Tag Archives: barbie

Emergency Doctors Here: Barbie Hospital

Lately, we play Barbies. Then we eat. Then we play Barbies. So you might see something of a Barbie “series” on this blog.

I am sorry.

But sometimes, Sally’s Barbies do some interesting things. This week, Mr. Embee and I had to purchase a new microwave. It came in a huge box, so naturally: BARBIE HOSPITAL!  It’s a little bit ER, a little bit Grey’s Anatomy. And a little bit like a mental ward. It’s fabulous.

Things you should know before your visit to Barbie Hospital:

Doctors must stay with their patients at all times.

You will come to the hospital with broken bones. Otherwise, slap a Band-aid on it and go home, wuss.

Your boyfriend may visit you naked.

As the sign clearly notes, visitors will bring their own chairs.

Medicine will be provided. Lots of it.

Please do not be concerned that your neurosurgeon is Prince Eric from The Little Mermaid.

Our dentistry department (Charlotte from The Princess and the Frog) and pediatric physician (Astronaut Barbie) are often without patients. They are facing lay-offs.

Our doctors have a 100 percent success rate of finding illnesses you didn’t come in for. Broken arm? Holy cow, you also have a potentially fatal sneezing disease!

Any artistic contributions to hospital design by Mommy will go unappreciated. Dude, OBSERVE the awesome first aid selection and lollipop jar. How can you not acknowledge my talent?

Our pediatrician may need to leave during your appointment to travel to the moon.

We are the leading hospital in treatment of Barbie roof-jumping injuries and Chronic Villain’s Disease, in which one’s bad guy-induced illness shifts to various body parts and is utterly incurable. CVD claims hundreds of Barbies every year. Be the cure. Donate to Barbie Hospital.

In accordance with hospital policy, your naked boyfriend should walk you home. Because he doesn’t have a license. …I just print the rules, I don’t make ’em.


Not Now Honey, Barbie Needs Her Margarita

I wanted to do a post about Barbie, because at Christmas Sally got her first set of double-Ds, and I felt weird about it and wanted to talk it through. So I thought, and thought, and the more I thought, the more confused I got about the whole thing. Is she good or evil? Is she teaching my kid to want a hot bod? (Sally WAS very excited that Barbie had “all the parts.”) And if so, is that all bad? I mean, I want a hot bod! Maybe Sally will be motivated to get a hot bod when she’s 33 instead of just talk about them.

And for goodness sake, we own astronaut Barbie. She’s a highly educated and professional woman. Who wears heels in space, but that’s her prerogative. Anyway, I’ve decided Barbie is okay. At her core, she’s got a pencil-sized waist a toy that doesn’t beep, sing the ABCs or scream “LET’S PLAY A GAME!” after you leave her alone for 30 seconds. She’s a simple doll. Sally has to use her imagination to come up with scenarios for her. And Sally’s scenarios are pretty awesome.

The real problem with Barbie . . . is the margaritas.

Our Barbie and Ken live in a Mattel beach vacation house. This house is puh-ritty cool. There’s a chandelier. There’s a big screen TV. There’s an adorable pink and purple kitchen where Ken makes pancakes every morning, and a shower he can barely squeeze his impossibly hard body into. Delicious. …The pancakes! Stop it. (wink)

But when Barbie gets thirsty, what has Mattel given her? A blender and two margarita glasses. WHAT?! So, okay, first of all, SO wrong. My 4-year-old is playing house and we’re gonna get everyone liquored up? After I’ve spent time hunting down wholesome handmade Barbie outfits so that she doesn’t look like a cheaper version of a Jersey Shore girl?

Ah, the pre-baby days.

Second, the margaritas (don’t worry, I told Sally they were smoothies) really, really mess up Barbie’s judgement. She met Ken randomly one night and just because the guy was in a tux, she was all leaning into him and blurting out “Lez get married and have babies!”

Ken’s nothing if not smooth, so he was like “Sure sweet thang, whatever you want.” Little did he know Sally had the authority to marry them ON THE SPOT. Short ceremony, too, consisting of: “You may kiss the bride!” [kiss] “Oh no, my baby is coming out!”

You tell me with a straight face that KEN is the dad.

And then Barbie immediately gave birth to Strawberry Shortcake. Who, A) should have those cankles looked at, and B) has red hair and doesn’t look a thing like Ken. I don’t want to break up a home or anything, but I’m just saying, Ken’s best friend is a redhead, and with all the tequila banana smoothie flowing in that house, I’m suspicious.

Then it’s time for Ken to go to work and Strawberry to go to school because Barbie can’t deal. Ken asks if SHE is going to work, too, and she always says, “No, I’m just going to stay home.” And eat the bowl of Doritos provided by Mattel. AND DRINK SMOOTHIES. Ken has to do drop-off and pick-up for a kid who’s probably not even his; go to work; replace light bulbs; and fix the stairs in a beach house they totally cannot afford on one salary–and the man still makes pancakes every morning. I’m not going to get into what all this will eventually do to Barbie’s slowing mommy metabolism. Anyhow, Barbie is content to dry her hair; go potty; move the furniture around; and make sure Ken is staying in his own bed at night.

And drink smoothies.

Is Barbie twisting my child’s brain? I think she was just born that way. Is she ruining Sally’s life? I don’t know, Sally seems to have figured out how to get a man to do everything so she can kick back, which is more than most of us ever accomplish. Plus, I’m pretty sure this blog will ruin her life way before Barbie’s size zero body does.