Jeris Donovan's Open Salon Blog

Dicked by Diego

Tue, 27 Jul 2010 20:07:02 -0400

As an ex-gender studies teacher and mom of an extremely feminine 3 yr old (won’t get out of her car seat before applying pink frosted lip gloss) girl that I swear was implanted into my womb by aliens, the hairs on my neck stand up when cartoons reinforce stereotypical gendered roles. I have practically bit my tongue in half watching princess movies with her, but I expect a Disney storyline to be a wee bit misogynistic. I am grateful for surprises like Barbie swashbuckling and kicking ass in Three MuskeBarbieteers or whatever it’s called, but encourage heroines with depth like Word Girl whose superior erudition solves crime. I thought I found such a heroine in the adorably plucky Dora, and then I watched Diego.

What first caught my ire was the difference in theme songs. I used to think the Dora theme song was catchy, festive, gender neutral, until I heard the jungle drums and tribal chanting of “Go Diego Go” and had a desire to get primitive myself. When my dog heard it, she dry humped a pillow. The song, like Daniel Craig’s eyes, creates complete confidence in Diego’s ability to save anything. It perfectly introduces the “rough and tough adventurer, working all the time” whereas Dora’s playful samba in comparison, introduces a tickle party. Not fair. I’m not suggesting Iron Maiden, but if they really are sending this girl into the jungle on her own, her music needs to be more Dirty Harry, less Mariah Carey. Sure Word Girl’s theme song might elicit visions of cage dancers in go-go boots, but they are groin kicking cage dancers in go-go boots.

Speaking of boots… Originally, the creators of Dora thought a white mouse would be a good partner because it could travel in her pocket, but then opted for a monkey. Did they learn nothing from Friends? Monkeys are not assets, especially dimwitted monkeys who think the proper attire for jungle survival is Napoleon Dynamite boots. But, what does Diego get? A baby jaguar. A fucking baby jaguar age estimated between playful companion and undiscerning carnivore. Now that is a sidekick! Although Baby Jaguar is younger than Boots the timing of his “Reahr Reahr” and the precision of his paw pointing indicates he is far more intelligent. In the jungle a person wants someone who offers resourceful insights other than, “I love my ball! My ball is round!” Boots is as helpful as an umbrella in a hurricane. Dora needs a hypogriff.

Okay, so Boots is impotent, so what. Dora has Backpack, right? As the Nadia Bloom ordeal confirmed, the wild is no place for an ill-equipped, young girl. Next time Backpack quizzes Dora with the loopty-loop of options (tortuous if time is the enemy) notice the majority of contents are completely ridiculous. In one episode, an ice cream cone floated in the mix. Creators, shame on you for insulting my daughter’s intelligence. A fucking ice cream cone as a tool for jungle exploring? Maybe as a delicioso snack while she waits for a boa constrictor to squeeze her to death, that is unless it melts first. Diego NEVER has a useless tool as an option, never. He gets a kayak, a hanglider, a gun… whatever you need! We can do it! Nothin’ to it! Rescue Pack wants to save Diego’s ass at all costs, not lend him a stick of gum. Rescue pack would kill Backpack if necessary. No wonder one of Dora and Backpack’s biggest challenges was returning books to the library.

After comparing the two shows, I am lead to believe the creators don’t take Dora too seriously. They and her computer drawn parents encourage her cute little escapades knowing there is never any real risk. Dora is simply “exploring”. But Diego? He has “rescue adventures” and overcomes “perilous obstacles” (1), meaning… he could die. I’m not satisfied with the disparity. I want a cross over show. I want Diego to have an appendectomy and for Dora to take charge. No, I want Dora to slip him a ruffie, bind him and shove him in the closet then tell everyone he had an appendectomy. Then hack into Click, repel out of the tree house, ultimate fight the Bo Bo Brothers (those assholes have it coming), and recite Shakespeare while saving a penguin from the jaws of a killer whale. And I want Diego spend an afternoon patiently showing Boots how to climb a tree.

