Pink Aisle Reminiscing

Apparently, no one has informed my children that Mommy is a procrastinator. (You'd think they'd get the idea from all the mornings we're running late even before I've backed the minivan down the driveway.) They were very into Halloween this year, and yet the second we hit November 1st, they flash-forwarded to Christmas. (I blame Wal-Mart.) Last year, my now two year old had no idea who Santa was while my now four year old was actually scared of St. Nick. (To him, The Santa Clause would have been a Wes Craven movie.) But this year, both kids are itching to deck the halls, go awassailin' and give mommy their shopping lists. (Just so you don't think my children are completely greedy, they're also big-hearted and have decided we should buy big gifts for all the kids they know as well as those they don't. While they may have a better grasp on Christmas this year, "budget" still eludes them.)

Since I had a boy first, there was one store aisle I'd mostly forgotten about (except to laugh at in Toy Story 2)--the pink aisle. The one my daughter so recently discovered. Barbie. Ah, how vividly I remember. The first birthday present I recall asking for was Western Barbie. I even saved some of my less ragged Barbie belongings in case I ever had a daughter and recently lugged the box upstairs (my daughter had my favorite Barbie headless in a matter of seconds). I foresee mortgage payments on a Dream Home in my near future. I have to admit, though, as a mother, I'm noticing certain things about Barbie that I paid little attention to in my younger years. For instance, when my daughter recently tugged me down that aisle dominated by pink cardboard, I saw written on one box Cali-Girl Barbie. I swear to you that for a second I thought it said Call-Girl Barbie. The worst part? I wasn't even surprised! In the 80's I had a Rocker Barbie with earrings the size of her head, who wore more make-up than all the women in my family combined and an ensemble of a gold bikini top, leather miniskirt, and black patterned fishnets. Why the heck not just call her Hooker Barbie and be done with it? (As a side note, do you know how hard it is to get Barbie in and out of leather and fishnet? Is it just scary that I do?)

I've heard rumors that once, before my time, there was a Growing Up Barbie. As I understand it, when you pressed a button on Barbie’s back, her front progressively... blossomed. I believe that the intent was to make little girls feel better about the changes that their bodies would soon be making. Unfortunately, the doll was pulled off the market. My personal theory is that more curious boys were growing up with Barbie than little girls.

I'm glad that Barbie comes in more than the standard blue-eyed blond model she's perhaps most commonly associated with. I had many Barbies, of many cultural backgrounds. Still, if the Barbie People were interested in reality, what about a slightly overweight Barbie? Maybe one with a touch of acne, not that it would be visible beneath the two slashes of pink across her cheeks and the perpetual rainbow of blue eye-shadow. Okay, I'm mocking, but really was a big Barbie fan. I owned a plethora of Barbies, all of whom lived in grand style. Among them, they shared a convertible, pick-up truck, trailer, two horses, motorcycle, mansion, cottage, pool resort, and an extensive wardrobe. Sadly, the thirteen of them also shared a lone Ken Doll. Of course, with just a change of his shirt, Ken became his evil twin brother. Ben. (As you can see, my writer's imagination has been with me for awhile now.)

Ken had a few strange quirks. First, there was his hair situation. A thin coat of paint on the top of his head was supposed to serve as his hair, but the paint didn’t last forever. The next thing you knew, you had a Ken Doll in dire need of Rogaine. Then they made one with a head of actual hair, not that they did anything with this hair. They just stuck a patch of it straight into the top of his head like a plot of Astroturf. Inevitably, you would try to comb through this nest--or tape it down--and were quickly right back to the Rogaine motif. They also made Ken Doll differently than Barbie. She had simple sockets; if an arm or leg popped off, you snapped the sucker back on. Ken didn’t work like this, as my sister discovered first hand. And repeatedly.

Ken was connected with a thick elastic cord through the hips that ran to his legs, giving him Elvis-like swivel action. My sister, without fail, managed to sever that elastic cord, immediately dislocating Ken’s legs from his torso. How she managed this, I have no idea. She had an entire legion of Ken Dolls in homemade wheelchairs, using my Salon Barbie seats--the Barbie People are probably upset they didn’t come up with the idea first.

I should probably be careful what I say about the Barbie People. It would be really embarrassing to be taken to court by Lawyer Barbie and Paralegal Skipper.