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September 1, 2002 menstrual Barbie When the drinking stopped, it was quiet enough to hear what she was saying.  By her account, I had been a complete failure and no amount of sorry could change that.  Commitment to change is no currency for redemption.  I couldn't buy a break.  But I bought into it.  For a while, I believed I was never a good husband, never a good father.  I believed the propaganda until I was reminded of Menstrual Barbie. When my daughter was about five, she received as a gift "Ice Cream Parlor Barbie."  Or maybe it was "Malt Shoppe Barbie."  But whatever it was called, Barbie was the owner/operator of a place where other dolls could stop for an ice cream cone or a sundae.  The ice cream scoops consisted of brown, white, and pink plastic spheres--chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry.  One day my daughter asked me to play this with her.  I agreed. We sat on the floor of her room and set up the miniature malt shop.  My daughter's Barbie was the owner and my Barbie (borrowed from a "Brain Surgeon Barbie" set) played the treat-seeking-built-like-a-brick-shithouse patron.  When my daughter's Barbie was hand-hopped to my Barbie's table to take her order, my Barbie requested two scoops of pistachio. Now I knew my daughter's Barbie had no green plastic spheres in the house.  And my daughter knew that I knew this.  But she played along and prompted her Barbie to inform my Barbie that they served only chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry and which of these flavors did she want instead of pistachio.  My Barbie was having none of that.  She threw a shit-fit demanding pistachio and, when none was forthcoming, trashed the parlor like Led Zeppelin at the Hilton.  My Barbie went menstrual and my daughter nearly died laughing.  She found my bitchy Barbie so endearing she forced me to repeat the performance over and over again as only a child can do. My daughter is seventeen now.  The other day, she recalled Menstrual Barbie to me and told me how much fun she had playing that with me.  Then it got quiet and I could hear what she was saying.

©  2002 by the beastmaster