When I was little, I used to love dolls. I made up long, dramatic stories for them, played with their hair and picked out cute outfits. I used to sit in my bedroom and in the "Barbie Room" (my house had a music room (aka only a piano) and that's where all my Barbie stuff ended up, hence the name) for hours, talking out loud, making up stories and playing with myself.
Wow. Not like that. I was a good, innocent kid.
My first doll was my Pamela doll. In a creepy, high-pitched computerized voice she'd say things like "Do you want play with me?" and "You are my special friend."And when you pushed her stomach, she'd giggle hysterically. Ok wow, I just realized how incredibly creepy that sounds. No wonder I have an obliviously dirty mind if I was hearing things like that as a little kid. But for a girl named Pam, she was the obvious choice for me. Creepy doll or not, us Pams have to stick together. And I loved her until I painted her toes and fingers hot pink and tried to crimp her hair. What a disaster. She looked like white trash Pamela by the time I was finished with her. And her purple and green overalls sure didn't help...
After Pamela, I was all about Barbie dolls. I thought they were the greatest things ever. I had a huge pink and white Barbie mansion, complete with a huge front balcony, walk-in closets and pink windows, a silver Barbie Corvette convertible, and even a hot pink Barbie shower that pumped real water (that's just opening a whole can of weird-Barbie-play worms). I think at one time I had almost the whole gang—Barbie (including the super cool Rockstar Barbie with the pink hairspray), Skipper, Theresa, Stacey (she was my fav), Todd and Ken.
Alas, my poor Ken. Late one evening when I was in second grade, my brother (who was in 6th grade) needed to finish a diorama that was due the next day. Of course, it was last minute and he had to make something involving a mummy. When my Dad and brother couldn't find anything good to use as the actual mummy, they kindly asked me to use my Ken doll. I tearfully said no, but then had to sit through a whole lecture about what it means to be a family.
So that night, I watched through tears as my precious, hunky Ken doll was slathered up with glue and wrapped in cloth. It was a bit morbid actually. My brother promised he'd unwrap it when he got it back from the teacher so I could have him back, but he got an A+ on it (clearly due to Ken's good physique) and didn't want to destroy it. So sad. Luckily, my Mom let me pick out a new man doll and I soon became the proud owner of studly Prince Eric. Move over, Ariel. Barbie needs a new man.
I was all about my Barbie dolls for a long time. I used to sit up at night, thinking of wonderful stories of what Barbie could do the next day. It was a blast. And then one morning, I came downstairs early to play in my Barbie Room. I walked in the room, took one look at my precious Barbie dream house and screamed bloody murder.
My brother had taken 6 of my favorite Barbies and hung them all from the balcony and rafters of the dream house by little shoelace nooses.
I screamed and screamed and screamed some more. I really believed my beloved Barbies were dead. I woke up my whole family and threw a fit, while my brother just stood there laughing at me. Now he wasn't a morbid kid at all, but that was pretty dark. He got in big trouble and I was too afraid to play with my Barbies that day. Actually after that, I didn't play with them much at all. I was traumatized.
So then I moved on to American Girl dolls (the original Pleasant Company ones, thank you very much), which were way cooler by then. But that's a story for another day... Hope you all had a wonderful weekend!
P.S. RIP Samantha Parkington. She was my first and favorite American Girl doll and it's a shame they're "archiving" her. Who else will befriend Nellie and take a ride in handsome Uncle Gard's new car?!