••• Thursday, February 17, 2005

From the Midgina Dialogues File
A while back, I mentioned that a Barbie tale has been sitting in my draft bin since February, 2004. I have finally come to grips with the reality that that I will not be able to give this story the time and attention it needs, in order for it to be presented as I originally intended. Therefore, it's time to just do what I can and move on.

First, I gotta say this: One of the reasons I held back on posting this, was that I wanted to find my dolls, so I could hold them, and reflect. Actually, I really wanted to take pictures of them as evidence, in support of my tale. Thus ensued the search for my beloved Midge and Ken and Skipper and Francie and Casey and Gumby and Pokey (It was a weird tale. Surely. Of Love. And flexibility. And don't call me Surely.)

Anyway, I know that my mom had my dolls. I know this because I remember her asking me if I wanted them, or if she should keep them, or give them away. I asked her to keep them, because I was going through a divorce and would soon be moving out of my current home. Besides, I DISTINCTLY remember her saying that “the girls” liked playing with them when they came to visit. (“The Girls” = my nieces, of which there are four.)

Anyway, jump ahead 12 years and I’m looking for my dolls, because I want to tell this story and show their pictures and also because my daughter likes Barbies. ::Gasp. I know, Real Muthas don't let their babies play Barbies::

Anyway, I recently asked my mom if she still has my dolls. She doesn’t. She remembers having them. She remembers her GRANDAUGHTERS playing with them, but she doesn’t know where they are, today.

So, this past Christmas I asked my sisters about my Barbies. And by their responses, you’d think I was asking them if their kids, as young children, ever made or smoked crack.

The sisterly conversations went something like this:
Me to sister #1: Do you have my Barbies? (Read: Do you have my Easy Crack Oven?) Ana’s showing an interest in Barbies (Read: an interest in learning how to make Crack) and I thought it would be fun to let her play with my old stuff.

Sister: My daughters never, EVER, EVER played with Barbies/Easy Crack Ovens. In fact, I don’t think we ever, EVER had Barbies/Crack in our home. EVER.

Me: I'm pretty sure mom said that your girls used to...

Sister: NEVER, EVER…

Me: All Righty, then.

Me to sister #2: I’m looking for my old Barbies/Easy Crack Oven and mom thinks you might have them.

Sister: No way.

Me: Are you sure?

Sister: Are you kidding me? My daughter wouldn’t be caught dead with Barbie/Crack.

Me: Maybe she’s so ashamed of her filthy habit that she hides the dolls/kiddie crack pipe in her closet. Have you checked between her box spring and mattress? Kids with a Barbie/Crack problem, can be very, very deceitful. I mean, how well can you really know your own children???

Sister: I’m tellin’ ya, she’d rather drink bleach. Then throw it up. And drink it, again.
So, I'm sorry to say, I won't have my dolls to share with you today. But they are out there, somewhere. And yah, this is another long post. And getting longer. And yah, there's no knitting today. So either shut up and strap in or shut up and ship out.

Having dumped about 2/3 of my original story line from the Midgina Chronicles, it comes down to this, An open letter to Ken (with visual aids):
Dear Ken,
I'm sorry for all the times I popped your arms out of their arm holes and made you into Flipper Ken, (See Illustration 1 in Appendix) then had Francie and Midge lean you over my dog’s water dish and take turns spanking your bare, Mattel-embossed ass.

And Ken, I very much regret the time I was not careful enough, and let one of your arms fall into your body cavity. As you know, after hours and hours of poking your arm hole with tweezers, then an ink pen and finally trying to wittle a larger arm hole using my dad's rat tail file, we finally came to grips with your destiny in a world of one hand clapping. (See Illustration 2, in Appendage) And since spanking a one armed Flipper Ken just wasn’t the same, your sex life, as we knew it, was also over. Adding insult to injury, was my nicknaming you "Snake," on account of the rattling sound you now made, whenever you moved.

After you lost your arm, I felt terrible. Responsible. To make it up to you, I decided to give you some manjunk. Because I was only 10 years old, the only manjunk I had ever seen was on my baby cousin, Ricky. Because he was a baby, his stuff was better described as "babyjunk." Cousin Ricky’s babyjunk, to me, looked like two concentric circles of flesh. A button, if you will. That's what I saw, so that's what you got. A button, drawn on with a black permanent marker. But the manjunk button, somehow, ended up looking like a donut. Which was not at all the look we were going for. (See Illustration 3 in Appenddicks)

As you may recall, I instantly regretted the disfigurement and immediately tried undoing that which had been done. But instead of successfully taking back your manbutton man-donut, I learned a valuable lesson; the definition of Permanent. But Ken, you know I tried. In retrospect, I suppose the the x'ing of the manbutton (See Illustration 3 in Amendix) only made matters worse. But please remember, I was a merely a deranged babe.

My Darling Ken, the last time I saw you,(I'm pretty damn sure you were clutched in the loving arms of one of my nieces who never, EVER played with Barbies) you looked/sounded well enough.

I'm still plagued, however by the memory of trading all your clothes to Nee-Nee Tunning, just for a chance to watch her brother Dewey, take a piss on their sister Chi-Chi’s new training bra. Although the whole thought of piss-on-a-sister's-bra was intriguing, I had really hoped to catch a glimpse of some real boy junk. Unfortunately, Dewey had quite a grip, and all I saw was the golden shower, followed by Nee-Nee gingerly tucking your wardrobe into a black, shiney rollerskate case, from under her bed.

Because you no longer had any pants, I was forced to make you a pair out of a cabled knee-high sock. Red. Although I was pretty impressed with how the ribbing made the perfect waistband, I can't shake the thought of you, right now, Rattling around my sister's basement, for all eternity, in nothing but a red, cabled, knee high sock. And, of course, your eternal manshame.

So, my once-randy little one-armed wonder, please know that I think of you often, with both love, and regret.

Yours Truly,

P.S. A few months back, I came across this picture, somewhere on line. And I couldn't help but wonder if..well...maybe...nah.

Illustration 1, Flipper Ken:

Illustration 2, One Hand Clappin' Ken:

Illustration 3, Manbutton:

Illustration 4, Amendicks:

And in defense of my seemingly corrupt moral aptitude, I'm not the only one who thought Ken needed a headier profile. Read about it here

Then have yourselves a Thursday.


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