Barbie vs the American Girl Doll

 

Our female youth is in crisis and I place the blame squarely on the juggernaut that is the American Girl Doll empire.  American Girl Dolls.  So this is what it has come to, catching butterflies in wicker baskets in the year 1904…

My God…the horror, the horror

At seven my life was pinned on the comings and goings (in a Corvette, no less) of the almighty Barbie, not some chunky boring baby doll in a 1950’s housewife costume.  BARBIE.  And I don’t mean the new politically anatomically correct Barbies. You can take the curvy, petite, and tall Barbies and stick them right up your bum.  Nope, I mean original Barbie:  jacked titties, negative waistline, no ass, blonde Barbie. The real effing deal.  And she was gold.

Barbie had no snoozerific backstory.  We all assumed Barbie’s parents had died in a sad but none too gruesome boating accident off the coast of California when their yacht hit inclement weather.  But Barbie was smart enough to handle her own s**t and subsequently set herself up in a sweet penthouse with her hot boyfriend and kid sister.  She was in control and living the American Dream.

Barbie didn’t waste time being a kid, she was busy getting stuff done and being world-class awesome. She had legit business ventures and worked her flat tanned tush off.  She managed an ice cream cart, a hair salon, a McDonald’s franchise, and that Dream Store didn’t run itself.  She got through med school and went on to be a veterinarian while continuing to work out in her own gym, master the art of fashion, and still have plenty of time to relax with a pink lemonade on her outdoor Dream Patio Furniture.

The girl was going places; Malibu beach parties, nights in the spa, weekends spent riding her Palomino.  On Monday she’d hop on her ten-speed and take off to her job as an aerobics instructor / cowgirl. At night she’d quick-change into one of her thousand evening gowns for dinner with Ken.  Dinner was at 7 PM sharp and it was always black tie.  Duh.

Barbie and Ken were the real deal and yes, they absolutely banged.  A lot.  Not dirty nasty banging, just good clean banging with the absence of genitalia.   Ken was never out cruising for other chicks because I mean, let’s face it, Ken existed to be Barbie’s bitch.  He did whatever she wanted and that worked for us.

My sister and our friend Erica logged some knockdown drag-outs over Barbie, because Barbie play was serious biz.  If you wanna be Peaches ’n’ Cream Barbie, you better show me that you can handle that stole.  If not, you can roll yourself back to playing Skipper.  Kicking ass and taking names: Barbie lesson #823.  The arms have to go through the stole, moron.

Last weekend as I watched my niece thumb through the American Girl Doll store offering of flannel pajamas, eye glasses, and crutches, my soul began to weep.  Are you are telling me that dolls no longer wear high heels and attend formal events with a smoking hot date in an insanely overpriced sports car?  Has the whole darn world gone CRAZY ?

I want more for my 7-year-old niece than some basic doll utterly lacking in glamor and ambition.  I want her to understand that all things are possible.  That you CAN be an astronaut while wearing designer pumps, having a perfect blowout, and living in a cliffside beach view condo in Malibu.  

And while you think about that,  Barbie will be playing a few rounds of Bach on her white electric piano on the first floor of the  Dream House before her friends show up for a late afternoon soiree at the Dream Pool. 

Fire up the grill, Ken.

 
Cat