agree that it is, in fact, the Congo) is in an uproar over allegations that sorcerers have been using black magic to shrink men's penises or steal them altogether.
Let that percolate through your mind for a moment, if you will.... Taxi drivers with gold teeth (ah, it's the details that make it so utterly precious!) are being labeled as shamans and accused of trying to extort money from men. The threat if $$$ isn't coughed up? Penis theft. WOWZA. Even better, the article alludes to an episode in Ghana over a decade ago where - and I quote - "twelve suspected penis snatchers were beaten to death." Not to mock the deceased....but what precisely goes in the obituary in such an occasion?
"I'm tempted to say it's one huge joke," an official says. Joke or not, I'm laughing! But the minister's response is simply priceless: "But when you try to tell the victims that their penises are still there, they tell you that it's become tiny or that they've become impotent. To that I tell them, 'How do you know if you haven't gone home and tried it?'"
I have no words. Just......what the hella?!
4.29.2008
4.25.2008
The perils of being precocious
This isn't precisely what the hella material, but it is food for thought. This girl, at 19, is becoming a college professor in Korea. Now, part of me wants to say, good for you. When I was 19 (actually 18....) I was invited to lecture in PhD-level Russian history classes. (The ruse worked until after one of my chats about Aleksandr Radishchev, my professor/adoptive grandpa/hero decided to announce to the class, "And now I will be taking Miss Zhenya out for lunch to celebrate her 19th birthday." Gee, thanks, pal.)
Anyway, clearly I'm not one to stand in the way of intellectual progress.... But, for argument's sake, I think this is a bad idea. It was something my parents struggled with when I was young, too. How many grades should she skip? Because I was spelling at 1 and a half, did that mean I should start kindergarten at 2? Because I was reading Melville at 6, should I bypass high school? Blah blah blah. And you know, I'm glad that they decided to keep me more or less with my peer group (ok, I was still always the youngest one in the class....but we're talking years here, not decades). There is so much more to maturity than the ability to rattle off equations or recite Dante or translate Arabic in your head. (I can do one of those three things, and it's a real hit at cocktail parties. Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'entrate, and all that jazz!) It took precocious young moi a long time to realize it, but you know what? Sometimes those creatures called parents are right.
Do I doubt that this young woman is intellectually prepared for the rigors of developing a syllabus, instructing her pupils, conducting research, etc? Not in the slightest. But do I think that she's emotionally ready? Welllllll.......no. At 19, I still drove too fast, galloped around on unfamiliar horses, woke up with excruciating hangovers (ok.....that still happens sometimes), dated questionable men, and thought I was the only person on earth who really existed. I hate to admit that my parents were right, but age does bring some sort of wisdom - perspective, experience, all that esoteric stuff. Alia will have no trouble explaining historical eras to the cute 23-year-old in the second row, but how will she respond to his flirtation? Like a 19 year old, or like a professor? Hell, she's not even old enough to buy a drink.
Kids..... There's plenty of time. You don't have to save the world before you've even seen it. (Wow, am I becoming conservative in my doddering old age? Ahhhhhh!?!?) I feel for this girl, who may wake up when she's thirty and think, I never got to be a teenager. I feel for her even more because I suspect that moment may never happen at all.
Anyway, clearly I'm not one to stand in the way of intellectual progress.... But, for argument's sake, I think this is a bad idea. It was something my parents struggled with when I was young, too. How many grades should she skip? Because I was spelling at 1 and a half, did that mean I should start kindergarten at 2? Because I was reading Melville at 6, should I bypass high school? Blah blah blah. And you know, I'm glad that they decided to keep me more or less with my peer group (ok, I was still always the youngest one in the class....but we're talking years here, not decades). There is so much more to maturity than the ability to rattle off equations or recite Dante or translate Arabic in your head. (I can do one of those three things, and it's a real hit at cocktail parties. Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'entrate, and all that jazz!) It took precocious young moi a long time to realize it, but you know what? Sometimes those creatures called parents are right.
