My father insisted on buying me Barbies when I was a girl. Every birthday and every Christmas the population of my plastic clique got bigger as my friendship ring grew smaller and smaller.
I didn’t know how to play house. Not like the other girls did. My friends would have Barbie waiting around for Ken to come home from work as they cooked and took care of their babies (always babies from another line of toys that had big ugly heads that didn’t keep with the reality that we were making).
I could never pretend that hard. My Barbie was stewing in her hangover. Waiting for the lazy fucker upstairs to break out of the crispy cool sheets that he had somehow infected with his nasty sweat.
Meredith Barbie made a drink and chained smoked her Marlboro Lights as she tried her best to prepare for a fight. Attempted to cool down by the television as her hands hurt from clenching a fist all morning.
When her Ken finally came down the stairs she threw gasoline. Ignited whatever made him unsure of himself. Anything that made him a failure.
“Don’t you wake up that baby!” Meredith Barbie would scream
It was too late. The little girl would come out of her room wiping her eyes and reaching her arms up for her father.
Meredith Barbie wouldn’t let her be consoled.
Maybe a smack for crying and another for crying that she was smacked.
“It’s okay” mommy would later hug the baby “Mommy is going to make daddy feel good about himself again
This is how I would play
I wish this was all pretend