Yet her demeanor was a far cry from that of Barad, who made grossly exaggerated femininity her trademark. Barad dressed to intimidate: The suit she wore when I met her while researching my book cost more than my car. During company presentations, she would often dance, cheerleader fashion, to music from product promotions -- a practice that appalled Wall Street. "This may be very infectious in a sales presentation at a toy company," an industry analyst told the New York Times, "but you are not accustomed to seeing it at banker presentations."

Chavez was never much of a fan of froufrou femininity. Neither Chavez nor her sisters ever owned a Barbie. This did not present a problem until she arrived at Mattel, and was told that all new employees must accept an upscale porcelain version of the doll. "I made it so far without a Barbie," she told them, "I'm not going to start now." When they gave her a hard time, she reluctantly accepted a porcelain Ken.

One of 10 children raised by her father, a farmworker, Chavez was born in Yuma, Ariz., and came of age in Southern California. The Arizona years were hard, in no small part because of the discrimination visited on Mexican-Americans. "We were thrown out of restaurants because my father was too dark," she recalled.

Chavez based the Get Real Girls on her real-life friends -- athletes like Olympic cyclist Stephanie McKnight and former professional surfer Candace Woodward. She claims that out of all her dolls, she feels the strongest affinity for Gabi, the Brazilian-American soccer player, who, like her, is biracial.

I asked Chavez for the details on the Get Real Girls' lives: How old are they? Are they still in school? Have they turned pro? Chavez picked up a blue and orange package and read the girls' biographies off the back of the box. Nini plans to study archaeology. Claire intends to be a vet. "But Nakia," Chavez said slyly, "might turn pro. I'm not sure yet."

And where are the tennis players? Aren't Venus and Serena Williams inspiring girls left and right? This question seemed to hit a nerve. The sisters, Chavez said, "made a deal with another company."

Inspired by her cousin, Chavez has been vigilant about labor practices involved in the making of her dolls. The Get Real Girls, like Barbie, are made in China. But before Chavez would permit production to begin, she visited the factory to make sure workers had adequate on-site living facilities and received sufficient breaks. (If Barad ever did anything along these lines, she did not tell me or any other journalist.)

In the past, Barbie has, of course, navigated shoals that shipwrecked Mattel executives. In 1978, for example, Ruth Handler, the Mattel co-founder who is considered by many to be the closest thing Barbie has to a mother, pleaded no contest to charges of conspiracy, mail fraud and falsifying Securities and Exchange Commission information. She was sentenced to a 41-year prison sentence and a $57,000 fine, which the judge later suspended. He did, however, require that she devote 500 hours each year for five years to community service and pay $57,000 to fund an occupational "rehab" center for convicted felons. Barbie, however, suffered only a temporary setback. No competitors managed to exploit her weakness. Roughly 15 years later, when Barad arrived, Barbie sales reached their highest point ever.

Mattel's Teflon resiliency over the past 40 years does not signal doom for the Get Real Girls, who, despite their hipster spunk and pumped-up swagger, are still far from perfect. But it does suggest a different way to interpret victory. For the girls to crush Barbie, they don't have to eradicate her. They just have to beat her up a bit, punch a few holes in her sales. Even a tiny dent would be historic, the first such inroad of its kind.

Sparring with the girls might just build Barbie's character -- after they break her plastic jaw.

Order "Mothers Who Think: Tales of Real-Life Parenthood" from the editors of Mothers Who Think.