Barbie At My Birthday

(pictured- Barbie & I  at my 6th birthday party, 1999. I’m the one with the curly hair and the yellow dress. I look cool.) 

Birthdays were very important to me. I’d spend such a long time planning them- making sure everything was going to be perfect for the day that was all about ME. I was sure most kids felt the same way. But I felt more important than “most kids”. Like many basic bitches my age, I was obsessed with Barbie- THE ULTIMATE BASIC BITCH. Except, she wasn’t basic to me. Oh, no. She was a veterinarian, an Olympic ice skater, a dentist, and even, wait for it… A McDonald’s employee. She was everything. How could you not want to be beautiful, skinny, blond Barbie? I collected them. By collect, I  mean that I kicked and screamed any time I had to go to the doctor or the dentist (or anything I didn’t want to go to), and my parents bribed me with dolls and they… accumulated. My life goal was to make it to 100 Barbie Dolls. On my 23rd birthday (this year!), my weird friends and I took them all out of their giant-plastic-tupperware-coffin and counted them. 94. I honestly didn’t think it was that high. But, 94. Then  I found two more in my room. 96. Christ. Anyway, we groomed them and posed them for a photoshoot. Does that sound weird? It wasn’t weird. I’ll prove it to you. I’ll post a photo of it at the end of my story. But for now, let’s get back to my sixth birthday.

It’s 1999, and as I’ve emphatically stated, I loved Barbie. So when my parents told me they HIRED her to SING at my party, I peed my Oshkosh overalls. It was everything. I pictured her pulling up in my driveway in her pink convertible. She’d walk out with pink heels and a pink dress, her shiny, blond hair blowing in the wind. She’d haul her hot pink boombox out of the trunk and blast “Think Pink” while she greeted me with a hug, and had me dance with her and sing along. If you don’t know what “Think Pink” is, please look it up and listen, and imagine you had a kid who played this cassette non-stop. Congratulations, you have now experienced parenting me.

Anyway, she didn’t do any of those things. She barely was barely Barbie. She pulled up in my driveway in a small, crappy, brown car, and when she got out, I felt my heart drop to my butt. Her dress was blue. BLUE. I saw she tried to make up for it with a pink scarf, but the girl wasn’t fooling anyone. Her hair was CLEARLY a wig she picked out at the seedy wig store on the lower level at the mall. You know, the one near the J.C Penney nobody has stepped foot in since 1989. (Side note: Do you think this is now an entrance to Narnia? Must look into this.) The wig was curly and sat on top of her head like a dead poodle. I was so confused. Everyone was so confused. She looked like a five dollar hooker. She sang Happy Birthday to me in opera. BARBIE. ISN’T. AN. OPERA. SINGER. The girl can do anything, but she aint got the pipes.

I hope I wasn’t a brat about it in 1999, but I feel obligated to be now, in 2017.Honestly, I think the only people digging it at the party were the dads.

Alright, here is the photo from the saddest 23rd birthday ever: (and by the saddest I mean the raddest)


Keep in mind, there was a whole set up of them in the back of this tower of game boards we’ve created. And now that I post this, I realize… Oh my god this is weird.


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