Do I doubt that this young woman is intellectually prepared for the rigors of developing a syllabus, instructing her pupils, conducting research, etc? Not in the slightest. But do I think that she's emotionally ready? Welllllll.......no. At 19, I still drove too fast, galloped around on unfamiliar horses, woke up with excruciating hangovers (ok.....that still happens sometimes), dated questionable men, and thought I was the only person on earth who really existed. I hate to admit that my parents were right, but age does bring some sort of wisdom - perspective, experience, all that esoteric stuff. Alia will have no trouble explaining historical eras to the cute 23-year-old in the second row, but how will she respond to his flirtation? Like a 19 year old, or like a professor? Hell, she's not even old enough to buy a drink.
Kids..... There's plenty of time. You don't have to save the world before you've even seen it. (Wow, am I becoming conservative in my doddering old age? Ahhhhhh!?!?) I feel for this girl, who may wake up when she's thirty and think, I never got to be a teenager. I feel for her even more because I suspect that moment may never happen at all.
4.23.2008
It's me, honey! But with DD boobs!
What. the. hella??? I am a big fan of literature, and of encouraging kids to read...but this book is absurd on so many levels. What kind of message are you sending your children, Gabriela Acosta? Mom won't be happy with herself until she gets a tummy tuck, nose job, and face lift? And this is what you read your five year old as a bedtime story!?!
The plot is sure to instill a wonderful message in sons and daughters (especially daughters, I suspect) everywhere - you can only be truly happy with yourself based on what you look like! Sure, I'm vain. I like clothes, and mirrors too. But honestly, it's not even close to the top of the list of what matters to me in life. When I was five, I would have rather listened to Watership Down or The Call of the Wild or Black Beauty than.....My Beautiful [Shallow, Insecure, Selfish, Bad-Self-Image-Promoting] Mommy. Christ! And we wonder why so many young girls develop eating disorders and resort to airing YouTube beatings of girls they find prettier than themselves?!
Actual quote from the book:
The plot is sure to instill a wonderful message in sons and daughters (especially daughters, I suspect) everywhere - you can only be truly happy with yourself based on what you look like! Sure, I'm vain. I like clothes, and mirrors too. But honestly, it's not even close to the top of the list of what matters to me in life. When I was five, I would have rather listened to Watership Down or The Call of the Wild or Black Beauty than.....My Beautiful [Shallow, Insecure, Selfish, Bad-Self-Image-Promoting] Mommy. Christ! And we wonder why so many young girls develop eating disorders and resort to airing YouTube beatings of girls they find prettier than themselves?!
Actual quote from the book:
"My new nose won't just look different, dear - it'll look prettier!"
4.21.2008
Float like a butterfly, sting like a .... monk?
Easter, as far as I gather, is supposed to be a time of peace, harmony, and regeneration of the soul. (Oh yeah, and getting to enjoy meat/chocolate/booze after the Hell of Lent...) But for some Greek and Armenian monks, nothing says "let's celebrate the most sacred holiday in the Orthodox calendar" like a good old-fashioned fistfight. At Jesus' tomb, no less!
Wowza. The lion shall lie down with the lamb....and the monk shall deliver a really wicked left hook to the priest. It's like Celebrity Death Match meets The Passion of the Christ! Even better, this isn't the first time monks have started a scrape here! Honestly, though, I'm pretty sure Jesus talked about things like peace and loving thy neighbor and being a good Samaritan and all that... (Not quite sure where the whole holy war/witch -burning business came from though.) So I don't think He would approve of a down & out brawl at his tomb. The image of monks fighting, though, is pretty clutch....and beating police with palm fronds!? Um. Palm frond vs. Mace & pistols......really not good thinking, brothers. Leave the violence to people who are actually good at it.
Wowza. The lion shall lie down with the lamb....and the monk shall deliver a really wicked left hook to the priest. It's like Celebrity Death Match meets The Passion of the Christ! Even better, this isn't the first time monks have started a scrape here! Honestly, though, I'm pretty sure Jesus talked about things like peace and loving thy neighbor and being a good Samaritan and all that... (Not quite sure where the whole holy war/witch -burning business came from though.) So I don't think He would approve of a down & out brawl at his tomb. The image of monks fighting, though, is pretty clutch....and beating police with palm fronds!? Um. Palm frond vs. Mace & pistols......really not good thinking, brothers. Leave the violence to people who are actually good at it.
