Toy Hall of Fame

Big news! The National Toy Hall of Fame announced yesterday that this year it was inducting the ball.

What? You didn’t know the Toy Hall of Fame existed?

Neither did I. It’s apparently in downtown Rochester right between the Furniture Hall of Fame and the Clothing Hall of Fame.

This is apparently what wealthy people do when the get together to brainstorm. They establish the Air Hall of Fame and then take 10 years to induct oxygen.

Since its opening in 1998, the Toy Hall of Fame has inducted Barbie, the Slinky, Mr. Potato Head, and the Atari Game System. (Click here to see all 44 of the Hall of Fame’s honored toys.) Last year they inducted the stick. They finally realized sticks are really just toy guns and swords when their front office secretary ran across a stick marked 20 percent off in Wal-Mart’s toy aisle.

The announcement that the ball was finally inducted -- long after the View Master, Etch-a-Sketch and Easy Bake Oven -- prompted me to wonder what the Toy Hall of Fame in Zimbabwe must look like.

So I googled “Zimbabwe Toy Hall of Fame.” Turns out it’s in some kid’s closet in Hwange. It consists of a rock, a stick, a pair of his mom’s panties…

And a ball.

I’ve traveled pretty extensively in the developing world, where the AA batteries for a Nintendo Game Boy (another 2009 inductee) cost a week’s salary. In one country I visited, the kids spent hours cutting reeds, stripping them of their leaves and taking turns bouncing them off a slab of concrete to see who could make them leap into the air and fly the farthest. Kind of like a third world version of shuffleboard (which, contrary to popular conception, is actually named after the people who play it in America).

And the kids played with balls. Balls were everywhere.

So do something really unexpected this holiday. Go into a toy store and buy a ball for your kid.

If they have them.

Hot Christmas Gift: The Homeless Doll

It caught my attention yesterday.

But, first, a preface. We own American Girl dolls. Lots of them. We’ve even had brunch at the American Girl Store in Manhattan, where a dude named Carlos, wearing stripes, served me pudding with a daisy growing out of it.

I admit this with a double jogging stroller full of shame. The dolls cost $100 each. But it’s not my fault we own a zoo of them. Blame my mother-in-law. She gave The Papaya and Elf one each Christmas for the last six years.

Now, yesterday, I heard about American Girl’s latest doll, Gwen. Gwen has brown eyes and long, blonde hair. She comes with a tasteful white eyelet dress with embroidered accents, pink underwear and braided sandals.

But not a shopping cart.

Or a folded cardboard sign hand-printed in jagged, crazy letters: Will Work for Food.

Gwen, you see, is homeless. Her father abandoned the family. Her mother lost her job.

What does a homeless doll cost?

$95.

That’s like three full weeks standing at Stuccoville’s busiest intersection.

In the midst of an economic downturn that has thrown millions out of their jobs and homes, the doll is aimed at both pricking American girls’ social conscience and building awareness. The message? You too can wear a tasteful white eyelet dress with embroidered accents under the bridge of your choice.

And play the violin outside the subway for spare change.

All for $95.

None of which is being donated by American Girl to homeless children causes. (So, which pricks need pricking now?)

Just one question.

When you bring Gwen home, are you supposed to keep her outside?

Stick a Fork in It

Okay, it's time to wrestle the fake spider webs off the bushes and shovel the putrifying pumpkin into the garbage. Halloween 2009 has been officially buried.

It was a great week. On Halloween morning the magazine staff -- as well as dozens of other Stuccovillians -- held a charitable 5K Race and Fun Run that raised about $16,000 for literacy programs at one of Tampa's poorest schools. A couple thousand (including spectators) showed up for the event, which was a great way to kick off the holiday season. The only minor downer the whole weekend? Why, it was the Stuccoville mama who confronted me on Friday in the produce aisle of Publix. She informed me she was refusing to participate in the run because it benefitted Just Elementary instead of Stuccoville Elementary, one of Tampa's wealthiest schools. I nodded politely, allowing the poor lunatic to embarrass herself. In hindsight, I regret not retorting: "Is it also your policy, dear, to participate in only those Thanksgiving food drives that allow your kids to go home with all the dehydrated mashed potatoes?"

