I’ve had Barbies on my mind lately. Mainly because I can’t walk into a room without stepping on one . . . usually one that’s naked. If my mom hated Barbies because she was always sucking up their shoes in the vacuum cleaner . . . I hate them because they’re exhibitionists. Like I’m hosting some kind of nudist colony in my living room.
Besides that, I don’t particularly care for them anyway. I’m not sure why. Just the whole perfect body perfect guy perfect life thing.
I couldn’t even make a conscious decision to keep them out of my house, thanks to a well-intentioned family member who bought Baby Girl her first Barbie when she was two years old. Yes, I said two. Since then it’s been totally downhill, and the play room is covered with naked dolls and their clothes and their necklaces and shoes and their accessories: bicycles, cribs, and yes, even toilets.
Even though Barbie and I have a love/hate relationship (I love to hate her even if it doesn’t stop me from buying her), Barbies were a HUGE part of my life growing up. I had a Barbie Dream House (Baby Girl has a castle . . . but that’s at Grandma’s, thank God). I had a pink Barbie Corvette (Baby Girl has a remote control purple VW Bug). My Barbies had lots of clothes (Baby Girl’s . . . well, you know).
So the other day in the car, my four almost five year old baby and I were having a discussion about Barbies. Somehow we got on the subject of my favorite Barbie outfit. I didn’t have to think twice. I told her about this beautiful dress my Barbie had: it had a white shimmery top with a sweetheart neckline, and the bottom was made of this sheer/gauzy peach fabric. It was a beautiful ball gown, and I wanted one of my own.
I don’t know where this dress came from (if someone had given it to me/passed it along, whatever), but I *loved* it. “Barbie” never wore it much. I always gave it to Winnie. I don’t know if that was her real name, but she was the Barbie with LONG brown hair that almost touched the floor. I think I may have named her that because of Winnie Cooper on The Wonder Years. I taught myself how to French Braid hair because of that doll.
So you can imagine my sheer and total SHOCK when I was passing through the Barbie aisle at Wal-Mart on Friday and saw this:
That Barbie, with my Favorite Dress, has been reissued. Of course, I picked it up, squealing, and said:
“Guy who I’m sorta married to but not allowed to talk about online: Do you KNOW what this is?”
Me: “Remember the other day when I was telling Baby Girl about that Barbie dress I loved?”
Me: “I hate you. You never listen to me. But this is IT!!! This is the dress I was talking about!”
It was a complete and total flashback: to Barbies getting ready for dates with Ken and their scarily proportioned bodies with too-large chests and non-existent waists . . . arms at uncomfortable right angles . . . standing on their tip-toes.
And Ken: with his follicle-free, muscular body and painted-on underwear. The Ideal Guy. Because really, ladies, who doesn’t want a hairless guy with painted-on panties?
And the time Ken must’ve lost a leg or a neck (you can *never* get his head back on right once it comes off) and I cut one Barbie’s hair really really short to make her a man. Because if you cut your hair off and put on a suit . . . you can be a guy, No Problem.
This blog has no purpose whatsoever. There is no moral of the story. I just saw something from my past that brought back a whole bunch of memories. The Barbies who have currently taken up residence in my home? They’re okay, I guess. Though I’d like them a whole lot more if they’d consider getting dressed in the morning.
That Flashback Barbie is from 1985. I was three years old. Her name? Peaches and Cream. Yeah. I know. Actually, the more I think about it, the more perfect she is for our house. It’s impossible that a girl with a name like Peaches could stay dressed for very long.
How about you? Share your Barbie tale/memories here!