4.17.2008
Na zdrovie! Drink up & enjoy....
I could devote a whole WTH subset to strange Russian occurrences. Today's latest is as intoxicating as.....well, as a shot of vodka. (For the record, I prefer to drink Diplomat. Damned hard to find in the States, though. But if you can get your paws on it....enjoy!...and please call me.)
"We were drinking," the protagonist of our tale - Yuri Lyalin, an electrician from a small Russian town - proclaims, "and what doesn't happen when you're drunk?" Good question, moy milyi drug'. I have had many drunken evenings over the years - often due to vodka, my genetically predestined Vice of Choice - and I have woken up with odd bruises, scuffed clothes, strange men (...I kid, I kid! ....), but never with a knife in my back.
[Stops to make sure that this is true.]
Good. No knives protruding from my back (a bit surprising, really). Moving on then.... What the hella!? These guys were drinking on the job!! I hope to God they never show up to wire my flat in St. Petersburg, because if you're drunk enough not to notice you've been stabbed by a friend....well, you're probably too drunk to be playing with electricity, da? I've gotta say, though - this story is a testament to the value of enduring friendship. Most times, when a friend, er, knifes you in the back, it signals the end of the relationship. Not so for these two .... although one hopes that the phrase isn't always taken quite so literally.
"We were drinking," the protagonist of our tale - Yuri Lyalin, an electrician from a small Russian town - proclaims, "and what doesn't happen when you're drunk?" Good question, moy milyi drug'. I have had many drunken evenings over the years - often due to vodka, my genetically predestined Vice of Choice - and I have woken up with odd bruises, scuffed clothes, strange men (...I kid, I kid! ....), but never with a knife in my back.
[Stops to make sure that this is true.]
Good. No knives protruding from my back (a bit surprising, really). Moving on then.... What the hella!? These guys were drinking on the job!! I hope to God they never show up to wire my flat in St. Petersburg, because if you're drunk enough not to notice you've been stabbed by a friend....well, you're probably too drunk to be playing with electricity, da? I've gotta say, though - this story is a testament to the value of enduring friendship. Most times, when a friend, er, knifes you in the back, it signals the end of the relationship. Not so for these two .... although one hopes that the phrase isn't always taken quite so literally.
4.16.2008
Cat fights, crowns, and criminals.
Um, I can think of scads and scads of bizarre-o stuff I could write about gender roles in Ze Motherland, aka Russia, my former home. Living there, as a woman, was a constant adventure. I found out the hard way, for example, that any woman who sits on a bench outside of a metro station is a prostitute. I also learned the interesting medical fact that cold concrete can make a woman infertile. Other no-nos? Crossing one's legs, lighting your own cigarette, and stepping outside without 5 layers of make-up and sky high heels. (This last was surprisingly hard for me. Stateside, I get mocked for my couture addiction and absurd shoes, but Christ! There, women don't even step out to get the paper without lipstick, dangly sparkling earrings, and skin-tight miniskirts!) I had plenty of guy friends, but it was awfully hard to meet girls my age.
A lot of these weird traditions and quirks are cultural things; many more are due to the large demographic imbalance between men & women - Russia has the biggest male-female population gap in the developed world, and because there are so many more ladies than gents, it leads to an almost Darwinian struggle to find - and retain - a mate. But, of all the weirdness I encountered on my own in my life in Russia as a young lady, nothing quite compares to this.
Wowza. Barring all the other snark, the thing that really gets me is this: women, alas, tend to be catty creatures to begin with. Russian women - well, we have refined it almost to an art form. Beauty pageant contestants are notoriously competitive and have even resorted to bizarre capers (like pepper spray in evening gowns) to try and win the coveted crown. So encouraging a bunch of pent-up felons to compete for a title .... well, I don't think it will result in the crowning of Miss Congeniality. And if you look at the faces of the other contestants behind the woman in the video who wins the pageant - well, they look like they want to kill her, and among this swath of the population....it may not be such an empty threat! Bozhe moy.
