Tuesday, October 4, 2011


I've whined about this before, but my level of despair is unmitigated by the repetition of this travesty.
Snooty talkin' makes me feel better. You'll understand why in a minute.

Hannah asked to go to the bookstore this evening.  Of course!  If there's something I'll blow money on in a red-hot second, I mean beside shoes, it's books for my girl!  They've rearranged our Barnes & Noble, so there were books of myths and folklore where I expected to find Pinkalicious.  Nice surprise for me.  Although I don't object to that particular bit of literary confection.  It's not bad stuff for girls.  But what I found was a nice hard-bound volume of folktales where the heroes are girls.  The author makes a big point of not calling them heroines, because she doesn't want any hint of the diminutive in her book.  It's Clarissa Pinkola-Estes for the pre-tween set.

We sat on the floor and read one of the stories; I attracted a child whose mother was reading Vogue down the aisle.  She did keep trying to distract me by pulling other books off the shelf to show me (she seemed about 4 years old), but I would not be distracted from the Tale of Mollie Whuppie.  She outsmarts a girl-eating giant four times!  No one comes to her rescue.  She kicks some giant butt, and doesn't whine about it.  That's my kind of bedtime story.  My other all-time favorite book is

I can recite it for you sometime if you want.

All I want is for my daughter to be independent, not love glitter and lip gloss, and be prepared to tell a boy he's a bum if he complains about her appearance after she rescues him from a dragon.  But what does my child choose?  My dearest love, my precious girl chooses to read this drivel:

Yeah, I know it's backward; I used Photo Booth.  That picture is not worth the trouble of importing a photo from my camera. Or even looking up on Amazon.  Plus, when the FBI confiscates my computer, I don't want them to find any Barbie searches on my browser history for any reason.

International subterfuge: Maybe.
Mass produced tripe for girls: Never.

Oh, and, um: I'm just kidding about the subterfuge, guys.  Didn't I mention that using big words makes me feel better.

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