Tag Archives: hospital

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.

Mommy Power, Activate! … Activate! … Uh …


Mr. Embee maimed himself making me happy. He’s a good man.

The Mr. arranged for my family to come over for a birthday picnic. This was after making sure Sally provided the requisite homemade birthday card, a present I wanted, and dutifully singing happy birthday to me over cake. It was very sweet and proof that in a mere 6.5 years, you too can train your husband to remember a calendar date and plan ahead for it. I’m going to have my technique patented.

Anyway, so he planned this picnic and was making his delicious guacamole. I was packing the picnic basket when I heard the knife drop and a sharp sucking in of air. I knew right then what had happened. I looked up. Another thing about living with someone for 6.5 years: You know by mere changes in electrons around them when things are serious. I don’t remember what was said but it was enough to alarm Sally, who climbed halfway up the stairs and stayed there. That’s where she goes when things are serious, like the time she realized our library system discriminates against the illiterate or when I tell her that No, her suitcase cannot ‘live’ in the family room in the event that she needs to travel suddenly.

Shhh . . . it's watching us. Photo: Muffet/Flickr

Whenever the Mr. released pressure from his right index finger, it bled. So like a good techie, he tells me to get online and figure out when a person needs stitches. A few minutes later it becomes clear — I’m going to need to view the wound. I’m not worried. I’m a mom. My mommy power makes me invincible — no silly scratch is going to freak me out.

Um . . . Turns out mommy power doesn’t work so well when we’re not dealing with our own children. Everyone in the house was pretty calm until Super Mom here yelled “HOLY COW, Go to the emergency room NOW! OH MY GOD! That is HORRIBLE! That will NEVER heal!”

Two stitches. It’s healing fine. But it will probably leave a scar and he’ll never forget my birthday. That’s right, patented techniques, baby.