Cindy
Droog
Read Cindy's bio and previous columns
April 28, 2008
PBS and Disney Covertly Infiltrate My House, But I Will Fight
Back
A close friend of mine,
Tony, who is unmarried, doesn’t have children and lives in an apartment
the approximate size of our son’s nursery, came to visit us from New
York City a few weeks ago. Our house has changed slightly since his last
visit two years ago.
Back then, you could
walk through the living room. Today, it’s much more exciting. You can
actually skateboard through it by hitting – at just the right angle – an
open storybook and sliding to the back door. It’s a quicker trip that
way. Not to mention, my balance has improved immensely.
Then, we had a fully
stocked bar in the kitchen. Within arm’s reach, we had my favorite Pinot
Noir, my husband’s Jack Daniels and ingredients for the perfect 007
martini. And on the bottom shelf, hand-painted cocktail glasses I’d
picked up at a market outside Monterrey, Mexico on a business trip.
That cabinet – open
shelving and all – now lives in our bathroom, serving as the perfect
home for girly and manly shaving creams, living together in harmony. It
had no business being in the kitchen anymore, unless we’d planned to
stock it with animal crackers. Which by the way, are way too crumbly to
use as a substitute for a lime slice in a margarita.
I did have a Sam Adams
on hand to offer Tony that day. Of course, I neglected to tell him it
had been in the fridge since October.
These changes at my
house had been the obvious ones. In fact, my husband and I discuss the
pending reopening of our bar – in 18 years – on a regular basis. But
Tony made another observation, one that we, frankly, had not noticed.
My son’s coloring book?
Handy Manny. His storybooks strewn across the floor? Thomas the Train
and Elmo. His current favorite thing to carry around? A Mr. Incredible
doll. The crackers he was munching on that day? Scooby snacks.
In completely innocent
fashion, Tony said, “Wow! Everything they make for kids today is so
commercialized. They must choose the shows they put on TV solely on
their marketability as toys.”
Hubby and I had
completely missed this. Our son doesn’t even watch TV, save for the
occasional episode of Manny, Sesame Street or Bob the
Builder. He’s never seen a movie. I’ve never even taken him with me
to a toy store.
And here we’d prided
ourselves on a home that was – stress on the “was” – completely
original. Artwork from Bed, Bath and Beyond? We swore it off years ago
after seeing the same print in the houses of two different friends. Pier
One? We stepped foot in there once in the last six years in a moment of
dinner- party-host desperation.
We’d purposely pick up
home décor items only from locally-owned shops in cities far from ours.
It was a thing. Maybe a stupid one, but it was our thing nonetheless.
Here we are,
devastated. We never intended to let PBS or Disney invade our home. They
did so covertly, like those silent termites that pest control companies
advertise about, making you fear that one morning, you’ll leave the
house for work, thinking it’s a normal day, but come home to your roof
sitting on top of your basement, with nothing but your bed linens and
glassware left in between.
So these silent but
deadly marketers play on the ignorance, or perhaps just the busyness, of
moms like me who work full-time and garage-sale for toys on the side.
So now what do I do?
I’m going to do something. I can’t throw away my son’s favorite toys,
prompting him to walk around the house, climbing up and down the stairs
and asking for Horton the bedtime elephant. I can’t tell him the
Lightning McQueen lawn chair (which by the way, was a gift) got broken
when he knows full well it’s indestructible. (Trust me, he’s tried every
way of breaking it.)
But I can – and will –
be more aware of my choices in the future. And I’ll be asking daddy,
grandma, grandpas and aunts with child-spoiling tendencies to do the
same.
And then, ironically,
I’ll get up every morning and go to my job in marketing and advertising.
I just won’t wear the company’s logo as much anymore.
© 2008 North Star Writers
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