Somehow I survived childhood unscathed. But not poor Barbie~Decapitated, you know.
The day started like any other day with my two big
brothers: Them: Teasing; Me: Crying and Tattling. My mother intervening: “Boys! Leave your sister alone!” The usual stuff
families are made of.
On this particular day, I retreated to my
bedroom-the land of Barbie and Ken, kingdoms with Prince and Princesses…a room
that was transformed by imagination everyday when I played dolls.
The first issue I had was with my father who for the
first time ever refused to buy me what
I wanted: the Barbie case. It was so beautiful. The box was covered with glossy pink and
black pseudo patent leather featuring Barbie front and center. Inside was a
closet, including a draw for shoes and hangers for her wardrobe. It was the prettiest doll box I had ever
seen. To my father, Mr. Practical, it
was glossed over
cardboard ready to fall apart~Garbage!
Instead, he gave me his prize possession-his fishing
tackle box covered with faux snake skin.
It had a sturdy handle and two clips strong enough to remain sealed if an atomic bomb exploded close to the box.
Nothing would ever fall out or break.
I burst into tears when he presented it to me. How could I put my treasures in a box covered
with snake skin? Ew! With a look of confusion on his face, he just
didn’t get it. Not discouraged, he
removed all the fishing hooks, flies, threads and lures and gave it to me to
house Barbie and her friends.
Back to Barbie…
Somehow, the boys confiscated, kidnapped and
tortured my iconic doll and pretended to be Picasso, drawing green curly cues
under her nostrils to imitate…how shall I say this politely? There is no way. They
drew snot on poor Barbie’s face.
My screams could be heard around the world:
Me: “Who did this to Barbie!”
Bobby: Dickie
did it.
Dickie: Did
not!
Bobby: Did,
too!
Dickie: Did
not!
Bobby: Jerk!
Dickie:
Moron!
Bobby:
Numbskull!
Dickie:
Idiot!
Enter: My mother.
The peace maker.
With an outstretched hand, I gave her my once
beautiful doll who looked like she had a severe leaky sinus infection and
couldn’t find a tissue.
My mother apologized and confessed that she did
it. Protecting my brothers, the holy
terrors, was a perfect political move.
Quick thinking and very clever. I bought it, hook, line and sinker. She knew I could never get mad at her. I was too young to wonder why my mother would
destroy my Barbie.
Naturally years later I knew it was either Bobby, Dickie or both boys having fun. To this day, her head has been missing. The
boys of course “don’t remember” decapitating
Barbie. I’m sure they did the dastardly
deed, scribbling all over Barbie’s face in green, and then stole the evidence so I
couldn’t accuse them. Rather convenient if you ask me.
Just like the missing picture of me buried up to my
earlobes at Jones Beach, I needed proof to accuse my brothers of the heinous
act.
And then a miracle happened.
A few years ago, I received a gift from Bobby in the
mail. A ring box. How can I stay mad when he does such sweet
things, right? I love jewelry and I
immediately tore off the ribbon and opened my present.
My mouth dropped. Inside was a head. It reminded me
of the scene from the Godfather when the movie producer finds the horse’s
bloody head in his bed and screams.
At that very moment, I realized that it was Bobby who
had decapitated Barbie because why else would he send me the Barbie head? To my
way of thinking, the gift was a form of an apology all these years later.
When
they say, it’s the thought that counts…this puts a whole new spin on that phrase.
Regrettably, Ebay sold him a fake Barbie head. I think the rubbery head with reddish hair
and a freckle face is actually Skipper.
But the thought was so sweet, how could I ever tell him the truth?
So, headless Barbie in the snake-skin covered tackle
box my dad gave me so long ago rests besides the so-called “Barbie” head my
brother Bobby gave me.
It’s all good.
Just Kid Stuff.
