Tiger Mother: Coco's Response

Editorial Note: In recent weeks, there has been much uproar over Amy Chua's memoir, Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother. In it, Ms. Chua chronicles her controversial parenting methods, including how she withheld food, water, and bladder-emptying privileges from her daughter until she mastered an obscure piano piece by an even more obscure French composer. Some pundits champion Ms. Chua's tough-love approach as an antidote to the flaccid, weak-willed parenting favored by non-lawyers who did not attend Harvard. Others claim her tyrannical style puts her daughter's psychological well-being at risk.

No one, however, has questioned how Ms. Chua's "Tiger Mothering" has impacted another member of the Chua household.

No, not her husband, Jed. That poor bastard will shut up and keep his head down if he knows what's good for him. I refer instead to Coco, the Rubenfeld-Chua's Samoyed dog. Chua devotes a chapter of her tome to her struggles with housebreaking Coco, obedience training Coco, and teaching Coco to bark in Mandarin.

And how does Coco feel about her "Tiger Mom"? No one has bothered to ask. UNTIL NOW.

I conducted an in-depth interview with Coco over a can of Alpo. The following represents her response to how she is depicted by Ms. Chua in the book. And yes, those are actual excerpts.

Coco is our dog, my first pet ever.



We had an earlier ordeal that was thankfully short-lived. When the girls were very young, Jed got them a pair of pet rabbits named Whiggy and Tory. I disliked them from the moment I saw them and had nothing to do with them. They were unintelligent and not at all what they claimed to be. . . Eventually, the rabbits mysteriously escaped.



Coco is a Samoyed . . . born on January 26, 2006. The runt of the litter, she has always been unusually timid.



. . . My first instinct was to apply Chinese parenting to Coco. I had heard of dogs who can count and do the Heimlich maneuver . . . [Samoyeds] were also the lead dogs for the explorer Fridtjof Nansen's famous 1895 attempt to reach the North Pole.



. . . I was convinced that Coco had hidden talent. I began to do extensive research. I bought many books . . . befriended other dog owners . . . I found a place that offered a Doggy Kindergarten class, a prerequisite for more advanced courses.



. . . [Eventually], the only skill she'd mastered was not going to the bathroom anymore on our rugs. Jed pointed out that Coco could also sit and fetch and that she excelled at Frisbee. Unfortunately, that was all Coco could do.



I did an Internet search for "dog intelligence rankings" . . . I scrolled down the list, frantically looking for "Samoyed" to appear. It didn't . . . Samoyeds were ranked #33 out of 79 -- not the dumbest dog but definitely average. I felt nauseated.



I accused [my husband] of being selfish and thinking only of himself. "What dreams do you have for Sophia, or for Lulu? Do you ever even think about that? What are your dreams for Coco?"



Samoyeds are notoriously difficult to train . . . [but] if the only issue was a stubborn, disobedient streak, that was nothing I couldn't handle.



. . . and then, Coco? Coco! I said, COCO!!! What IS it? I explicitly instructed you NEVER to interrupt me when I'm recording my mem-wahs! You shame me! You're GARBAGE! You're -- wait. What's that in your mouth? Bring it here.



Bring it! What's this? A present for me? Oh, Coco, you really shouldn't have. Actually, you should have, because you owe everything to me. But still. Let me open this. It's a -- it's a -- I don't believe this --



IS THIS HOW YOU TREAT YOUR MOTHER?!!!

{hyperventilating} Keep breathing, Amy. You are a Tiger! Tigers. Don't. Faint.{THUD!}

The Young Adult Novel Pitch

Pitch #1: Sixteen-year-old Kira Belle couldn't be more bored when she moves to a remote Irish fishing village to live with her estranged mother. But then she meets Seamus, a brooding young man with a dark secret . . .

. . . he's a leprechaun.



Wait. Not that kind of leprechaun.



There we go. Much better.

When Kira first resists his attentions, Seamus plies her with her one weakness: shoes, each pair lovingly cobbled with his own hands. She falls for Seamus -- hard. But can Seamus resist the urge to trick her? Will he jealously guard his pot o' gold? Or will he finally offer his treasure up to Kira . . . in more ways than one?

Verdict: Intriguing premise. However, Irish demographic too narrow. Additionally, leprechauns same as pixies, which have been done.

