Most people who know me are familiar with my story of childhood tragedy – the mysterious disappearance of my coveted and beloved Superstar Barbie. She had perfect long blonde hair, brilliant diamond earrings and matching ring, a fabulous form-fitting pink satin dress (a la Ginger from Gilligan’s Island) and a pink feather boa most drag queens would “cut a bitch” to drape around their newly Nair-ed body. To me she was more than just a blonde bombshell superstar. She was a secret agent. She was G.I. Joe’s slutty girlfriend. She was the epitome of glamour, style and sex…even though at the time I thought sex involved a man urinating inside a woman. (Give me a break…I was a very sheltered, geeky, little, comic-book-loving nerd who didn’t own a pair of jeans until the 6th grade.)
Suddenly after one night of playing hard-to-get with G.I. Joe and telling Farah Fawcett she was a skanky slut (yes, in the 1970’s Farah Fawcett had a barbie doll modeled in her likeness…as did Cher and Dolly Parton…don’t judge me because I know this) I awoke to find her missing from her luxury penthouse – coincidentally, the same one in which the Jefferson’s lived (boy I really loved that show) and otherwise known as my toy box.
I was frantic. I looked everywhere. G.I. Joe still sat there, shirtless, dog-tags laying across his flat, washboard abs with that smug “I’m hot and I know it” look on his bearded face, but Superstar Barbie was gone. Not even one of her pink Mary Jane’s was left. I tore through the penthouse throwing books and toys about the room, frantically digging through the waste of my mother’s money hoping and praying to find Superstar Barbie. Nothing. Gone. Vanished.
Tears welled up in my eyes. My lips quivered. I could feel the ungodly bellowing of sorrow creeping from my diaphragm up my esophagus and bursting through my overly large, buck teeth (my head had to grow into my enormous teeth…God, I was pathetic). I ran through the house screaming in agony, calling out for Superstar Barbie, hoping she had just temporarily wandered away – perhaps shopping through my mother’s jewelry box (something I did regularly…I was fascinated with shiny things like diamonds and jewels…perhaps I was a cat in a former life…sorry, I digress), whoring it up with my Miss Piggy puppet (ALSO missing…hmmmm) or maybe just freshening up her beautiful blue eye shadow? I looked in every corner or the house, inside the box of tampons shoved in the back of the cabinet under the sink in the bathroom, even under my mother’s mattress where I did find a certain special magazine intended to provide women (and likely gay men) with some visual assistance during those private self-pleasuring moments that most women deny every occur. But nothing. She was gone. Somehow vanished from the security of my bedroom and was never to be found.
I was devastated. I was lost. Who would I look to for expert fashion advice and help matching my Garanimal outfits (all you 70’s kids will know what I’m talking about)? Who will look at G.I. Joe’s shirtless, perfectly sculpted body and dark, brooding, brown eyes with low-rise camouflage pants that drooped just enough to show the crack of his firm, bubble butt and remind him that he’s just an Army rat not good enough for the high-class and sophistication of Superstar Barbie? Who would stand beside me, gazing into the mirror every morning and reassure me that my fantastically feathered hair looked better than Shaun Cassidy’s? Unfortunately, no one. Perhaps that explains many things about me now…
ANYWAY, you all know as well as I do that Superstar Barbie and Miss Piggy didn’t just go out for a girl’s night, get slipped a ruffie and end up hooked on smack and turning tricks in NYC. “Someone” (take your pick of parental guardian) helped Superstar Barbie and Miss Piggy find their way to the trash can. Adults are the devil.
The point of this post before I got myself sidetracked was to show you this generation’s version of Superstar Barbie – Blonde Diamond Barbie! She’s a little bit Christina Aguilera, a little bit Taylor Swift and whole lot RuPaul – this glamour girl is like Superstar Barbie’s prettier half-sister from her mother’s second marriage who was suffering from empty nest syndrome and thought a new baby would solve all her marital problems. She’s pretty phenomenal and if I was a little bit weirder and lived alone I might just (sadly) own one. Thank God I’m not single.