~Cue Fiesta Trio

(1) http://www.cartoonwatcher.com/go-diego-go/go-diego-go-information.php

Reflections on Missouri: A healthy fear of nature

Fri, 9 Jul 2010 18:07:13 -0400

I finally saw The Lovely Bones; it finally made its way to RedBox. It has made me think about a momma duck that lived in the small pond at our hovel of a place in Florida. Hovel may be a strong word, but I can only slightly defend the place by saying that it was in a great location; however, with the economy, so many of the condos were pre-foreclosure that owners were throwing any warm body inside to help avoid the final ax. Some townies referred to it as the frat house. Of course as transplants from Illinois, we didn’t know this during our two day just-find-a-place-to-live-until-we-find-a-house visit. We were sold on the perfect location and cheap price- we had two pay two mortgages until we sold the old house. In the year we spent there, we saw tenants come and go much like the wildlife on the pond.

The pond had a landmark fountain that rumbled loudly and shot water fifteen feet into the air. I was so thankful for that constant noise because it drowned out the various neighbors who shared each of our walls. It is what made that pond a necessary mental respite and what attracted so much animal activity. In the morning the kids and I watched wood storks and herons pierce their breakfast, in the afternoons we spotted alligator snapper turtles and the rest of the time we fed visiting and resident ducks more bread than necessary.

We presumed a certain duck (Boston the kids named him) knocked up one of two female ducks (Addison and Abigail) because one of them showed up with eight ducklings swimming behind her. Their arrival was an awesome opportunity to discuss nature with my kids but conversely became a distressing opportunity to discuss nature when the first of the eight ducklings disappeared. “Let’s check on the ducks!” developed an ominous intention. The girls prayed every night that “all seven”… “all four”… “both baby ducks”…would be there in the morning. The final two had almost made it through puberty when one got caught in fishing line and was captured and taken to an animal hospital by our downstairs neighbor. After two weeks she returned and the welcome she received from her visibly overjoyed mother made me cry.

The fishing line incident was avoidable, the actions of a bored, young boy. The mom was an administrative manager at a car dealership and the dad, after losing his job, became a stay at home dad of an 8 month old, four year old, and six year old, all boys. He explained this to me one day when his boys and my girls played in the common yard. “My wife can’t stay at home. She can only handle so much of them then she needs a break,” he explained. It was shortly after one in the afternoon and his breath smelled of beer. With the eight month old in a carrier on his back, he gave me a quick tour as I stood in the doorway. “I think I could take on another kid but I’m really only comfortable with boys. If you know of anyone who needs someone to look after their son, let me know,” he said. “Now, I do have a beer after noon if I’m watching my kids, but I wouldn’t do that I had someone else’s kid to watch.” It was one heck of a sales pitch.

Over the next few months, I noticed they moved from the second floor to the first, and then eventually out. He and the baby remained holed up most days, sometimes opening the door in an attempt to listen for the voices of the other two boys through the sounds of crashing water. The boys explored the complex with any other loose kid they could scrape up, and there were many. Being aware of that bothered me, but when the boys played in the pond it really put me on edge. There was a sign that read ‘Alligators in the pond DO NOT FEED” and rumor of a stray alligator that made its way to the pond years ago. But that wasn’t what worried me; neither boy could swim. The pond had deep sides and the bottom was a sink hole. When months earlier a car crashed through the iron fence and flipped into our pond, the driver struggled out of the muck like a zombie in a horror film and she was only five feet from the edge. One slip and those little boys would be sucked in. I assume the dad wasn’t as concerned; he gave the boys a fishing pole.

Once I saw the middle boy “fishing” unmonitored with a real hook and no bait. The girls were taking a nap but instead of relaxing, I had a nagging need to keep an eye on him. My dad was a fisherman; I know a thing or two about proper casting. It was a miracle the boy didn’t catch his own eye. Thankfully he had little patience and gave up quickly, throwing the pole down on the ground and running to nowhere. I can only assume he tried again later, caught the line up, and abandoned the pole in the water. When they pulled the line that constricted the young duck’s leg it unearthed his pole from the muck.

What bothered me the most was that with a little parental guidance…I mean, God knows momma duck had enough natural enemies. But, then so did that boy. Condo complexes like that, with temporary dwellers, are the perfect places for the worst possible scenarios. I once noticed the four year old was limping and asked the boy about it. His brother said he jumped off the second floor of another apartment building. I knocked on the door to inform the dad: “I wondered why he was walking funny. He said he tripped.” The dad had no idea that at one point his son was two buildings away, alone, injured, and vulnerable. Fate, life, nature, whatever you call it, ensures that plenty will happen to our children, good and unfortunately bad, but to test the bad, ignore it, and almost dare the negative possibilities is unconscionable. During their stay at the complex, a girl named Summer was taken from a neighborhood a few miles away as she and her brother walked home from school. Shortly after, I caught the boys alone, playing outside our “gated” complex near the four lane beach highway.

