Tag Archives: Christmas

Jimmy Kimmel is a Sadist

There.

I said it.

I’m sure I’ll catch flak for this post. Fine. I can take it. I put on my big girl panties this morning.

For those who missed it, late-night guru… couch jockey… whatever Jimmy Kimmel asked parents to tell their children, post Halloween, that they, the parents, had eaten their child’s entire Halloween candy stash. The resultant video, featuring much weeping and gnashing of teeth on the part of the kids, has been making the rounds on YouTube since it aired.

I watched it. Meh.

Was it funny? Not particularly. Kimmel admits at the beginning of the video he expected rather more outrage and rather less crying (for which he apologized). Since neither crying nor outrage are exactly novel at my house, I didn’t find the video all that entertaining and dismissed it as misfire late-night schtick: a bit mean-spirited but mostly harmless.

I guess that “apology” was all TV posturing because Kimmel decided to up the ante for Yuletide. This time, he challenged parents to wrap up some useless crap and tell their kids it was a Christmas present.

Few people who really know me would accuse me of being overly sensitive or deficient in  — admittedly dark — humor. But.

This crosses the line.

From Balloon Boy to Jon and Kate Plus Eight, we know some parents will do eh-nee-thing to get themselves or their kids a television show. Evidently, now it doesn’t even take a whole show. Even a twenty-second blip on a second-tier late night program will motivate parents to parade their children’s emotional trauma for the “pleasure” of the viewing audience.

Sick, depraved and illuminating.

If there is one thing that should motivate our compassion as a people, shouldn’t it be the tears of children?

In case you’re thinking that’s a rhetorical question, the answer is yes.

In fact, I’m going out a limb here and suggest the treatment of children is society’s barometer. The pathos of a crying child should be universal in this day and age. But all you have to do is skim the headlines or browse a few books of recent history to know it is otherwise. Between abusers, molesters, traffickers, genocide, abortion, famine, and people who blow themselves up in public places, I’d say our world is pretty nonchalant about the sufferings of children. Maybe that’s why I don’t find this stunt amusing.

Kids cry. And sometimes it’s funny. Sometimes I even laugh when mine are crying. Occasionally, I laugh because it’s the only way I can keep from falling on the floor beside them and crying my own eyes out. But I don’t coax my kids into crying so I can have a few yuks. Here we have a manufactured scenario, created for the express purpose of provoking a gut-wrenching emotional response in a child. For the amusement of strangers. On TV. And now YouTube. At the behest of a guy who gets paid for a ratings spike.

Why not just jab the kid with a sharp stick and film him while he bleeds? Hilarious, no?

Let’s say you call up a bride-to-be the week before her wedding and pretend you’re from the bridal salon. Tell her you knocked over a unity candle. Her dress burned to a crisp but, not to worry, you’re sending over a replacement picked out by her mother-in-law. Hang up the phone. And hide. Actually, change your name, dye your hair, ditch your cell phone and then hide. In a tiny motel that only takes cash on the outskirts of Temecula.

I give you about twelve hours before an angry bride is at your door with pliers and a blowtorch.

Adults don’t appreciate having their emotions toyed with. Why is it okay to do it to a child? Oh, right, because they can’t fight back. Where I come from, we call that bullying, which Jimmy Kimmel is apparently against.

And while we’re at it, what about privacy? If you’re in Target and the two-year-old flashes her panties to the entire crowd at Register 9, don’t you yank down the hem and tell her some things are not for public display? Should we be less concerned about our kids’ emotional privacy?

But, alas. Now we have YouTube, enabling us to milk our kids’ peccadilloes for web traffic. Even better, let YouTube put up a few ads and you’ve got a whole new revenue stream. In other words, monetize while you traumatize. As parents, we’re supposed to protect our children from exposing themselves (physically and otherwise) until they are mature enough to self-censor. Instead, we’re getting our licks in early, encouraging our kids to expose their emotions to the scrutiny and perhaps ridicule of the world.

Notice Jimmy Kimmel did not film his own children. No, no — a celebrity’s children are entitled to privacy. Instead, like a phalanx of mindless drones, his viewers manipulate their offspring and made sure to get in on film.

I suppose I’m not really angry at Jimmy Kimmel. I can’t blame the sideshow clown who gets paid for making people, um, cry. I can, however, take serious umbrage with the complicit idiots who treat their kids’ emotions like a banjo to be played for popular amusement.

But forget society, forget bullying, forget privacy. Here is my real problem: this kind of machination compromises the integrity of the parent.

Being a parent is a sacred trust.

Trust doesn’t have to be earned from our children: we receive it, lock-stock-and-barrel, the first time our son or daughter is placed in our arms. Look into the eyes of your newborn baby, feel her little fingers clenched around your own, listen to her sigh as she sleeps against your heart and you will hear her say, without a single word, two things. First, “I am completely dependent on you.” And second, “I know you’ll take care of me.”