Alas, Just Elementary is getting all the money, foolish woman! And, as your consolation prize, you are welcome to inhale my affluent left butt cheek through your collagen-enhanced lips!

Halloween wouldn't be Halloween without at least one frightening Stuccoville Mama in an SUV, would it?

The weekend, however, was still a great one, proving both merry and scary, as the following photos show:


The Papaya, 10, went as French Toast. Unfortunately, all of Stuccoville's brainy adults kept guessing she was an artist, which put the poor girl in a foul mood. "What artist walks around inside two pieces of bread?" she kept asking incredulously at the end of every driveway.

The Grump went as "Kimono Cutie," which really was just a 4-year-old's cleaned up version of "Gallavanting Geisha."

And Elf, 7, went as a purple witch.

All the kids on the cul-de-sac, gather for a pre-Trick or Treating photo shoot.

And, finally:

As I said, it was both merry and scary. Our neighbor, Tim, showed up at the block party with a yellow wig (all agreed he seemed much happier as a blonde). Of course, when a guy dresses as a woman, it is part of The Official Gentleman's Code of Conduct that all other guys must cop a cheap feel.

Which made Tim even happier.

You Should Have Seen Hotcakes

Stuccoville Elementary had its Storybook Parade this morning. In addition to another opportunity for the Hillsborough County Sheriff’s office to write up multiple parking violations, the morning featured the school’s youngest students dressing as characters from storybooks. The kids in fourth and fifth grade, however, had to dress as words.

Hard to believe, The Papaya (pictured below, on the right, with classmate Amélie) chose a food.

Dumb Daddy thanks his neighbor, Nikki, for lending us her toast costume, enabling the Dumbster to focus on actual paying work instead of building a stinking cup for “cupcake.” He encourages Nikki to get working now on The Papaya’s Chicken Strips outfit for next year’s middle school parade.

And if we don’t get the chance to spend some quality time together before All Hallow’s Eve, I wish all my readers a big, fat, hairy BOO.

Cackles Becomes Homeless

There is nothing so utterly practical and entirely hope-less as an artificial Christmas tree.

Unless you’re in Florida at Halloween. Here, because it’s still pushing 90 and the air remains armpit humid, a lot of people have given up on real pumpkins. Instead they display orange, spraypainted, hollow globs of Styrofoam that, yes, look like shiny, thoroughly fake pumpkins. Some you can buy already, perfectly carved and outfitted with a light.

Sigh.

If we’re so obsessed with ridding our homes of mess and simplifying life – wringing all the hassle-filled joy out of it – why, instead of children, don’t we all just buy mannequins?

We carved our pumpkin, which The Papaya named Cackles, on Saturday. We bought it the previous Sunday from the Scout patch. We put off carving it to preserve its longevity. Yet, when we got inside, we already found a big, black spot on its bottom. I carved it completely out, hoping to arrest the decline.

But today we had to give up on Cackles. Because Elf kept gagging while eating her Cinnamon Toast Crunch, he had to be pulled off the table. I put him outside, which means he won’t make it to Halloween.

In just four days, poor Cackles had become covered in black splotches, had some type of disturbing hairy stuff growing out of its nose and was emitting a nauseating stench.

Which is okay if you are a guy over 60, but is absolutely not okay if you’re a pumpkin.

The damn thing has become so scary, I don’t even want to stick my hand in it to light the candle.

So Cackles now sits on the sidewalk, where he will slowly melt, caving in, turning into a orangeish-grayish, fetid pumpkin puddle.

Because Florida does this to all living things, despite the plastic surgeons.

Meanwhile all the prefabricated pumpkins sit perkily on people’s porches.

Looking entirely fake and dead-less.

The anti-Halloween.

Photo: The Grump, 4, "helps" with the carving. She found the whole process totawy gwoss.

Taming the Wild Things (or Safety First, Part II)

It was Wednesday. We were standing beneath the Tree of Knowledge. I had been out of the loop and was catching up on the latest Stuccoville scuttlebutt. The school had nearly exploded the day prior – artificial nails flying everywhere, saline implants springing leaks and athletic bras whipped off and torqued in homicidal rage around other women’s necks.