Our downstairs neighbor said that when number six was taken under water, momma duck screamed at the water for an hour while the others huddled nearby. This week a four year old girl was taken in right front of her brother, right in front of her house, while her mom cooked dinner. Some may say I am overly concerned. I can’t tell you how many times during baths I recount my children’s birthmarks. I admit to ruthless mental fist fights with fictitious strangers who attempt to attack me or my children. My husband would say I am a victim of media fright, but I also know what murderous rage would be unleashed should anything happen to his girls. I am smart enough to know I can’t live in paranoia and smart enough to know I can’t ignore the battle of good and evil in nature. Despite my fears, I will keep swimming with eyes wide open, intuition fired, praying that my ducklings will never disappear into the muck. And praying for those boys.

Heres To Dad, To Hell With Father

Mon, 14 Jun 2010 15:06:35 -0400

People have told me I take after my father. Like most, I rush to agree with the favorable attributes but upon reflection, I share his less than desirable qualities as well. For example, my father was on academic probation during his college days at Fort Hays State but was granted the additional moral probation for throwing an epic party for a football game… in a hotel room… with girls. (It was the late 50s after all) His first wife, my mother, told us they met during a Homecoming parade. She was stuck on a float dressed like an angel and he was the drunk guy yelling at her from the street, “Hey, look at the angel! The preddy, preddy angel!” Those who attended college with me, okay those who know me, would say the apple rolled down the side of the tree and stopped at the root.

I think his joi de vivre stemmed from having nothing to lose. My grandmother, a school teacher, had him late in an impoverished life. They lived in rural Western Kansas and moved from boarding room to boarding room, even living in a school house at one point: dad slept in the wood box and she on a bench. In order to go to college, he worked and played on three sports teams for the scholarships. There was no money for on-campus housing so a coach let him sleep on a cot in the upper deck of the field house. Eventually he had to enlist in the Army. One of my favorite stories is his attempt upon return to join a fraternity. The president of the house told him, “Kneel down and shine my shoes.” My father kneeled down then used the momentum to jump punch him in the face.

Obviously, my father didn’t tolerate unearned entitlement, something I also share (seriously Sean Combs, a 360k car for your 16 yr old?). He had two schools of thought: “nip it in the bud” and “give ‘em enough rope to hang themselves”.

An example of the latter:

While teaching a high school history lesson one day, a student proceeded to eat sunflower seeds and spit the shells on the floor, all the while staring at my father for a reaction. Five minutes before class ended, my dad slowly walked over to the kid’s desk and asked him to pick up the shells. “How’m I gonna do that?” he asked. “Exactly how you put ‘em there, with your tongue,” dad responded. He then brought the trash can over to the boy and stood over him, watching until every shell was licked up and spit out in the proper place.

An example of the former:

No student was ever sent to the principal’s office. He preferred “private chats” in the hallway.

As he aged, my father became a dormant volcano, awesome yet terrifying. I honestly don’t remember any spankings that he gave me, but I am still in fear of getting one and he has been dead five years. That’s power. My mom drew on that power. If she couldn’t get the desired response from us, she just had to whisper his name. I try to project that power on my husband but he’s as consistent as Phil Dunphy from Modern Family. He needs to work on the “impending doom walk” but his “What’s the problem!?” is coming along nicely.

When I told my father I was going to marry him, he said, “He’s a little young, but I’m sure you’ll have fun.” He was right. He might not be the most mature man on the planet but we have had a helluvalot more fun than my family did growing up and we are only five years in. That is because my kids have a Dad and my sister and I had a Father. I didn’t realize there was a difference until my father explained this to me on his death bed. “I wasn’t a good dad,” he said, “I was a good father, but I wasn’t a dad to you.” Somewhere along his life the party boy, redneck, beer bootlegger was overtaken by an academic businessman who only cut loose with a few close friends. That carried over into his parenting. When we were in high school, he didn’t want to hear about boys or gossip, “How are your grades? Talk to your mother.” When we got to college, “Are you going to class? Talk to your mother.” When we left home, “Do you have money? Talk to your mother.” He would have been surprised to know that like him in college, I was more social than studious, more saavy than skilled and more sloshed than sober. But then that would have made me his kid, not his daughter.