A lot of these weird traditions and quirks are cultural things; many more are due to the large demographic imbalance between men & women - Russia has the biggest male-female population gap in the developed world, and because there are so many more ladies than gents, it leads to an almost Darwinian struggle to find - and retain - a mate. But, of all the weirdness I encountered on my own in my life in Russia as a young lady, nothing quite compares to this.
Wowza. Barring all the other snark, the thing that really gets me is this: women, alas, tend to be catty creatures to begin with. Russian women - well, we have refined it almost to an art form. Beauty pageant contestants are notoriously competitive and have even resorted to bizarre capers (like pepper spray in evening gowns) to try and win the coveted crown. So encouraging a bunch of pent-up felons to compete for a title .... well, I don't think it will result in the crowning of Miss Congeniality. And if you look at the faces of the other contestants behind the woman in the video who wins the pageant - well, they look like they want to kill her, and among this swath of the population....it may not be such an empty threat! Bozhe moy.
4.15.2008
"Gifts" that I hope Santa would never, ever bring me
Let me preface this with a disclaimer: I understand mental illness isn't a joke. I have people close to me with various psychiatric issues. (Surprisingly, the charming individual I see reflected in mirrors isn't one of them.) So please, don't tell me I am dismissing outright the plight of people with psychiatric illness.
That being said, what the hella? This is the lamest thing I have ever read:
MPG??? Multiple Personality Gift???? WTH? Um......where to even begin? So-called "people first" language? Gag me with a big ol' spoonful of politically correct bullshit. Sorry, but as a student of grammar, there really isn't a difference between saying "disabled individual" and "individual with disabilities." I get the point, okay? People don't want to be defined by their physical limitations/deafness/blindness/mental illness/whatever. Fine! Good, in fact! I wouldn't want to be thought of as no more than an extension of my so-called "disability" either, were I in their shoes. But for the love of Christ, inverting word order doesn't make a damn bit of difference. It really doesn't. If someone is describing me at a cocktail party, do I see any difference between saying "the red-haired girl" and "the girl with the red hair"? That would be a big fat no. Am I defined by my hair color .... or occupation ..... or race ..... or economic background ..... or the fact that I have a super rare brain condition that makes my eyes flicker slightly and gave me a photographic memory when I was little? Uh.....only if I let those things define me. So too with "people first" language. You wanna put yourself before your disability? Fabulous! Do it by acting like an individual who is, as all individuals are, a composite of many traits. But kowtowing to awkward, sanctimonious language in the name of political correctness makes me want to vomit on my Ferragamo loafers.
And more to the point - MPG? Multiple personalities as a gift? Shit, that seems a bit presumptuous. I have a relative who's schizophrenic, and I don't think he sees it as a gift. I'm sure he would love to change the chemical imbalance in his brain. He can't. But to call something that is often debilitating and most certainly frustrating for the person who has it a "gift" seems callous at best, and smug and offensive at worst. Multiple personality gift? What next? Cancer gift? Tuberculosis surprise? Depression present? I'm not diminishing the severity of the conditions; I'm mocking the morons that are so uncomfortable talking about tough conditions that they couch everything in bullshit, nicey-nice terms (and are ohsoquick to cry foul if you say anything on the topic whatsoever). You're not doing anyone a favor, folks: certainly not the people who are often described in such saccherine terms, people who (I would guess) would rather just think of themselves as, well, people....not recipients of bizarre "gifts" a la Sybil.
