There are flutter-fairies and mermaids, nondescript princes and evil witches, career dolls (with attaché case) and pregnant ones. Some are dressed in evening gowns, some in a bikini that barely covers their ass. But most of all, there is a lot of pink glitter. Like every other warm-blooded seven-year-old female, my daughter loves Barbie. And in spite of the fact that I believe they are stupid, to say the least, I keep buying them for her. “It’s your fault she has so many,” my husband says. “You have some deeply rooted neurosis about losing the one and only Barbie you ever owned to your uncle’s dog, and now you are compensating.” He may be right, but then, it’s easy to point the finger when you’ve never seen a perfectly coiffed and dressed Barbie being attacked by a drooling Irish Setter. Goddamn dog.
What never ceases to amaze me is how she treats these dolls. As soon as they are out of the box, they lose their dresses, their shoes, their jewelry and their glamour. Naked they lie here and there, more often that not spread-eagled; even the most elegant princess is positioned like an actress in a cheap porn movie. “Why are all your Barbies naked?” I ask her, and she answers that they have nothing to wear. “Yes, they do,” I say, and point at a pile of gold and ruffled tidbits. A few days later, I still find the dolls sans clothes, and the dresses shoved in the back of the dollhouse. Apparently, she has no interest in making her Barbies actually look good, she just wants to undress them and leave it at that. I decide to ignore it; at least she’s doing it to her dolls and not to herself.
What is more bothersome is the fact that these days Barbie is branching out as an actress. Poisoning children’s mind with unrealistic body images is not enough; the creators have introduced bad CGI into Barbie’s dream house. All to sell more toys, I’m sure (and who can blame them), but why does each movie include a dorky Prince who is in need of both a crack of the whip and some functioning genitals? What’s the message; dress in sequins, find a man who has no more personality than a wet rag and you’ll live happily ever after? Preferably in the company of a suicidal fuzz ball with a cute name?
Maybe it is time to quit our collective whining about Barbie’s anorexic waistline, and start attacking her anorexic love life. After all, few things are more uplifting than bitching about an inconsequential plastic doll. And since being a filthy hypocrite is not, nor will it ever be, against the law, I will continue buying my daughter new shiny Barbies, as well as the accompanying movies. Can’t wait to see what the next one is about.