Absolute trust.

The tragedy is that in every moment to follow, we have the opportunity to chip away at that trust. Most of us don’t mean to. But it happens.

We promise a trip to the zoo and then the phone rings. We say shots don’t hurt. We exaggerate. We make empty threats. We generalize. We tell polite fibs. We get angry and say things we don’t mean. Sooner or later, kids start to realize their parents don’t always mean exactly what we say. A wise parent manages to teach good manners and flexibility without compromising our dedication to telling the truth. But it’s hard — one of the many highwire acts of parenting.

So why, by all that is holy, would anyone want to hasten their child’s discovery that mom and dad don’t always tell the truth? More importantly, that Mom and Dad will casually lie in order to trick them for a TV stunt? Because if Mom and Dad will lie, who won’t?

You are, in a way, everyone your child will ever meet. Your interactions with him tell him what to expect of other people. Should he expect truth and integrity or manipulation and trickery? Our living, daily example also trains our children what to expect from God. Will they see Him as a loving and sacrificial father or a heartless trickster ready to laugh at their misery?

“If you then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give what is good to those who ask Him!”    — Matthew 7:11

Do you think those children will ever open a Christmas gift again without wondering if they will find another half-eaten sandwich inside? A pinprick in their innocence and sense of wonder may seem small now, but that hole doesn’t close: it only widens as they grow.

I am outraged by I pity the parents who casually undermine their child’s trust. Or innocence. Or sense of wonder. Or even the excitement of Christmas.

Someday my little ones will be mature, experienced adults who sleep soundly on Christmas Eve, don’t mind waiting to open presents if it means they can have a second cup of coffee, and appreciate the boring underwear and gift cards they find under the tree.

I know I will be proud of them. And I know I’ll find myself wishing they had stayed children just a little longer.

That’s the way it should be.

A Very Crafty Christmas, Part II: Transformations

I suppose a New Year is all about transformation. Old becomes new again. The Future becomes The Present. Blah, blah. You get the idea.

I’ve been doing my share of creating lately, only some of which has been posted. Pictures of “The Castle” are still outstanding (mainly because “The Castle” is still under construction…) but that’s not the only thing I’ve been working on.

For example:

Merry Christmas canvas

My only regret is that I didn’t go with green to match the new stockings and tree skirt. Next time.

In addition to making new, I’ve been making over. Which means I’ve become one of “those people” trolling the thrift stores. But let’s back up a few decades.

I can’t tell you the number of hours my siblings and I spent as children, lurking in musty flea markets and thrift stores, enduring many a glare — and sometimes a scolding if we breathed wrong — from a watchful merchant as we waited…and waited…and waited for my mother to stop staring at JUNK and take us home already!

To be fair, my mother was not really an enthusiastic shopper but she had an insatiable lust for books and nary the means to satisfy. Keep in mind that these excursions predated Amazon by about 20 years and our public library was a pretty small affair. With limited resources, used books were the way to go. Any thrift store or flea market with a passable supply of dusty old books read like a tragedy to us: we knew the wait would be interminable.

Occasionally, the boredom would abate when we found something interesting to look at or do. All it really took was an inattentive shopkeeper and we managed a little DIY respite from boredom. Or some level of gothic horror.

I have a vivid memory of a certain flea market in a dilapidated building in downtown Rogers.  Time has obscured the particulars into little more than the impression of the maze of oddly-shaped rooms, sloping board floors, and creaky staircases, but I remember my sister and I finding a certain painting, or perhaps a poster, that terrified us. I don’t have a very clear recollection of the image itself: it was a woman’s face, half-covered — or maybe buried — by something. It seemed she was drowning or smothering.

To understand the enormity, you should know my greatest fear at that age was — wait for it — quicksand. I’m not sure what TV show I might have seen (Gilligan’s Island, maybe?) that featured this rare doom but it was a source of unspeakable dread and many nightmares for a good bit of my childhood. Anyway, something in that painting seemed to indicate quicksand and that was it for me. F-r-e-a-k-O-u-t-C-i-t-y. We never wanted to go back to that place.

In retrospect, we kids reveled in the fruits of Mother’s labor via an ample supply of books of all kinds. It was enough to infect at least my sister and I with an equally serious case of bibliophilia. Thank you, Mom!

And I eventually got over that quicksand thing.

Eeek. How’s that for a rabbit trail?

Back to transformations, not only has the New Year come upon us, I have become my mother. I’m not ashamed. I love dragging my kids to thrift stores.