That being said, what the hella? This is the lamest thing I have ever read:
MPG??? Multiple Personality Gift???? WTH? Um......where to even begin? So-called "people first" language? Gag me with a big ol' spoonful of politically correct bullshit. Sorry, but as a student of grammar, there really isn't a difference between saying "disabled individual" and "individual with disabilities." I get the point, okay? People don't want to be defined by their physical limitations/deafness/blindness/mental illness/whatever. Fine! Good, in fact! I wouldn't want to be thought of as no more than an extension of my so-called "disability" either, were I in their shoes. But for the love of Christ, inverting word order doesn't make a damn bit of difference. It really doesn't. If someone is describing me at a cocktail party, do I see any difference between saying "the red-haired girl" and "the girl with the red hair"? That would be a big fat no. Am I defined by my hair color .... or occupation ..... or race ..... or economic background ..... or the fact that I have a super rare brain condition that makes my eyes flicker slightly and gave me a photographic memory when I was little? Uh.....only if I let those things define me. So too with "people first" language. You wanna put yourself before your disability? Fabulous! Do it by acting like an individual who is, as all individuals are, a composite of many traits. But kowtowing to awkward, sanctimonious language in the name of political correctness makes me want to vomit on my Ferragamo loafers.
And more to the point - MPG? Multiple personalities as a gift? Shit, that seems a bit presumptuous. I have a relative who's schizophrenic, and I don't think he sees it as a gift. I'm sure he would love to change the chemical imbalance in his brain. He can't. But to call something that is often debilitating and most certainly frustrating for the person who has it a "gift" seems callous at best, and smug and offensive at worst. Multiple personality gift? What next? Cancer gift? Tuberculosis surprise? Depression present? I'm not diminishing the severity of the conditions; I'm mocking the morons that are so uncomfortable talking about tough conditions that they couch everything in bullshit, nicey-nice terms (and are ohsoquick to cry foul if you say anything on the topic whatsoever). You're not doing anyone a favor, folks: certainly not the people who are often described in such saccherine terms, people who (I would guess) would rather just think of themselves as, well, people....not recipients of bizarre "gifts" a la Sybil.
4.14.2008
Win, place, show me some grammar!
Some astute readers have pointed me to Monday's pet peeve du jour (aside from finding out from my accountant that I owe the IRS a while bundle o' cash ....a what the hella moment of a decidedly different sort!!) I must say, this example combines one of my greatest loves (horses) with my grammatical raison d'etre.....
Yes, folks....not to, uh, beat a dead horse (!!!) but orientate once again rears its ugly head - this time, in potentially a very literal fashion. This lovely equine specimen (whose stud fees - the money owners of mares pay to breed their horse to this strapping fellow- are thankfully more than the money I owe the IRS) deserves owners who would pick a proper, dignified name, fit for a champion.
But, no. Instead, this unfortunate fellow (ok, his job is pretty much to eat and breed, so maybe not so unfortunate) wound up with a name designed to induce cringes in the hearts of grammar Nazis everywhere: Orientate.
WHY???? There have been plenty of unusual racehorse names in the past, many of which could cause a sane person to shake their head (adorned with a Derby day hat, preferably) and ask, "what the hella?" This delightful article highlights the inconsistent application of an old Jockey Club rule barring obscene or vulgar names from its books. (How then, you wonder, did horses with names like Blow Me, Go Down, Hard Like a Rock, Bodacious Tatas, and On Your Knees make it, er, out of the gate? Or how about the deliciously naughty-to-say names like Hardawn and Cunning Stunt?) And yet, my friends at the Jockey Club, how can you allow such an utter profanity of all things grammatical and right by registering a stud named ..... ORIENTATE???
I will resist the urge to spew off a string of horsey puns, but let it suffice to say, if this racehorse was gifted with Mr. Ed's unique abilities and was asked to comment on his own name, I'm sure the chap would be indignant enough to ask, appropriately, "what the hay-la?"
Yes, folks....not to, uh, beat a dead horse (!!!) but orientate once again rears its ugly head - this time, in potentially a very literal fashion. This lovely equine specimen (whose stud fees - the money owners of mares pay to breed their horse to this strapping fellow- are thankfully more than the money I owe the IRS) deserves owners who would pick a proper, dignified name, fit for a champion.
But, no. Instead, this unfortunate fellow (ok, his job is pretty much to eat and breed, so maybe not so unfortunate) wound up with a name designed to induce cringes in the hearts of grammar Nazis everywhere: Orientate.
