not the barbie of your youth

i've gone through exactly two barbie fazes. the first faze lasted until i was around seven and involved much brushing of crimped barbie hair and arranging of tiny barbie furniture. i have to admit, i always liked barbie accoutrement, primarily because miniaturized things are so eternally fascinating.

fascination is not always so peaceable, however. barbie faze #2 was war. i spent a large part of my childhood strongly disliking anything that could be categorized as conventional, and barbie fell solidly into the category of "conventional."

retaliation against such unabashed normalcy was unrestrained. and given my penchant for pyromania, barbies fell by the wayside in a variety of ways, most involving melting various barbie parts in my driveway. my sister helpfully assisted by disassembling barbies, but the she-devil dolls proved surprisingly fire-resistant, requiring lengthy exposure to intense heat before succumbing to her wicked witch of the west fate. some barbies endured immersion in kool-aid beforehand, meeting the fire with blueberry or raspberry-colored and flavored hair.

thereafter, the only interaction i had with barbie-related materials was loading my totally awesome (and fast!) barbie jeep with small toys before launching it across the playroom, gleefully watching the little vehicle smack into the opposing wall and violently discharge its contents in an explosion of tiny plastic playthings. i always liked the thump-crack-bop-bop-bop sounds this set of collisions created - and the intentional disarray that resulted. intentionality was key for a kid who carefully vacuumed her bedroom in straight lines, working backwards so that no visible footprints marred uniformly and linearly arranged carpet strands.

after most of the barbies were abused beyond all recognition, i committed myself wholeheartedly to various forms of construction - buildings and spaceships out of legos and tables and chairs out of 2x4s hammered together with my little person hammer and nails nicked from my father's basement store of home improvement materials. i even built my own version of a tree house, composed primarily of perches nailed into branch cruxes and connected by an intricate rope pulley system of buckets, which i used to ferry equipment, books, and tootsie pops from perch to perch. i am more proud of that makeshift treehouse than most other things i've done.

from there on out, i adamantly refused to consider involving myself with anything that could be construed as "girly." i hated dresses and skirts and abhorred pink anything, frilly anything, sparkly anything. i didn't start voluntarily wearing dresses until the end of college. girl stuff was out!

but i might have made an exception for hooker barbie.

racy! indeed, in my flash search through google images for any barbies i might have actually liked in my post-girly, pro-fire and destruction faze, i found a strangely logical snapshot progression for the barbie who lived life on the edge. so onwards in badass barbie's life! obviously, std barbie wouldn't look much different from hooker barbie, though she might have a facial expression that more clearly reflected her fall from grace. but pregnant barbie - two toys for the price of one! look see!

it's like a barbie matryoshka! it's like a barbie transformer!

i appreciate that manufacturers have conformed to proper anatomical baby posture, head aimed towards mummy's feet. kudos for realism, mattel.

but barbie is too young. how will she be able to finish high school and go to college? what will her peers think of her, after this obvious indiscretion? will she still be able to fit into her prom dress? what to do?

solution:

the coat hanger is a nice touch, no?