A Sorry Excuse For Clubbing

Both of my daughters, at one time or another, have been into the Disney-owned website Club Penguin. Club Penguin, for those of you fortunate enough not to know, is Disney’s way to take over our children’s brains if somehow they have survived the Princess siege. Children assume the identity of a cute, cartoonish penguin and explore an icy island. They do things like “throw” snowballs, “dance” in the disco, “drink” coffee, “eat” pizza and “dress up” their penguins.  Why this is more fun than actually throwing, dancing, drinking, eating and dressing up, I have no idea.

There are mini-games that don’t seem fun and a secret organization called the Elite Penguin Force (or “EPF,” because schoolkids need acronyms) which I’m pretty sure is a front for Disney’s world domination team. (C’mon, you know they have one.  World Domination – Walt Disney.  You see it, don’t you?)

Kids on Club Penguin also get to adopt little cartoon pom-pom creatures called Puffles. Puffles, as I understand it, are pets for the penguins, though I’m not quite sure why a bird would need a pet. In any event, each color of puffle has a different personality and can do a different animation move. Over and over and over again.  The same one move.  Must be a kid thing . . .

In order to prevent kids from kicking the penguin habit, Disney throws lots and lots of themed “parties.” (Seriously, it’s like the department store Kohl’s, with its One Day Sales – 365 of them per year.)  Disney just adds a teeny bit of new content and some sparkly window dressing and calls it a party, but it’s still the same basic idea. Which I obviously still don’t get.

Sometimes kids do get bored and take things into their own hands.  For example, I remember my older daughter telling me about a phase where it was all the rage for one penguin to “adopt” another penguin. Yep.  The penguin avatar of one child would pretend to adopt the penguin avatar of another child.*  As I recall, I had a couple of problems with that.  First, how in the world is that fun?  And second, well, it’s just creepy as hell. Imagine your 8 year old inviting a friend over to play “Foster Family.” Not cool, am I right?

Anyway, a few weeks ago, my kids asked me if I remembered the names of any of their Puffles. Needless to say, I did not. They’re lucky if I remember their names on any given day. I’m middle-aged now, girls, the mind’s not what it used to be.

So they reminded me that they had Puffles named …

Mr. Detergent … and …

The Baal Shem Tov.**

At first I laughed and praised them.  What creative children! How clever!  How quirky!  Then they reminded me that I had actually come up with these names.  They just agreed to them. Maybe they were humoring me, I don’t know. They’re good kids; it’s possible. But more likely is that they also found these names to be hilariously funny.*** That warped sense of humor can be attributed only to me.  I’m so sorry.****

Not only are my kids extremely odd, they’re also quite bright and slightly manipulative. Which is how I found myself propped up in bed last night playing “Puffle Wild” on my iPad. My 10 year old realized that the game – one of countless Disney apps created in furtherance of their world domination scheme (see above) – is nearly identical to Candy Crush***** and that she could use Mommy’s CC addiction for her own benefit.  It’s really not nice to take advantage of a junkie.

In my defense, I only played for as long as it took me to get her a new, antlered Puffle. And a cute rabbit-eared one.  But I can feel myself starting to waver even now. If I run out of lives on Candy Crush, you’d better believe I’m going to waddle on over . . .

Damn you, Disney.

 

---

* I’m not exactly sure how that worked.  They would just say “I adopt you,” I think.  It’s not like there was paperwork or inefficient bureaucracies.  Now that would have be fun.

**  The Baal Shem Tov (“Master of the Good Name”) is the pseudonym of Rabbi Yisroel ben Eliezer, a Jewish mystic born in 1698. He is considered to be the founder of Hasidic Judaism. He bears no resemblance whatsoever to a brightly-colored pom pom. At all.

*** Needless to say, “Mr. Detergent and the Baal Shem Tov” would be an excellent name for a band.  Or a book.

****  Unless you also think I’m funny, in which case, I’m sorry for you, too. But feel free to call me the Baal Shem Vits (“Master of the Good Joke”).

*****  Seriously, it’s a wonder they’re not being sued.  But who would take on the Disney Corporation, now that I think about it?  They’d rub you out faster than you could say Jiminy Cricket.

No, Seriously. WTF?

If you read my blog regularly, you already know that my 10 year old daughter got trapped in the bathroom Thursday night when the door decided to stop opening. You know that it took three firefighters to rescue her (and our cat) from the bathroom. And you know that my husband is out of town and missing all the “fun.”

Well, now there’s more.

Last night, my daughter and I baked some cookies to take to the fire station to express our gratitude. I took the last batch out of the oven, turned the knob to “off” and left the kitchen. About an hour later, I went to put a pot of water on to boil and thought the range top seemed oddly warm. I opened the oven door, and sure enough, the electric element was glowing red hot. I double-checked the oven knob. Yep, turned off. I switched it on and off a bunch of times, hoping, I guess, to convince the oven to shut off. No go.

So I put on oven mitts, walked the range forward enough to reach the plug and killed that sucker. Of course, in the overall scheme of things, it’s not so terrible. The oven was old and we’d been thinking about replacing it anyway. But what gives? Maybe I’ve been discussing Harry Potter too much with my daughter, but I think I’m jinxed. First the bathroom door, now the oven. I shudder to think what might come next. The Cruciatus curse?

I just hope it waits until my husband is home. And, I, preferably, am not.