WHY???? There have been plenty of unusual racehorse names in the past, many of which could cause a sane person to shake their head (adorned with a Derby day hat, preferably) and ask, "what the hella?" This delightful article highlights the inconsistent application of an old Jockey Club rule barring obscene or vulgar names from its books. (How then, you wonder, did horses with names like Blow Me, Go Down, Hard Like a Rock, Bodacious Tatas, and On Your Knees make it, er, out of the gate? Or how about the deliciously naughty-to-say names like Hardawn and Cunning Stunt?) And yet, my friends at the Jockey Club, how can you allow such an utter profanity of all things grammatical and right by registering a stud named ..... ORIENTATE???
I will resist the urge to spew off a string of horsey puns, but let it suffice to say, if this racehorse was gifted with Mr. Ed's unique abilities and was asked to comment on his own name, I'm sure the chap would be indignant enough to ask, appropriately, "what the hay-la?"
4.09.2008
A "very" "special" blog "post"
Wonderful. I love it. And I know my fellow Grammar Nazis will, too!
Now I need to make a collection of misused apostrophes - my all-time biggest grammatical pet-peeve (well, maybe except the your/you're thing - although I suppose it's kind of the same deal - and orientate, about which I have already shared my feelings!)
Every year at Christmas, when I get a card signed: "Love, the Smith's" it makes me cringe, and my respect-o-meter drops precipitously. (Usually such dunces get crossed off the list for following seasons....hey, you definitely can have too many friends.) It is my new life's mission to STAMP OUT the use of improper apostrophes, one damned false possessive at a time.
Now I need to make a collection of misused apostrophes - my all-time biggest grammatical pet-peeve (well, maybe except the your/you're thing - although I suppose it's kind of the same deal - and orientate, about which I have already shared my feelings!)
Every year at Christmas, when I get a card signed: "Love, the Smith's" it makes me cringe, and my respect-o-meter drops precipitously. (Usually such dunces get crossed off the list for following seasons....hey, you definitely can have too many friends.) It is my new life's mission to STAMP OUT the use of improper apostrophes, one damned false possessive at a time.
4.04.2008
A rant about child-rearing and (faux?) fuzzy animals
This article makes me very sad. Alas, it's not what the hella in a ha-ha way ... but the premise behind this smug New York cosmopolitan writer's article makes me grit my teeth and mutter those three immortal words (and other, less family-friendly ones) to myself nonetheless.
As a child, I had a definite love affair with stuffed animals. I had, by the time I was 9 and moved overseas to China, amassed a collection of every imaginable species, which overflowed my queen-sized bed, my window seat, and one of those child-sized cottage playhouses so you literally could not see the floor. My subsequent travels around the world spurred me to collect the newest specimen from each country I visited - a dingo from Australia, a gecko from Indonesia, a rare blue-winged penguin from the South Island of New Zealand. To this day, I - an otherwise-functioning, professional, sometimes cynical adult with little patience for treacle or overwrought sentimentality - still bring a small fuzzy horse with me as a pillow/diversion on business trips (ssh, don't tell my boss), and my postmodern black & white bed is still inhabited (I will confess) by Marmalade, my dirty, careworn orange tabby cat/childhood best friend.
So yes, this drivel struck a bit of a nerve. I think that - especially in the 21st century, where kids grow more and more divorced from nature and creative play and imagination by the year (why build forts or invent animal kingdoms or play tag when you can plop in front of the Internet, flick on some cartoons, or kill stuff on your X-Box?) - anyhow, I think there's some value in encouraging kids to play imaginatively. Caring for something, loving it - even if it's just a made-in-Korea mish-mash of polyester fur and glass bead eyes - encourages creative thought, teaches empathy, instills the desire to care for a creature dependent on you (a nice precursor to a pet or - dare I say? - a husband!!), and lets kids be kids....not these cynical mini-adults in designer togs that are watching David Lynch films and sipping black coffee at age 8.
