I am a feminist. Not the burn-my-bra sort of feminist, but rather the sort that would like to see women have the choices necessary to reach whatever potential they wish to achieve. Being the mother of a daughter, I strove to try and lead her away from stereo types of what society tells us women should be and toward ways of thinking that would offer her a broader, choice filled life. Yes, well, lets just say it was society 1, forward thinking mother zip, zero, nada. Not that she did not turn out just fine in the end, because she did. The road we took to get there was just a little less feminist mom and little more cheerleading, Hooters, and a basement full of naked Barbies.
Ah, Barbie, you and I never could quite see eye to eye. Even as a child I chose other dolls over your pose-able, bend-able, comb-able self and as a mother I REALLY didn't want you a part of my daughter's life. They could dress you up in every fashion and uniform out there; give you glasses and a fake job at NASA, but beneath it all you were still the 12 inch waisted, pointed boobed, bimbo with great hair and an unhealthy tan. (Take that Malibu Barbie!) You even kicked Ken to the curb, and after all the years he was loyal to your perky arse. I told him he should have joined the military. But, despite our negative history, there you were, all packaged in pink at my daughter's third birthday party and her eyes shone like diamonds as she attempted to pry you from your over packaged and insanely secure box. On that day I knew I was fighting a losing battle.
As the years past the Barbie population grew....and grew....and grew. There were Barbie houses and cars and teensy little 4 inch heels (that's Barbie metric) to match every fashionable Barbie outfit. The basement play room became Barbie central and I tried to look the other way until one day I glanced over to discover that the floor was littered with Barbies AND they were all naked. It looked like the Barbie Apocalypse down there. Some were even bald (egad!). When asked, my daughter sort of shook her head and said she got tired of getting them all dressed. Poor Barbie, exposed and broken by the burden of fashion. Let there be light. (cue heavenly choir)
At that point we had a basement of naked Barbies, a defined lack of interest in clothing them, and a brother that had had just about enough of bringing his friends to play and getting razzed about the mass nakedness in the basement. Something must be done.....and you know....for the life of me I can't remember what exactly was done. Maybe they ended up at the curb in a garbage bag (oh sweet revenge) or handed out to other friends, but in the end the basement play room become a naked Barbie free zone. That is not to say no more Barbies entered the family, but they met with a better, more fashionable life than their predecessors.
So, the other night I turn on BBC America to watch the hilarious Graham Norton and what do I spy on the desk behind him?????? NAKED BARBIES.
Not a grand photo, but the best I could find. Look over his right shoulder and there they are. This pic is just a small representation of the display. I bet the table is 4 feet long and covered with naked Barbies. Hysterical. Absolutely brilliant.
Take that Barbie, you unrealistic b*t#h. No girl can live up to the body proportions, not to mention jet setting lifestyle you exemplify, but you won't see us proper women standing, en masse in our birthday suits on a British talk show with our hair all a shambles. Eat a sandwich, for heavens sake, and get real.