Yes, it’s Stuccoville Drive Smackdown, Part II. (Do click here for Part I.)

I had foolishly believed that matters couldn’t become more insane. I had forgotten an important truth taught me by my grandma: If you remember that humans share 97 percent of their DNA with wild animals, you won’t ever be disappointed with their behavior. (Unfortunately, grandma never got around to explaining why only one percent of us is kept in cages.)

But back to the Tree of Knowledge and all the fun, homicidal rage.

“On Monday and Tuesday, it got absolutely insane out there,” said one mom, shaking her head.

“One crazy mother just parked right in the middle of the road!” added another. “Completely blocking all the traffic! She just left her car there and announced she was going into the school to pick up her child. No one could get by and all hell broke loose."

“But it got even worse on Wednesday!” one added. Her voice fell to a whisper. “Someone called the sheriff!”

Cue the little boy dressed in the wild animal costume. He leaps onto a fallen tree. King Max shakes his metal scepter and screams, “Let the wild rumpus begin!”

There was roaring. There was howling. There were fully grown trees uprooted and tossed everywhere.

OK, it was only traffic cones.

“Who called the sheriff?” I said.

But the moms didn’t answer. Instead they looked around warily and their eyes widened in fear. Another mom, a Tree of Knowledge regular, stepped forward. Her voice boomed. “I CALLED THE SHERIFF!”

Her name is Judith.

If this were a J.K. Rowling novel, her name would be Tilly Trufflebuttom. But it is not. This tale is of far greater significance that a mere orphan saving the world from the Dark Lord. This is a paradoxical morality play about how the enforcement of posted laws leads to the abandonment of rules of basic decency and decorum.

But why Judith?

Until I saw Where the Wild Things Are with The Papaya and Elf this weekend, I had decided I would instead call this Stuccoville Mama Margaret Thatcher.

Largely because they exude the same gentleness.

But after watching the movie, I decided to call her Judith.

While Judith was only one female Wild Thing in the film, it is an apt name nonetheless. Wild Thing Judith is Madame Doom and Gloom. For Wild Thing Judith, there is nothing so bad that couldn’t get a whole lot worse. And, like our Stuccoville Judith, when presented with a glass that is half full, she will not insist it is half empty. Instead she will point out that the glass itself is nowhere near as nice as the set she purchased just last Tuesday, half-off, at Bed Bath and Beyond and she pities the fool who owns it.

A word, however, in Stuccoville Judith’s defense. Unlike the rest of us, who stand around whispering and shrugging politely in the face of foolishness and contrary opinions, Judith fiercefully stands up for what she believes. Like fire and brimstone conservatives who bellow their views in crowded rooms because, of course, everyone present agrees with their brilliance, Judith expresses her opinions fearlessly – with no concern for their impolitic nature. And to hell with those who disagree. In response, we smile politely, raise the white flag of verbal surrender and perhaps throw in a nervous cough.

I actually kind of respect Judith for that. And for the fact that she could crush me between her thumb and index finger.

“I CALLED THE SHERIFF!” Judith bellowed again. “I was tired of those crazy mothers. Someone had to do something. It was for the kids’ safety!”

An image flickered through my brain: that of Judith’s older daughter, pile-driving her scooter through clods of little children, screaming, “EXCUSE ME! EXCUSE ME!” Careening blindly around Stuccoville Drive’s corners.

Without a bicycle helmet on.

Yet while two sheriff’s deputies did show up on Wednesday, they most certainly did not show up because Judith called them.

They showed up because Stuccoville Elementary’s principal called them. The principal called them after a group of fearful helicopter hellions trouped into his office, all reporting the same thing: “There is a tall, blonde, crazy woman screaming at people and throwing traffic cones at minivans on Stuccoville Drive.”

A description that sounded suspiciously like Wild Thing Judith. (Wild Thing Judith denies the cone-heaving allegations although, in the interest of a good story, I advised her to go along with that version.)