So instead of honoring my Father on Father’s Day, I am going to honor the Dad he wanted to be. The guy who would rather be watching A Man Called Horse, drinking Coors beer and eating sunflower seeds off his stomach. The guy who used to ask me to pop his toes or walk on his back. The guy who smoked since he was 12 and fished since he was 5. The guy who spent summers sitting on a combine somewhere between Kansas and Texas and the guy who liked to watch tornados from his roof. And I’m going to pledge be exactly like him.

My Breakthrough in Birthday Rehab

Tue, 4 May 2010 11:05:45 -0400

China Doll’s birthday is coming up and I am honoring my pledge to always make my kids’ birthday cakes. Obviously, the day will come when their request will be more than my skill level can handle, but until then I’ll do my damndest. So far, I’ve made a Tow Mater cake, a Ninja Turtle cake, a Superman cake, a flowery #1 the size of Indiana and a Barney cake (with the help of edible images). None of them would win an award, well maybe the Tow Mater- that was pretty damn cool if I do say so myself, but that is not the point. The point is through all the confectioners sugar, the cussing, and the self doubt, I am showing my kids that I love them by getting off my ass and creating something from my heart (with the help of a little wine). So what if it gets so muggy that the plastic Superman slides off the awesome Earth I crafted. He was there. I was there. As a mom, I showed up.

Will they ever appreciate it? Yes, but not until they have kids. I appreciate that my mom made our cakes until we reached middle school. Of course, she had to because we lived in a tiny town in Kansas with two even tinier grocery stores. But when she started working full time, she decided to outsource the cake making to a woman who lived five miles out of town in a small ranch house on a hill. I’ve never been inside that house; I just remember staring at it from the passenger seat while she went inside to make the transaction. The irony is that during the day, my mom ran a kitchen that fed the elderly of the county. Her job required her to make massive sheet cakes. I try to give her the gynecologist’s out: after looking at them all day, the last thing you want is to see one at home. However, I would have to say that as soon as she stopped making our cakes, progressively stopped showing up, especially for birthdays.

I remember one January my college break coincided with my sister’s birthday and she was going to come home. I was astonished that my mom had done nothing for this magical alignment of the stars. Unbeknownst to my sister, I scrambled to put together a cake and small party to create the façade that my mother (and father, he should be held accountable for that bullshit as well) cared. My sister got off lucky; it only happened once. In the course of my life, my parents have forgotten my birthday at least three times. One time their excuse was that it fell on the same weekend as graduation and my dad was a college president. Note: my father was a college president for thirty years and calendars have been around for several hundred. Another time, my mother purposely ignored it because she was protesting my upcoming move to New York. A third time was because they were just being mindless idiots. I can say that because I was born Mother’s Day Eve.

What an extraordinary coincidence for a woman; to be blessed with giving birth on the eve of Mother’s Day! A feat like that should be honored. And I did, every year with at least a card, which makes it even richer that during that hectic graduation weekend, my mom took the time to read my card:

Ah, yes. Mother’s Day. I am so lucky to be a mother. I remember giving birth to my first daughter…a cold, January day in that small hospital. And Jeris, my second…it was warmer then, spring I think…yes, spring because… Oh My God! When did I chip that nail?

Big surprise, I am no longer a fan of my birthday. I am especially confused by those who treat their birthday like the second coming or those who celebrate their “half birthday” with great zeal. But now that I am a parent and my birthday is coupled with Mother’s Day, there has been a slight change. When the holidays coincided last year, part of me thought I should be treated like a spoiled celebrity. The other part of me just wanted some quiet time at a Starbucks. The spoiled celebrity part shows progress.

I do have great enthusiasm for my kids’ birthdays and some may say that the Gucci baggage I carry with me about my birthday has created my fixation with making my kids’ cakes. To those people I say, “Did that C in Intro to Psych affect your GPA that much?” The real reason I want to make my kids’ birthdays special is because unlike my own parents, I realize it’s their birth…day! Their birthday is a yearly celebration that Hubby and I wanted them here on this earth and they came… to tolerate our parental blunders and eat what we say is good for them and go to bed when it’s this thing called 8:00. The least we can do is make a four tower princess castle cake with real plastic Disney princesses on top. The least I can do is show up.

Sahmmy.com Caption Contest!

Mon, 3 May 2010 16:05:58 -0400

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