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Toy Story Merchandise Spoiler Warning

May 212010

THE Book As I mentioned, I grabbed BigBrother a Toy Story reader as part of his end of school gift. The morning that I purchased it, I stopped in the office and was talking to a co-worker about Toy Story. She’s a mom to three boys so we spend a lot of time discussing Buzz, Woody and their buddies. She told me that she bought a Toy Story 3 coloring book and that thankfully she looked at it before she gave it to the boys.

Because it gave away the story.

I went home and read through the book I got for BigBrother. It was your typical level 2 type reader: short sentences and easy words. I had figured it was like some of the other movie based readers we have in our library; instead of telling the full story of the movie that it either told a sub-story or a completely different story all together. Not this one.

I now know the full story of Toy Story 3. More than the trailer gives away.

But I won’t spoil it for you. Just like I didn’t spoil it for the boys. Because I took it away. BigBrother is mad. I mean, who could blame him? I gave him something he loved twice over: a book about Toy Story. And then I took it back. FireDad supported this venture though he feels equally Scrooge-like. We have made promises to read the book the night we get home from seeing the movie on June 18th. He doesn’t care. He’s mad.

I’m mad, too.

When it comes to the new Toy Story movie, marketers are in heaven. Not only do they know that kids are in love with the movie and characters (and expensive toys) but parents like me have also been in love with the movie for years. We’re equally excited about the next chapter in the toys’ journey. We want to buy the toys. We want to buy the books. And the games. And to catch the movie on opening day. We want to share our love of the movie with our children. And marketers know that. The toys are everywhere right now. Taunting us. And it’s working. I get it. I understand. Really, I do.

But could we leave the spoilers out of it until the movie is released?

Put the rocket ship sprinkler in the store. And the movie editions of Connect 4, Buckaroo, Memory and Operation (!). Please, pretty please, release the Buzz, Woody and Jessie costumes for Mr. Potato Head. If you could drop the price on Buzz and Woody themselves, I’d be thrilled. I think perhaps that bubbles and boogie boards are slight overkill but I’m okay with all of those things. Just stop putting out things with spoilers until after we’ve seen the movie. Pretty please?

Or I may have to make BigBrother and LittleBrother laser you. And nobody wants that, now do they?

The Quest for Dress(y) Sandals

Parenting, Rants 14 Responses »

May 292009

I just wanted a pair of dress(y) sandals, in brown for BigBrother to wear to church or with outfits that didn’t exactly go with bright red crocs or Thomas the Train sneakers. Last year, I found a pair (viewable to the left) at the Store That Has Everything From Sandals to Cantaloupe. This year? No go.

In fact, I struck out repeatedly. One store did have something that wasn’t quite what I was looking for but would have worked… but… of course, not in his size. I got desperate on Wednesday, knowing that he needed something appropriate for this weekend, and brought it up with my friends over coffee. They informed me that they had found a similar sandal at Payless last year. So, after running some errands, we drove 25 miles to the nearest Payless. I had promised BigBrother a treat if he was on his best behavior when we went into the store and so he excitedly followed me in the store, ready to try on a shoe. Anything for a treat, right?

But there was a problem.

In his size, toddler 9, there were approximately six pair of boys shoes. I wish I was joking. There were multiple pairs of the same sparkly little girl dressy sandals. There were multiple pairs of dressy girly sandals. The boys? Their options were some sneakers or some play-sandals featuring licensed characters. An associate popped into the aisle to ask if I needed anything. When I inquired about a boy’s dressier sandal in my son’s size, she said that everything they had was already out.

Really? Because the girls had over 30 pairs in size 9 and you only had six pairs for boys?

Frustrated, I took BigBrother’s hand and lead him out the door. This, of course, was met with a small meltdown as he assumed that the lack of shoe-trying-on meant that he wouldn’t get a treat. I assured him that he was not the one in trouble and he quite sniffling. Thankfully, two stores down was a Famous Footwear store. Not only did they have a wider selection of shoes for boys in general but they had a brown sandal in BigBrother’s size. And it fit. He did ask to hold the Lightning McQueen croc while I tried the intended shoe on his foot but replaced it happily when I said that we were done and he figured that meant it was treat time. I paid twice what I would have at Payless and left, happy that the search was finally over.