Pitch #2: Sixteen-year-old Anna Lovely couldn't be more bored when she moves to Cornhusk, Nebraska to live with her estranged father. But then she meets Demetrios, a brooding young exchange student with a dark secret . . .

. . . he's a satyr.



Oh, for God's sake, not that kind of satyr.



Yes. Thank you.

When Anna first resists his attentions, Demetrios plies her with her one weakness: gyros, each one lovingly rolled with his own hands. She falls for Demetrios -- hard. But can Anna love Demetrios without succumbing to his lusty satyr nature? Or will he seduce Anna into a drunken, violent, bacchanalian frenzy?

Verdict: I like the bestiality overtones. Edgy! But could be problematic with Middle America, not to mention PETA, ASPCA, etc.

Pitch #3: Sixteen-year-old Serena Babe couldn't be more bored when she moves to a truck stop out in the middle of nowhere to live with her estranged grandmother. But then she meets Beelzebub, a brooding young truck driver with a dark secret . . .

. . . he's Satan.



&^%$@!, people. Do we never learn???? Think Satan as in gorgeous fallen angel, okay?



Yes! Finally. Sheesh.

When Serena first resists his attentions, Beelzebub plies her with her one weakness: an insatiable lust for money, fame and power. She falls for Beelzebub -- hard. But will Beelzebub drag Anna to Hell and slow-roast her over a spit for all eternity? Or will their scorching love survive temptation?

Verdict: Love it! This one's a go! Look for Damned If I Do to hit bookshelves in late 2010!

Killer Buns

Satan's minion is living in my basement until the weather warms. Yes, you heard me. Satan's Minion, also known as Katy the Bunny.

She's my daughter's rabbit. Actually, he's my daughter's rabbit. We thought he was a she. He was sold to us as a she. But when I dropped him off at the vet's to get fixed, prepared for an overnight stay, the nursing staff called me within the hour, saying Katy was ready and waiting.

"That was fast!" I said.

"Castrations usually are," said the nurse.

My daughter is none the wiser, and continues to address him as Katy. Fine by me: trannies are hip now, are they not? But maybe not so fine by Katy - er, Kevin. Maybe that's why the rabbit is the most evil small mammal I've ever encountered.

Seriously. To paraphrase Tim the Enchanter, he's no ordinary rabbit. He's the most foul, cruel, and bad-tempered rodent you've ever set eyes on.

In a nutshell: he charges. He grunts. He bites. You barely set foot in the basement and he bullets out of nowhere and nips your ankle.

I have made sincere efforts to rehabilitate him. Truly. Just the other day, I spent a good ten minutes stroking his head, which he loves.

You're not so bad, little rabbit, I thought to myself. You're soft, at least. And there's no denying you're cute.

"Who's a good bunny?" I asked Katy. "Who's the best bunny in the whole wide world?"

I stopped stroking him. He lunged at my face and nipped me on the nose.

Ever since then, when I visit a French restaurant, I order rabbit. I'm a nice person, but once you break skin, all bets are off.

I compiled the following footage in Katy's honor. Take a gander. If you dare.

Offensive Hand Gestures

My 8-year-old son recently brought home his latest selection from the school library:



I could dedicate an entire post to the unconventional, inscrutable being that is my son. But not today.

Today, I'll share a few gems I discovered when I paged through this sign language treatise. Signing is tricky business. To express yourself clearly and quickly, using a minimum of manual effort, you sometimes rely a bit on stereotypes. It's like cultural shorthand, you see.

For instance, the sign for IRISH is also the sign for POTATO since, as we all know, that humble vegetable is the foundation of all Irish cuisine.



Likewise, the sign for ARGENTINA is the same as the sign for GUITAR, because . . .



. . . because?

Huh. Just because.

Moving on, the sign for JEWISH or HEBREW requires the speaker to run his fingers over his chin as if stroking an imaginary beard. Which I guess makes sense, as many Jewish men are bearded and quite . . . uhh . . . contemplative, studying the Torah and all. I guess.



See how this works? Cultural shorthand! Which is why the sign for JAPANESE or ASIAN requires the speaker to pull his eyelids lengthwise and -



Wait. That can't be right. Really - THAT. CAN'T. BE. RIGHT. Let's take another example.

To sign the word HOMOSEXUAL, you simply pinch your fingers together into "ballet hands" and mince your shoulders back and forth as you emulate an effeminate walk . . .