Actually, I hate dragging my kids to thrift stores. (Yes, Mom, we thought you did it to annoy us on purpose. I had to become a mom to learn the truth…) But I love going to thrift stores and I usually have to bring my kids. I suppose this is the equivalent of hazing in the Greek system. “I was hazed and now it’s your turn, dirtbag…”

[Confession: Though I did go Greek, I never was actually hazed. I never went to prom either.]

Anyway, my kids usually hate going to thrift stores. And yet it feeds some nascent urge in me to save money and rescue beautiful (or soon to beautiful) things from the company of kitten figurines and tacky dishes. And when it comes down to what my kids want and what I want…well, we know who wins. Sorry, boys.

Primed with Christmas money and the critical mass of ten weeks’ stifled shopping urges, I’ve been thrifting like a lunatic lately. I have bought lots of kids’ books but I’ve also found a number of useful household items, not to mention a plethora of fodder for my creative wheels. Example follows.

BEFORE:

Mirro Canister Set - BeforeThis is a great Mirro canister set I found at Salvation Army. It’s actually copper-finished aluminum but the copper has aged to a lovely pale pink finish which allowed me to look past the hideous wooden knobs. A little cleaning and some new knobs, and voila!

AFTER:

Mirro Canister Set - After

And I’ve by no means done. I’ve laid in a whole supply of “canvases” with which to fool, projects that will likely carry me into the next decade.  Some of my favorites:

Love it. And I had to snap the other side the sake of posterity:

Oh, yes. That would be 99 cents. The Chatelaine loves a bargain.

A great lidded glass jar. Another 99 center.

This canister set was more than 99 cents. But not much.

What’s better than one ceramic boat? Two ceramic boats.

I love these Bormioli Rocco jars. I would never deign to use them for anything so commonplace as canning.

Recycled glass soap dispenser. I feel a monogram coming on…

I’m obsessed with vintage grain sacks but they are incredibly hard to find (and priced to match), so I was thrilled to find this cotton tablecloth with a similar woven stripe.

Yes, this one’s a dog. But it cost less than a latte and paint works wonders. Wait and see…

Let the transformations commence. See you in 2020.

A Very Crafty Christmas

A spending freeze has its good points. At such times, one inclined to dabble in handicrafts is forced, when confronted by the sudden and inexplicable urge to create, to start rooting through the $16,946.29 — conservatively — of tools and supplies he or she purchased and promptly forgot as soon as a more appealing (read: easier) project happened along.

Or so I hear. Surely no one in my house is guilty of such behavior…

The Christmas spirit hit me in full force last week and I must say, better late than never. And so I started digging through the holiday oddments I bought in my post-Christmas, uber-clearance orgy last year.

My favorite find: Pottery Barn velvet quilted stockings in a beautiful moss green for $4.99 each. Oh yes.

I didn’t have them monogrammed because — this admission is going to hurt — I bought two for children who are not yet even a glimmer in our eyes. And so I don’t know their names yet. And I wanted the monogramming on everyone’s stocking to match. (OCD and delusions of grandeur, all in one package. That’s the story of me.)

Anyway. So lacking actual monograms, I borrowed from this blog and whipped up some letters for our stockings out of raw (unbleached) muslin from my voluminous fabric stash.

SIDEBAR: Raw muslin is my new favorite fabric in the whole world. Think “poor woman’s linen.” RM + AP = LOVE.

I tied them to the stockings with a little hemp line and bingo.Stockings

Stockings - detail

Didn’t they turn out cute? And then, of course, I got carried away.

I turned my back on an entire box of brightly colored Christmas ornaments and used only the gold and silver ones, along with strips of knotted raw muslin on the tree. (Which has since been decimated by two very curious toddlers who’ve pushed and pulled and yanked until it’s only a shadow of its former self. But oh well. If you look only at the top third of the tree, you can see what I was trying to accomplish…)

Then I realized that in ten years of Christmas tree ownership, I have never had/used/bought/made a tree skirt. The obvious solution: raw muslin. And here it is.

Christmas Tree

For those contemplating channel-quilting anything, anything ROUND in particular, I ask you to remember these important lessons:

  1. Buy stock in Coats & Clark before embarking on a such an expedition. I used almost three entire spools of thread. As in 900 yards. As in more than one half-mile.
  2. Channel-quilting in the round is a perfect illustration of Chaos Theory: small irregularities are magnified. Every bobble, every wrinkle, every pinch gets multiplied with every concentric ring you sew. (For those wishing to learn more about the science behind channel-quilting, please contact Ian Malcolm.)

In the end, however, I was going for the rustic look, so I think it turned out okay. Of course, my kiddos supplied the obvious humor. When I at last got the tree decorated — the first time we haven’t put it behind a baby gate — Griffin raved about how beautiful the tree was before he announced: “Something’s missing from the tree, Mama.”

I’m sure you see where this is going, though I did not. “What’s that, son?”

“Presents!”

Sigh. The one thing I haven’t done.

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