It’s not exactly the price issue. I don’t mind paying more for shoes as shoes are important because taking good care of your child’s feet is a good investment. However, I’m just constantly aggravated with the lack of selection when it comes to any form of clothing for boys.

Why do stores, especially discount-type stores, assume that we want our boys to be dressed in junk at all times? Why do girls get frilly, semi-dressy things for a reasonable price while boys are offered nothing more than junk for the same cost? Why do I have to spend more to achieve the same “level” of look for my boys? When did people stop caring what their boys looked like? I know. You get what you pay for. I understand that concept. And that if I want quality, I will pay more. But for Pete’s sake, why can my friends with girls pay less to dress their children the same way?

Now, don’t get me wrong. The boys have play clothes. In fact, they have a lot of play clothes because at 3.5 and 1.5 they do a lot of playing. I do have to search, still, as I don’t like overly junky play clothes. I still like them to look presentable (until they stain the front of their shirts with whatever it is they’re doing that day like, just the other day, rolling down our hill and getting grass stains). But, seriously, if it wasn’t for the Internet most of the time, I’d never be able to dress these children up. (Do you remember my Easter debacle?) All I wanted was a pair of brown sandals to go with his khaki shorts (of which they only had one pair that wasn’t a sloppy cargo pair) and polo shirts (of which don’t have junk printed all over them) so he could look like a well-dressed child when the situation calls for it this summer.

Surely we are not the only parents of boys who dress them in more than a Lightning McQueen shirt (which he does own as fun shirts do have their place) and shorts all summer. Right?

Shoes I suppose I should calm down. They’ve both got their dressy sandals and their nice clothes for the summer. (LittleBrother’s were a random find late last year.) But I know it will be an issue next year. And the following year. (We don’t hand-me-down shoes as their feet are vastly different: short and wide versus thin and long respectively.) I can only hope that some discount stores catch on that they’re not offering the same things for boys that they are for girls and/or the the economy improves and/or I become a child’s shoe and clothing designer before next summer.

[(Speaking of clothes, I have a rant coming up about finding something appropriate and fun for my class reunion. Help?)]

Won't You Be My Neighbor? No? GOOD!

Home Ownership Rocks/Sucks, Rants 10 Responses »

Jun 262008

We’ve had neighbor issues in the past. The cats. The kids running through our yard and knocking over our table and chairs. And apparently this is the summer of yard maintenance woes.

We’re kind of picky about your yard. Our back yard, through which the children run, isn’t exactly high maintenance, but we still take care of it rather well. My day lilies line the back fence row. Last summer, I didn’t get one bloom because the birds, rabbits, deer (yes, deer in the suburbs) and children ate and picked off the tops of my stalks. I was not a happy pregnant lady. Also, we keep our backyard free of sticks and what not as BigBrother and I are often barefoot. (What? I grew up on a farm. Why does this surprise you?)

Here’s the thing about life in the suburbs: other people’s lack of maintenance affects your maintenance.

$Neighbors\' Grass Clippings$ The house behind us doesn’t believe in trimming all that often. The last time that they did it? The lady left all of her (many, many) grass clippings on our side of the fence. All over my lilies, mind you. And, to boot, as they have a bunch of berries along their fence row, she left a bunch of stickers/jaggers/briars. (What do people call these?) More than making my lawn look horrendous and more than possibly harming my lilies that I love so very much, this lady put my son in danger.

You can argue that he should be wearing shoes outside. I get it. He could step on a bee. And I can’t protect him from everything. But I can’t keep shoes on the child. If he gets in his sandbox, his shoes come off. He likes the feel of sand on his feet. And with some of his texture issues, I’ll gladly let him enjoy anything on his feet. Suggesting that he put his shoes on for the three seconds that it takes him to run from his sandbox to his slide just so he doesn’t step on something seems somewhat ridiculous, no? More over, did I mention that it is our yard? We don’t even rent. We own. Our. Yard.

So, while the lady was still mowing in another part of her yard, I cleaned up the clippings. I made a neat pile. And early the next morning, since I wake up with the birds, I tossed them back over the fence. (I think this is far more acceptable than tossing a can, which is not biodegradable and which was not ours, back over our side of the fence like they did the month we moved in over two and a half years ago. No. I don’t forget.) Turns out, they didn’t even notice. And did it again a few weeks later.

So, I’m eating all of their berries.

You Sir, Are the Bum!