Oh, COME ON, deaf people. That's just not nice. Can't you substitute another word for 'homosexual'? Like "Broadway", for example? Or "Barry Manilow?"

Wait. Hold the phone. It appears that there IS a sign-language substitute for "homosexual". Based on this definition, the sign for "homosexual" is nearly identical and virtually indistinguishable from the sign for . . .



HOLLYWOOD???

Oy vey, as my gay, potato-eating, guitar-strumming, squinty-eyed, Jewish friend Herschel might say.

I give up, deaf people. I give up.

The Suspicious Advertisement

Saw this on the bulletin board at the market this morning. Alas, I prefer my housework to be done by immature Lithuanians. Although the quotation marks make me question whether this person is indeed "mature", or "Polish". Or, for that matter, a "woman".

If My Neuroses Were Pokemon

Ash: Hi! I'm Ash Ketchum! Welcome to the Sinnoh Region!



Me: Oh . . . right. Hey, Ash. Nice to meet you here in Pokemon World. Or whatever. I'm thrilled to be here.



(under my breath) Thank God there's still alcohol in this animated, parallel universe.

Ash: What did you say?!

Me: Nothing. Could you lower your voice, please? This isn't pep squad.

Ash: Right!! Are you a fellow Pokemon Trainer? What is your Pokemon?

Me: I have an Anxietor.

Ash: Anxietor! But I have never seen or heard of such a Pokemon!

Me: She's agoraphobic. She pretty much stays inside the Pokeball.

Ash: Let my Pikachu do battle with your Anxietor!

Me: Yeah . . . not a good idea.

Ash: But I insist!

Me: (sigh) All right. Anxietor, it's time to do battle. Come out, please. No, you don't look fat. I swear. Yes, I promise no one will laugh at you. That's right. Step outside.



Ash: What a peculiar pocket monster you possess! Let me emphasize my mirth with loud and frantic laughter! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!



Me: (to Anxietor). Ignore him. He sounds like a girl.

Ash: Let us begin! Pikachu! Use Thunderbolt!




Me: Anxietor! Use Panic Attack!

Ash: How strange! Your Pokemon appears to have turned blue!

Me: Yeah, she does that when she hyperventilates. (slapping Anxietor) Breathe, dammit! Get ahold of yourself, bitch!

Ash: She's recovered! Pikachu, use Volt Tackle!

Me: Anxietor, use Meltdown!



Ash: Your Pokemon is defeated! I'm afraid this Meltdown Attack was completely ineffective!

Me: It always is, Ash. It always is. Come, Anxietor. Time for your Valium.

Shameless

Meet my shame spiral. His name is Floyd.



Floyd’s job is to guilt me out over my various and sundry failings. This causes me to engage in all manner of unhealthy and self-destructive behavior, such as eating Nutella straight from the jar with my fingers. Or blowing off dinner to watch consecutive showings of The Real Housewives of Atlanta (a little take-out never hurt nobody). All of which, in turn, brings on another visit from Floyd.

See how this shame spiral thing works? Good. Let’s watch Floyd in action.



Here’s Floyd passing judgment on me as I eat the last Skittles from my daughter’s Halloween candy. Skittles happen to be my daughter’s favorite – and why not? It’s the Original Fruit Bite-Sized Candy!



Please don’t give me that look, Floyd. It’s not as if she’ll ever know. Besides, no eight year old girl should eat her weight in sugar. I’m just looking out for her health, right? RIGHT????

Whatever. Where’s that Nutella?

Here’s me borrowing from my son’s change jar so that I can tip the pizza guy.



Floyd does not approve.



Oh, COME ON Floyd. I said borrowing! I’ll pay it back . . . PROMISE! What’s the kid done to earn twenty-three bucks, anyway? Aside from losing a few lousy teeth?

Know what, Floyd? You’re starting to get on my nerves. A woman can’t live in this kind of a pressure-cooker. Besides, Showgirls is on, and I want to watch it guilt-free. With my Nutella. And a bottle of good white.

Floyd, meet my kids.



That’s right. Spend some quality time together.



Now pardon me, but I’ve got to go catch that psychotic, ginger-haired choreographer Hitler-scream at Elizabeth Berkeley. Thrust it, THRUST IT!!!