Wednesday, August 5, 2009

Pulling out the big guns.

I'm getting desperate in what has become battle of wills to try and get Annabel to poop on the potty.

I've now enlisted the help of this slutbag.

Okay, "slutbag" is probably too harsh of a word. I take it back. Barbie is not a slutbag. She maybe just advertises the goodies a little too much for young eyes. See that? The box says "3+".

Maybe I'm just jealous because Barbie has a better rack than me.

But I guess it's safe to say that Barbie's not a slut, because we all know that she's not getting any action from Ken. He's too busy getting dolled up (no pun intended) and wearing sparkly shirts. Ken probably couldn't stop looking at himself in the mirror long enough. He's very metrosexual like that. And not in a good way. Besides, he doesn't even have the proper anatomy. (Ever take off a Ken doll's pants? 'Nuf said.) So I guess Barbie has no one to slutbag around with.

I loved playing with Barbie dolls when I was little. I grew up with 5 sisters, remember? My parent's basement used to look like Mattel threw up down there. And the Mattel vomit was pink and purple. And it looked like Barbie. And Midge. And Ken. And all the necessary Barbie accoutrements. Of which there are many. (Just ask my Dad what it feels like to step on a tiny Barbie high heel in bare feet. Not good.)

I'm not one of those staunch feminists that opposes Barbie because she sends the wrong message to girls. In fact, I don't oppose her at all. Barbie is good times. She actually has a career, a fabu wardrobe, (even though she has made some fashion missteps in the past) great hair, and she looks bangin' for a 50-year old. Although I'm sure she has a pretty good plastic surgeon. (Get it? Plastic? Sorry, I couldn't resist.)

She has made some questionable career choices before, but haven't we all? I was disappointed in Babs last November when my mom and sisters and I were Christmas shopping, and we came across the "Barbie Hot Tub Party Bus". Hot-tubbing is not a career, Barbie. Neither is Party-Busing. Unless you're the Bachelorette. Which no smart girl should ever aspire to be.

Bratz dolls, on the other hand, are slutbags. With major attitude problems. Just the fact that they call themselves "Bratz" and then have the audacity to pluralize their name with a "z" sets me off. Proper grammar is very chic, ladiez. Try it some time. The Bratz look like they want to cut me if I cross them, and I'm pretty sure they carry switchblades in their bras. The Bratz and their ilk are not welcome in my home.

I guess that means that I'll be buying a Bratz doll for my daughter somewhere between today and the twelfth of NEVER.

I'm just shocked that Annabel is already asking for a Barbie. After recalling that I let each of the boys pick out a "Thomas" train when they were potty training, I told her that she could pick out a small toy at Target yesterday. "What toy do you want?" I asked. "Barbie," was her quick and only reply.

So now Barbie is sitting on our kitchen counter, offering up motivation to Annabel to do her business in the big porcelain bowl down the hall. I think Annabel is starting to crack too. A bowel movement is sounding more enticing to her every minute. She has gazed at Barbie longingly and said several times, "I can brush her hair," after spying the little purple plastic brush in the bottom of the box. And isn't that really the whole point of playing with Barbies? Brushing their hair? be young again. To find the simple joy out of brushing a plastic head.

I'll keep you posted on whether Barbie's newest career is "Bowel Mover".

Until then, I'll sit there with my Annabel, encourage her to poop, and sing a commercial jingle from my childhood, "We girls can do anything, right Barbie?"

And by "anything," I mean pooping.

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