PBS and Disney Covertly Infiltrate My House, But I Will Fight Back
by Cindy Droog
Reprinted with permission.
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 Group.
May 6th, 2008 at 9:14 am
I see your point, Ms. Droog.* It’s swell that you’re trying to limit your son’s exposure to rampant consumerism.
But you do sound a tad self-flagellating. Give yourselves credit for what you are doing. Avoid zealotry at all cost. The next thing you know, you and and the son will both lose your senses of humor. Unless you’re careful, your relatives will think you’re a scold.
And worst, you’ll stop drinking forever. Jack Daniels, after all, is owned by the hegemonical $2.4 billion Brown-Forman Corporation, which recently bought another Mexican tequila company, adding to America’s capitalist intrusion into Mexican businesses blah blah blah. That’s not to mention Sam Adams’s infamous “Sex for Sam” campaign that got the hilarious Opie and Anthony kicked off the public airwaves.
I’m not opposed, mind you, to growing organic wheat in your backyard and setting up a still or brewery in the basement. Better, I say, is stop beating yourself up over Thomas the Tank Engine. Treat yourselves to a bottle of Woodford Reserve, a much better whiskey that Brown-Forman also owns. You two and your son will be all the better for it.
*Droog? Really? Like in Clockwork Orange?