On being Ken

Tue, 23 Nov 1999 17:00:00 +0000

The queen of China is knocking at the door, tall and stately in a red
velvet robe, which is offset by hair the color of tomato soup. Ken is scurrying about, getting the family ready. "Quick, the queen is coming! The girls must have their dresses on! They must take their seats facing the door!" Whitney, the youngest, is trouble as usual, jumping up and down on her jointed legs, flouncing her long frizzy hair, whining and generally giving Ken hell.

Ken is nice, but stupid. The queen takes off her robe. She's an orphan
girl with no home. Ken offers her some dinner -- she must be starving -- and Whitney's bed for the night. She tells him her name is Ariel, and asks, "Can I call you Dad?" Ariel finds her long-lost mother. But the children are
jealous. Whitney throws a tantrum, then tries -- literally -- to kick Ariel
out of the house. Ken does his ineffectual best to keep the peace.

We never wanted Barbies in our house. But they infiltrated our family
as ruthlessly as ninjas, smuggled in as birthday gifts from less discerning
friends. We acquired a neighing Barbie horse, then were loaned a Barbie car. (I lost my fear of Barbies on a camping trip, when it became a prime sport for my two young daughters to hurl them up a steep rock face and watch them scrape and slither down.)

Salon.com > Tim Cornwell

On being Ken