Yet the principal, increasingly nervous about the matter, called the deputies to keep an eye on Wild Thing Judith and, in his words, “to keep traffic flowing smoothly.”

So what did Hillsborough County’s finest do on Wednesday to improve traffic flow? They completely shutdown the turnabout at the end of Stuccoville Drive, bringing all vehicles on the road to a complete, dead stop.

Called in to restore order, the sheriff's deputies produced unmitigated, migraine-producing chaos. They barked at the helicopter hellions. They wrote tickets outside their jurisdiction. They told the hellions – in no uncertain terms – that they absolutely could NOT park in a public parking lot which lacked posted, no parking signs. And, for added fun, they shut down the only place any car, desiring to comply with their orders, could turn the hell around.

And the helicopter hellion lemmings kept pouring forward, crushing the ones in front of them against the wall built by the deputies at the cliff's edge.

"We're saving you!" cried the heroic police.

The principal made a helpless robocall to all Stuccoville parents that night. It offered the Rodney King plea: “Since the cops are morons, please, can’t we all just get along?”

Really.

Is it too much to hope for some order amid the chaos? Isn’t there someone – perhaps a king – who can help?

Where the Wild Things Are offered a sobering lesson.

Wild Thing Carol: “If you’re not a king, what are you then?”

Little Boy Max: (long, thoughtful pause): “I’m a Max.”

Wild Thing Carol: “Well, that’s not very much. Is it?”

So today, because I couldn’t find a mother for all these Wild Things, I stole The Grump’s sidewalk chalk.

And drew Max's heart at the end of Stuccoville Drive.

Photo: The photo represents my hopeful attempt to tame the Wild Things at Stuccoville Elementary (The C, by the way, stands for Carol.). If it worked for Max, maybe it'll work for me. Now grab some sidewalk chalk and draw Max's heart somewhere else where the Wild Things need taming. Send me the photo at cbarret3@tampabay.rr.com and I'll post them here.

Unmanly Baked Goods

She Who Controls the Universe handed me the list and sent me to the grocery store after dinner. “Get some Twinkies,” she added.

It threw me for a loop. We’re not a Twinkie family. That family lived in the Midwest sometime in the 60s and wore embarrassing clothes.

But another student in Elf’s class had a birthday celebration today. Turning 7, he handed out Twinkies. It was her first Twinkie. Elf stood up on her chair after dinner. “Listen, everyone!” she demanded. “I had my first Twinkie today and it was…” Elf paused and rolled her eyes ecstatically. It made me anxious.

“Delicious!” she concluded.

“Oh!” said Maria (similar orgasmic eye roll). “I ate Twinkies all the time when I was a kid.”

Okay, so that family didn’t live in the Midwest. It lived in Puerto Rico sometime in the 60s and wore embarrassing clothes.

So tonight Maria, who was also raised on Spam, thought she’d present the girls with an extra special, surprise treat: A cream-filled spongecake shaped just like a…

Twinkie.

“Get some Twinkies,” she whispered.

I didn’t expect my reaction. As I got to the supermarket checkout with my groceries, the cashier was a teenage girl and the bagger was a teenage guy. I put the rest of my groceries on the conveyer belt: organic lowfat milk, bananas, four bagels, organic yogurt, two loaves of whole wheat bread with extra fiber.

And Twinkies.

I suddenly felt extraordinarily self-conscious. What if they thought I was some loser bald guy, picking up my own 10-pack box of Twinkies? They’d think I was heading home, completely alone, to flop into a recliner, put some pathetic sitcom on the television and morosely stuff Twinkies into my mouth.

Could anything else in Publix have screamed "unmanly" louder? (No, they don't stock lace panties.) Hell, even tampons would have been better. At least it would suggest I had a woman I could ravish after my organic yogurt.

“I just want to go on the record here that I’m not a Twinkie buyer,” I announced to the cashier and bagger. “My wife is making me buy these.”

As I swiped my credit card, I caught the cashier throwing a silent look to her manly bagger.

“Loser,” it said.

“Loser Twinkie Buyer,” his look back said.

“Thank you very much,” I responded.

And I took my reusable shopping bags filled with my food and my f**** Twinkies and went the hell home.