Babe of Toyland
Introduction (or How I Learned to Live with a Plastic Princess and Keep My Sanity)
Now before I begin anything at all, let me just set the record straight: I am NOT a diehard
Barbie collector and consequently I am not professing to know a lot about the doll. But on the other
hand I think I might know a bit more than the average person about Barbie-heck I've even gone to a
few doll shows in my day. Actually I tagged along because really I wanted to see first-hand if
there really are collectors who maul each other just to get that "Color Magic Barbie". The results for me
anyways was that there was no primitive exhibitions of behaviour to witness, though there was
a lot of protectiveness and something bordering on testiness if one got to close to the dolls.
There must be something about people like me that collectors can zero in on, in a nanosecond. Maybe
when we walk into the room we have a certain glint in our eyes that could be taken as either
mockery or ignorance. It's a competitive world out there, if you don't know what you're dealing
with then you better learn fast. With capitalism strongly in place, buyers recount with glee to
their awe-inspired listeners on how they came across some older lady in Alabama who emptied her
attic and found some childhood Barbies in perfect condition. Getting a mint "American Girl" for
anything less than $500 is basically like stealing candy from a baby from what I understand.
Don't get me wrong though all you happy collectors, man if I had a collection of Barbies that
were worth a mortgage and then some I'd guard my vinyl queens with my life. Heck, I'm that
protective over keeping my favourite wash towels from falling into the wrong crowd!
I bet by now some of you are convinced I'm a closet Barbie-freak who gets her kicks by making
fun of others. Or else you just think I'm a loser for making such a big deal over a plastic doll.
Actually it's neither. (I'm hoping especially for the latter.) I never played with Barbies as a little tyke,
my mom bought me one and I just didn't play with it. When my sister came along, Good God, that's when Barbie-mania hit
our suburban household. Soon my sister's room was flooded with a pink dreamhouse, a car, calendars,
clothes, books, magazines, comics and about 35 Barbie Dolls. And this by the time she was six. Don't even
get me started on the outfits. Using that much lycra has got to be a travesty. Now I tried to
get interested in Barbies, I wanted to see what was the big fuss over ol' Torpedo Boobs. I failed
miserably. I managed to pop the heads off more than a few Barbies and probably introduced to my
sister at too young of an age to my heart-felt curses when I tried to cram Barbie's frame into
a miniskirt. And I don't know about the rest of you, but no matter how classy I tried to clothe
Barbie she always looked like a streetwalker. And there was only one Ken in our household who only
had a tux so my little scenarios always took a little turn for the worse. Imgagine it, Barbie's
walking home from Midge's in her tube top and 4-inch heels with that sadistic toothy-smile on her
face and Ken pulls up in his tux in a Corvette. Think "Pretty Woman" and you'll get my drift. And I
know I'm the not the first, nor the last, to turn Barbie's dream house into a burlesque house with
Ken as a repeated customer. That week I came to the conclusion that Barbie was not meant for me.
All right flash forward a few years now. My sister has finally outgrown Barbies (or so she
claims though I hear you never outgrow Barbie) and only the "haute-couture" outfits are being bought. We just got the Internet and
my mom has discovered the wonders of...oh Lord...on-line shopping. Ebay to be exact. Now imagine
my surprise when each day that I get home there's usually another package in the mail. Okay, I
can handle that. Oh cute, another little mod outfit. Oh groovy, she got Check-It! Oh wow, is Francie
going to look keen in that! (On a side note, I love Francie, that I'll admit too. I love anything
mod.) Ha ha, another outfit. And another. And another. And suddenly once
again our suburban household is being overtaken by 30 year old Barbies with cases upon cases of
vintage clothes. All of them staring, smiling......I see them watching me.....
Happy 40th Birthday Barbie. May your next 40 years be filled with 101 more careers, an
ambiguously-sexual boyfriend, a million more outfits and stay-put torpedo boobs!
Follow the pink path through 40 years of Barbie history.....
All right send all your comments, criticisms, corrections to myself.
This page was created by me on March 4, 1999 but hosted by Geocities.