The other day I saw a million dollar Barbie doll advertised on the Internet. It was so expensive that a person had to take out a loan and pay for it in 100 installments. For that kind of money, I expect to buy something that has four bathrooms, six bedrooms, a butler, a maid and at least two vintage cars in the garage.
It did set me to thinking about the days when my daughters played with Barbie dolls. At that price I was sitting on a gold mine if I could find where the girls stashed them when they got too old to be interested in them anymore.
I found three tucked away in a box in the closet, alone with one Ken doll. He wore a smile but then what feller wouldn’t after spending thirty years with three gorgeous women in a dark closet.
This antique foursome would surely put my grandchildren through college. I was so excited when I called the number at the end of the advertisement that said the seller would be interested in purchasing more dolls.
“Are all Barbie’s still in their original boxes?” the lady asked.
“No, we tossed them in the trash about five minutes after the girls took them out of the boxes to play with them.”
She gasped. “You mean human hands have touched them.”
Well, duh? They are toys!
“Sure they've been touched but I promise only in the most respectable ways. But hey, they’re toys! And they’re the real deal. They’ve got the stamp on their backside saying so. One was born in
and one in the Phillipines.” Taiwan
“Okay,” she sighed. “Are they in mint condition? Original rubber bands around their pony tails?”
I think she was grasping at straws. Rubber bands are still pretty danged cheap.
“No,” I answered, “but their hair was washed in the best shampoo in the world and I’m sure the girls used good crème rinse and conditioner. And I promise they never had head lice one time. I can vouch that they are clean because my girls took a bath with them every single night,” I paused but she didn’t say anything so I went on. “It was a sad day when I didn’t find them propped up on the edge of the tub. I wasn’t ready for my girls to grow up and be more interested in their own hair, perfume, clothes and boys.”
“Your Barbie dolls wouldn’t bring fifty cents at a garage sale,” she said coldly and hung up on me.
I guess this means my grandchildren will have to work their way through college. And I won’t ever have a butler or a maid. Oh, well! Back in the box they go. Ken can have his sister wives back for another thirty years.