I Never Should Have Lived to Adulthood

Happy 2011 to all of you!  I meant to post something last night, but instead I fell asleep on the sofa.  That was a mixed bag.  I got a whole night of sleep with no one touching me, but now I can't move my head to the left.  That sucks.  Anyway, I had this whole idea about a New Years post that involves some of my favorite unknown and/or not really existent people.  I'm still going to do that later, but right now I have a compelling urge to talk about the death of Barbie instead.  Enjoy!

Most of my childhood toys were gender neutral.  My parents weren't really actively promoting anything, it was more about making the most out of their money and household space by nudging us toward things that would be enjoyed by both myself and my four years younger brother.  This didn't bother me--in fact, I don't think I realized how few "girl toys" I had until recently, and that's only because my own daughter has realized her affinity for pink and sparkles and glitter--it just was what it was.  We had a ton of really cool shit.  Besides, I did have one thing that was mine and mine alone.

Barbies.  I had a sickening number of Barbies.  Enough that if I'd been able to mix a life giving potion with our little science experiment kit, I'd have had my own Barbie army to take over the world.  That would have been stupendous.  So yeah, I had a lot of Barbies.  Along with all of those plastic haired dolls, I had boxes and boxes of clothes, several cars, and a few residential properties.  If they made it, I had it and if they didn't make it, one or both of my parents would fervently work to create it.  I loved Barbie.  There was nothing she couldn't do.

In addition to being spoiled, I was weird.  Really weird.  So, my Barbies did weird things.  "Whatcha doin'?" my mom would ask.  I'd explain Barbie's adventure of the day--every day was a new one--and my mom would give me a look that was a blend of irritation and confusion as to how she produced me.  I remember that look, because it's the same look I got when I insisted I needed to get married in the middle of the winter so my hair would be straight (driving conditions be damned!) or that I couldn't spend Christmas at her house because I had a whole day of doing nothing planned.  My mom's Barbies were boring and all they ever did was get married or participate in beauty contests.  My Barbies did those things too, but they could only do them so often before I needed more.  My Barbies had to get more creative than the depictions on their boxes.

So when my mom spied my eight year old self at the top of the stairs with my favorite brown haired Barbie, her Ferrari, and a few plastic trees spread down the steps, and asked her famous question, my answer, "Oh, she's just going to have a car accident," wasn't too shocking.  By that point, she was used to it.  She returned to whatever it was she was doing, none the wiser to what my answer actually entailed.

I knew I was about to do something bad, so I waited until I was positive I was completely out of her line of vision.  I tucked Barbie into the driver's seat, slowly pulling the car back from the edge of the stairs, then with one fast push, sent the whole thing careening down all seven of them.  I had one other item behind me, one that my mother had thankfully not noticed, and I grabbed that as I followed the car down the steps in two great leaps.  I hurt my ankle on the second landing, but I blocked it out because I had things to focus on.  I knelt beside the wreckage of car and doll and tiny accessories, and retrieved a small lighter from my pocket.  It was a mini-Bic, one my father had left lying carelessly.  I'd been holding it for weeks since finding it, waiting for him to realize I'd picked it up, but he never seemed to notice, and I finally felt safe about it.  From behind my back came an aerosol can of hairspray.  I pressed the little button on top, flicked the lighter, and--

Success!  

The wreckage of Barbie's car was engulfed in an explosion of flames.  Plastic melted, and the fibers of my parents incredibly expensive carpet charred and balled into one another.  I made sound effects, thoroughly enjoying my little masterpiece, before finally dousing the whole thing with a little plastic cup of kool-aid I'd placed on the side of the couch earlier.  My eyes were ablaze with triumph, and I let out a little gasp.  This had been more incredible than I'd imagined.  I sat back, surveying the remains of what would undoubtedly remain one of the greatest moments of my life.  That had to be the best Barbie car accident ever.  I was yanked from my amazement with a sharp yell.

"Kendra Lynn!  What did you do?"  My mom's voice quivered with anger and horror and an irresistible urge to hit me.  She screamed again, "What did you do?  What is wrong with you?  Get in your room before I do something I'll regret."

I knew I'd done something bad--I'd known that since before I did it--and I knew that you didn't fuck with her when her voice had that tone or her face had contorted that way.  I bolted back up the stairs before she could change her mind.

In the safety of my room, I pouted.  Yeah, I'd destroyed the whole living room carpet in under two minutes.  Sure, I'd put my whole family in at least some level of danger.  But how could she not see the awesomeness of my Barbie car accident for what it was?  I sat in my room for the remainder of the day.  I was ordered not to play, and for once I listened, more out of fear of repercussions than actual remorse for my actions.  When my dad got home, my mom raged at him for leaving the lighter within reach of the children, and then my dad raged at me for getting him trouble.

All of my wonderful Barbies and all of their marvelous little accessories were taken from my room and moved to the garage for the next two weeks.  I was heartbroken, but that wasn't the worst of it.  My parents had thrown out the melted doll, her car, and all other little pieces that were involved in the accident.

Damn.  For two weeks, I'd been planning her funeral.