In some of my posts and comments on this blob, I may have given off the impression a time or two that I don't really like chillruns very much. This is not entirely true. Yes, I made the conscious decision at a very early age not to have any, but that really had more to do with G.I. Joe than anything else.
It went down like this: When we were children, my brother continuously, relentlessly, insisted that my Malibu Barbie quit jet-setting all over the world in fabulous outfits my great aunt sewed for her and mailed all the way from NYC and instead settle down and marry his GI Joe.
"The hell you say," was Moi's reply. (Or something similar to that sentiment in ten-year-old-speak). "Why would Barbie want to do that?"
"Well," my brother said, eyeing my doll in that pervy way that starts to manifest itself with boys at, oh, the age of birth, "That means they could have sex."
I considered that for a moment. G.I. Joe was kind of cute. And he had him some awesome abs. Then again, there was the matter of that weird thatch of felt on top of his head. So, uh, no.
"Barbie already has boyfriends," I explained. "One in every city. That way, she doesn't get bored with any of them."
My brother tried again. "He'd buy her things."
I shook my head. So what? Barbie was an international flight attendant for PanAm. She had continual access not only to quite a sufficient paycheck, but also to the riches of Duty Free. What else?
"Wellllllll, she could settle down and have a bunch of babies and keep Joe's house and make his dinner."
My stomach did a little flip flop. "You mean she wouldn't have to work?"
My brother nodded enthusiastically.
"Forget it." And I then I sent Barbie to Paris.
To be continued . . .