Valley of the My American Life Girl Dolls
I remember watching TV as a kid, seeing a toy commercial pop up and proclaiming in a most eloquent fashion: “Oooh! Want that, I do!”
I also remember my parents’ responses to those outbursts: “No” followed by “That is the stupidest thing ever” followed by “Have you been drinking the Drano again?”
I always wondered if that’s a generational thing, that my grandparents told my parents that a toy train and an Easy Bake Oven were moronic ideas for a toy, that my great-grandparents told my grandparents that a baseball bat and a Raggedy Ann doll were a waste of time and that my great-great-grandparents told my great-grandparents that a rock and the color pink were out of the question and not allowed in the log cabin.
In those moments, I vowed that I would never be like those old fogies, that I would totally embrace whatever toys my son and/or daughter wanted.
Of course, like all children who make similar promises to the adult versions of themselves, I broke that promise, stomped on it and then took the shards of that promise and rubbed them into my old, poor adult eyes.
As I covered in previous columns, I have a stepdaughter. Her name is Emma. She’s 6 years old, and I’m out of my element when it comes to toy shopping for her.
Emma’s most recent obsession is called, I think, the My American Life Doll Girl Thing.
I don’t know if they came out of the cabbage patch or the Malibu dream house, but there’s many of them and they’re creepy.
For those who aren’t familiar, the dolls are about two feet high and come in all different races and occupations.
You have your dance instructor, party planner, single mother waiting tables to make ends meet, professional Texas Hold’em player and Australian big-game hunter — pith hat and trophy mounts sold separately.
And that’s when it hit me that no doll collection is complete until parents are bilked out of even more money to purchase the many, many accessories that go with it.
Those include not only your normal fare of outfits, shoes, purses, cars, beds, dressers, walk-in closets, food trucks and community hooka pipes, but also the accessory that caught my eye and then poked a finger in it: crutches and a cast for the doll.
Don’t get me wrong, I applaud the doll companies for making strides, such as introducing dolls with disabilities as well as dolls for kids going through a disease or chemotherapy that causes hair loss, but I found that a girl breaking her doll’s leg and setting it in a cast a bit on the dark side.
Think of it this way: They love the doll more than anything else but want it to be hurt just so they can fix it up and care for it. If that sounds familiar, it’s because that’s the basic plot of Stephen King’s “Misery”.
Of course, Emma wanted the crutches and the cast for her doll.
When I asked her why she wanted it, she said because her doll fell and broke her leg. When I asked why she would want to break her leg, Emma said she didn’t want to break it, but that’s what happened. Did I mention she didn’t even receive the doll at that point and didn’t know the doll’s occupation and how that might (or might not) lead to a broken leg?
I wanted to ask a lot of questions, but I pretty much knew I’d lose the argument because I wouldn’t “get it” because I’m an “old man” who “farts way too much” and can’t help but tell “stupid jokes” — and that’s just what my wife says about me.
Then inspiration struck. An old, farting, dirty-joke-telling journalist doll would be a great pitch to a toy company.
Of course, seeing the trends in toys from as far back as my great-great-grandparents to today’s youth, it may not be ready for the marketplace until the year 2281.
At least that will give me time to come up with all the accessories.