Living Life, Rants 13 Responses »

Jun 022008

Two Saturdays ago, FireDad and I handed both brothers over to my parents and headed into Pittsburgh for a Date Night. While others’ date nights may involve fancy dinners, movies and fancy clothing, we take a more game oriented approach to date night. And by game, why yes, I do mean baseball.

I grew up in Western Pennsylvania, for those who aren’t in the know, and as such, I am a Pittsburgh Pirates fan. It’s true. They’re awful. But when you’re from Pittsburgh, you tend to look past the doom and gloom and find that silver lining. The silver lining, of course, being PNC Park. (Of course, I was still able to find that silver lining at Three Rivers, but, you’ve got to admit… PNC Park is swanky.) FireDad somehow escaped the love of the heinous teams of the state in which he was born and raised and in which we now live and raise our children. He, too, is a Pirates fan.

He’s also a fan of sandwiches with french fries on them, so, it’s really win-win. (Yes, Primanti Brothers has a restaurant at the stadium. See? Totally win-win.)

And while we had a great night (because the Pirates won in extra innings!), I’ve been mulling something over since we left the stadium that night. And by mulling it over, I do mean that I’ve been stewing over it and getting angrier and angrier. And now? It’s time to rant.

The BUM The past two years that we have made it out for a game, we have been seated in front of, next two and/or behind the Most Inconsiderate Fans Ever. This year, as we attended the game on Fire Fighter’s Night, I figured there would be some camaraderie, some laughter and a night of baseball among brothers. The guy seated directly behind me had a different idea. Apparently he and his crew had been drinking in the parking lot for four hours prior to the first pitch. And his language showed it.

FireDad and I decided, even prior to that first pitch, that if we took one sip of beer every time the guy behind us called the Cubs, the Pirates, his friends, other fans, the umpire or the Parrot a “bum,” we would have been rip-roaring drunk by the bottom of the first inning. Everything that happened warranted use of the word “bum.” Cubs pitcher walked our guy? He was a bum. Umpire called a Pirate out? He was a bum. Pirates batter struck out? He was a bum. The Cubs fans seated in front of FireDad and I stood up to cheer? They were bums.

Now, the word itself doesn’t really strike me, while writing this, as overly offensive. And, by itself, even at the loud volume with which it was screamed, it would have been tolerable. But it wasn’t just the word all by its lonesome. We had some big-f-word bums. And you know if he’s dropping the f-bomb, all other words are “fair play” as well. You know, even though the announcer says, prior to that first pitch, that the ball park is a family environment and foul language will not be tolerated.

I never said anything to the bum himself because I learned never to fight with someone who is drunk. But I started to think. And as I thought, I started to get mad.

I went to Three Rivers with regularity as I was growing up. My Dad loved a baseball game and I loved anything that my Dad took me to, especially if it involved nachos. I grew up understanding the game and played softball myself (pitcher) for eleven years. I want to share that same kind of love with my boys. But how am I supposed to take them to a game when bums like that are always sitting around us? Now, granted, we were sitting pretty darn close on the first base line (no foul balls; bummer). Looking up to “Peanut Heaven,” I saw some seats that we could have sat in without being bothered by any bums. But is this fair? Should children and their heights-wary Moms have to be forced to sit at the tippy-top of a stadium just to avoid something that the announcer said not to do in the first place?

I’m not talking about taking BigBrother to the game this year. Or even next year. Our goal was the summer that he is four (two summers) as that will be his first year playing T-Ball (should he choose to actually stick with it after they start). And I realize that I can’t shield him from foul language for all eternity (have you heard what I say when I step on a tiny, sharp and pointy fire truck?) but I really don’t want him walking out of PNC Park calling everyone he sees a big-f-word bum!

True. To protect my child (and my ear drums) (and my sanity) (and the guy’s face), I could be the Language Police and go find security to whine about the guy’s language behind me. But do you know what? They don’t always eject those guys. Most often they just come and tell them to tone it down. Do you know then gets nasty things said to them? Yeah. The Language Police. It’s a lose-lose situation right there; one that surely won’t make the kid’s game more enjoyable.

And so, it looks like two summers from now, you will find our family in the tippy-top row. I guess we’ll find out if BigBrother has good eyesight, right? It’s a shame we don’t… and that heights make me squeamish. Oh, it’s all for the love of the game, right?