Meg on the Barbie

A friend of mine who is a single mom sent up the Bat Signal last night--she needed someone to keep an eye on her 3 year old while she spoke to her lawyer, who was calling from overseas. I had just tottered in from an afternoon of teaching, and was lying on my couch with a chilled glass of sauv blanc on my tummy, but I said sure. I'm always terrified by what single moms go through (my therapist nods and smiles), and whenever I can lend a hand to my pal--who is a damn rockstar--I try and rally.

So off I went to play Barbies with my petite friend. I am typically the go-to Barbie grownup, because I had many, many Barbies growing up. I was anti-doll overall, but I found Barbie completely glorious. I had Malibu Barbie and that Texas winking Barbie with a horse and the golden glittery hair Barbie and more. I came of age in between the influx of feminism barbies, too. There were no Astronaut Barbies available, but I didn't care. I also had the desirable Barbie Townhouse with elevator. I'd like to add that I was an only child for 8 years. This Barbie gluttony ceased pretty quickly once the Hermano arrived.

I loved Barbie because she was (wait for it) normal looking. Now, given my fear of mascots, can you see how this makes sense? I don't like weird shapes and inappropriate intimacies with faux anthropomorphic creatures. I loved Snoopy, Theodore E. Bear, my Pound Puppies, my green velvet T-Rex named Godzilla, and Barbie. I refused to interact with Cabbage Patch Dolls or other freakishly weird dolls. Don't even get me started on baby dolls. My grandparents gave me one that ate and pooped (Here's the new Baby Alive, but mine didn't have the freakish anime eyes. That's so screwed up). This was amusing for about a day, but then even potty humor faded. This seems awfully consistent to me.

But I digress. I liked Barbie because she had fabulous clothes. We didn't do much, me and Barbie. We drove around in my friend M's Barbie 'Vette, we road on the beloved Palomino horse, Dallas. We dealt with boring old Ken, even though we weren't sure why and we were intensely perplexed about his crotchless nothingness. (I'd like to add that my family never gave me a Ken. I had a damn seraglio of Barbies, but no guys. I never realized this until now. Better call the therapist back!) But mostly I dressed my Barbies in their fabulous clothes.

My little friend last night had zero interest in clothes. We had adventures. But yet, this was also awesome. I'd be talking to the plastic kitty in the castle with my Barbie, and then La Petite would say, "Time to go to work in town!" And so I'd have to trudge off to town and . . . work? Barbie doesn't work! And then as I was coming home, I'd run into some kind of trouble, and she would have to come and save me. Her Barbie used her head as a weapon. It was . . . unsettling.

But the coolest part, I thought, was after being attacked by robbers, dinosaurs, and Giant Purple People Eaters (the wine kicked in around here, I think), we switched dolls so that "we both could have a turn being brave."

My Barbies were never brave. But I'm glad hers are.