Anyway, I've already foolishly given the Barbies away to Twitter followers who claim to have children. I should have thought to hold some kind of blog raffle--I'll do that next time. But for now you will listen to my Barbie stories, dammit (even though they are as fractured as my Barbie's knees were after I tried to bend them the wrong way to make her double-jointed like my grade school BFF Halima).
Holla, bitches! This weave would make Tyra Banks shit twice and die.
I have no idea how many Barbies I had; I just know that they all ended up with hideous double chins because I would pop their heads off every so often in order to marvel at the little round balls at the tops of their plastic necks, and when I tried to put the heads back on they always got all square and misshapen, a Perfect 10 body with the head of Jabba the Hut. I was like a factory for Butterface Barbies in the mid to late 1980s.
My friend Adri had a lot of Barbies. For some reason she always named her Barbie "Michael" when we made up stories. Michael and my Barbie had a relationship that consisted of fighting over Ken (or my Donnie Wahlberg doll--I KNOW YOU ARE JEALOUS) and changing outfits approximately every five seconds. I didn't have this cultural reference at the time, but our Barbies were basically Carrie Bradshaw if she were given a horse's dose of methamphetamines and locked in her closet. They got dressed, admired each other, changed clothes, sat down, swapped shoes and put on hats, and then decided to go shopping, which of course necessitated a dressing room montage. One time we decided that Michael would travel to Hawaii only to be kidnapped by natives who plotted to burn her passport and birth certificate. Michael, naturally, changed clothes to attend the bonfire ceremony.
I can't remember when I stopped playing with Barbies, but I think it was around the time I brought home Jem. Jem, apart from being truly, truly, truly outrageous, was also larger in scale than Barbie, so much so that you just could not play with the two of them at the same time, because Jem ended up looking like Yao Ming. Her feet, as I recall, were giant and unsightly, and since I didn't have any of the Hologram or Misfit dolls I decided the only thing to do was to make Jem into an outcast. I gave her a crude buzz cut using dull scissors that nipped off bits of her scalp. I then wrote on her face with my purple gel pen. It should come as no surprise, considering my early affinity for obscenities, that I gave Jem a forehead tattoo that read, simply, "FUCK." The Barbies retreated (possibly to Hawaii to reunite with Michael) and I soon tired of playing with a doll that resembled a cross between Sinead O'Connor and Charles Manson.
Still, though, even drunk on vodka-and-lemonade, I got a little misty when I saw Barbie in my swag bag the other night. She seemed well; apparently she's a Pet Vet now (remember when Barbie's career was the same as her outift and made her sound like a cheap exotic dancer? Peaches N' Cream, Tropical... and who could forget Crystal Barbie, who soon went the way of Crystal Pepsi?). Each outfit now is matched with a career, modeled after successful women like Anne Geddes ("Baby Photographer Barbie") and Hillary Clinton ("Politician Barbie," who wears a sapphire blue pantsuit). We can only hope that someday there will be a "Blogger Barbie," resplendent in her burrito-encrusted sweatpants and threadbare t-shirt, inspiring little girls the world over to overshare their twisted childhood memories with the world.