So what message is this smarmy author sending, when she remarks (you can hear the cynicism and indignation dripping from each consonant), "...This would be an act of betrayal, because as every good child knows, you are supposed to love your stuffed animal no matter how worn and dirty, and reject any shiny cheap-date substitute." Maybe I'm extrapolating here, but this comment raises my hackles because it's a parallel (albeit on a very small scale) to the "everything's disposable" mindset of modern society. Don't like your marriage, your pet, your house, your job? Toss it away and get a new one, a shinier model - hell, buy it on credit! Don't bother developing attachments to things - it's not the relationship itself but the acquisition that matters.
Apparently for Ms. Bazelon, imaginative play isn't as "harmless" as it seems. Lose your beloved stuffed animal, one that you - as a child, mind you - have developed a bond with? No problem. Just hop on down to Toys 'R Us and get another one. Sure, I'm not a nutter - it is, after all, just an object. But the meaning a child invests in an object, I think, extends well beyond the fur and stuffing. I remember when my sister left her favorite stuffed animal - a small purple rabbit - in our hotel room in Bali, and how my parents worked tirelessly with the concierge, the Indonesian and Chinese post offices, etc. to make sure she got her special buddy back. Could they have gone out and bought another one? Uh, sure. But that wasn't the point, wasn't the point at all.
I wonder if this article's author disabuses her children of the notion of Santa Clause or the Tooth Fairy too, even when they're at an age when they still themselves believe, because it's simply too irrational and silly and, well, childish? And really, how hard is it to make the leap from 'eh, it's just a stuffed animal' to 'eh it's just a puppy?' In a few years, perhaps her son will go from wanting a Webkinz to a real-life pup. And when said pup (or cat or snake or pony or hamster or whatever) becomes a nuisance, shreds the rug because you've set no limits, pees on the carpet because you never bothered to housebreak him, jumps on the postman because you never socialized him. runs away because you didn't fence your yard - what then? Why, pop in to the pet shop (it's just a commodity - no need to research a responsible breeder or anything so taxing) and get a shiny new version, Puppy 2.0
It makes me ill. Let kids be kids. Let them love their fuzzy stuffed animals Let them imagine. Let them prefer their snotty-smelling, dog-eared, worn fur teddy bear to the new model you just bought them. Maybe then your child will grow up with an appreciation of things beyond mere commodity, maybe they'll grow up with empathy and responsibility and critical/creative thought and - dare I say?- the ability to invest themselves in something, to love? I may not be the perfect wife, the perfect daughter, the perfect friend, but every time I look in Marmy's glossy green eyes, I think how she was there with me as I grew up - a confidant, a friend - and how she helped me teach myself lessons that I draw on to this day. I feel sorry for your kids, Emily Bazelon. You've cheated them of something precious and formative.
As a child, I had a definite love affair with stuffed animals. I had, by the time I was 9 and moved overseas to China, amassed a collection of every imaginable species, which overflowed my queen-sized bed, my window seat, and one of those child-sized cottage playhouses so you literally could not see the floor. My subsequent travels around the world spurred me to collect the newest specimen from each country I visited - a dingo from Australia, a gecko from Indonesia, a rare blue-winged penguin from the South Island of New Zealand. To this day, I - an otherwise-functioning, professional, sometimes cynical adult with little patience for treacle or overwrought sentimentality - still bring a small fuzzy horse with me as a pillow/diversion on business trips (ssh, don't tell my boss), and my postmodern black & white bed is still inhabited (I will confess) by Marmalade, my dirty, careworn orange tabby cat/childhood best friend.
So yes, this drivel struck a bit of a nerve. I think that - especially in the 21st century, where kids grow more and more divorced from nature and creative play and imagination by the year (why build forts or invent animal kingdoms or play tag when you can plop in front of the Internet, flick on some cartoons, or kill stuff on your X-Box?) - anyhow, I think there's some value in encouraging kids to play imaginatively. Caring for something, loving it - even if it's just a made-in-Korea mish-mash of polyester fur and glass bead eyes - encourages creative thought, teaches empathy, instills the desire to care for a creature dependent on you (a nice precursor to a pet or - dare I say? - a husband!!), and lets kids be kids....not these cynical mini-adults in designer togs that are watching David Lynch films and sipping black coffee at age 8.
So what message is this smarmy author sending, when she remarks (you can hear the cynicism and indignation dripping from each consonant), "...This would be an act of betrayal, because as every good child knows, you are supposed to love your stuffed animal no matter how worn and dirty, and reject any shiny cheap-date substitute." Maybe I'm extrapolating here, but this comment raises my hackles because it's a parallel (albeit on a very small scale) to the "everything's disposable" mindset of modern society. Don't like your marriage, your pet, your house, your job? Toss it away and get a new one, a shinier model - hell, buy it on credit! Don't bother developing attachments to things - it's not the relationship itself but the acquisition that matters.
Apparently for Ms. Bazelon, imaginative play isn't as "harmless" as it seems. Lose your beloved stuffed animal, one that you - as a child, mind you - have developed a bond with? No problem. Just hop on down to Toys 'R Us and get another one. Sure, I'm not a nutter - it is, after all, just an object. But the meaning a child invests in an object, I think, extends well beyond the fur and stuffing. I remember when my sister left her favorite stuffed animal - a small purple rabbit - in our hotel room in Bali, and how my parents worked tirelessly with the concierge, the Indonesian and Chinese post offices, etc. to make sure she got her special buddy back. Could they have gone out and bought another one? Uh, sure. But that wasn't the point, wasn't the point at all.
I wonder if this article's author disabuses her children of the notion of Santa Clause or the Tooth Fairy too, even when they're at an age when they still themselves believe, because it's simply too irrational and silly and, well, childish? And really, how hard is it to make the leap from 'eh, it's just a stuffed animal' to 'eh it's just a puppy?' In a few years, perhaps her son will go from wanting a Webkinz to a real-life pup. And when said pup (or cat or snake or pony or hamster or whatever) becomes a nuisance, shreds the rug because you've set no limits, pees on the carpet because you never bothered to housebreak him, jumps on the postman because you never socialized him. runs away because you didn't fence your yard - what then? Why, pop in to the pet shop (it's just a commodity - no need to research a responsible breeder or anything so taxing) and get a shiny new version, Puppy 2.0
It makes me ill. Let kids be kids. Let them love their fuzzy stuffed animals Let them imagine. Let them prefer their snotty-smelling, dog-eared, worn fur teddy bear to the new model you just bought them. Maybe then your child will grow up with an appreciation of things beyond mere commodity, maybe they'll grow up with empathy and responsibility and critical/creative thought and - dare I say?- the ability to invest themselves in something, to love? I may not be the perfect wife, the perfect daughter, the perfect friend, but every time I look in Marmy's glossy green eyes, I think how she was there with me as I grew up - a confidant, a friend - and how she helped me teach myself lessons that I draw on to this day. I feel sorry for your kids, Emily Bazelon. You've cheated them of something precious and formative.
4.02.2008
It's not quite the Jeffersonian, but...
An alert (and like-minded) friend brought this gem to my attention, and it has me utterly tickled. We all know that one of the perks of being a president is that you get things named after you. JFK, Reagan, and Bush Sr. get airports. Lincoln gets the Memorial, Washington gets the Monument, and so forth. This begs a fascinating question - what will our soon-to-be ex president, Bush Jr., leave behind as his legacy? (Beyond, you know, 2 wars, skyrocketing national debt, and a cache of one-liner malapropisms that will live on well past his tenure in the Oval Office...) A ranch? A weapons facility? A school (I shudder at the thought!)
Good guesses, but no. Instead, the city of San Francisco currently has in development (pending a vote) another sort of memorial in store for Dubya, one that is eerily reminiscent of his legacy and "accomplishments" in office. Yes, ladies & gents, the good citizens of San-Fran are proposing renaming the Oceanside Wastewater Treatment Facility the George W. Bush Sewage Plant.
Genius.
Good guesses, but no. Instead, the city of San Francisco currently has in development (pending a vote) another sort of memorial in store for Dubya, one that is eerily reminiscent of his legacy and "accomplishments" in office. Yes, ladies & gents, the good citizens of San-Fran are proposing renaming the Oceanside Wastewater Treatment Facility the George W. Bush Sewage Plant.
Genius.
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