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Monday, April 16, 2012

Trapped in the Toy Section at Target OR My Daughter Made Me Go There!

So yesterday, shopping at Target.  I made the fatal error of asking my daughter, Cressy, if she wanted to look at anything.  She did.  We went.  I was trapped there.  There were other parents trapped there, too.  We looked at each for help but no help was forthcoming.
Why do I continue to torture myself, you ask.  Well, we only have the one kid and she's got us wrapped around her little pinky finger, so basically we're hosed.  I tried telling her, "You've got a million toys already."  She says, "I'm just shopping."  I don't know where she got the shopping gene from.  It's not from my side of the family.  I hate shopping.  I think I know what happened.  I have a friend, Violet, who luvs to shop.  She LUVS to shop.  She could shop for a job.  Her job should be shopping.  If there was a job just for a person who luvs to shop, it would be Violet's.  Eight hours straight and she would be hap-hap-happy!  One time she convinced me to go with her and OMG, the woman shopped for hours and hours.  I thought she would have to call an ambulance for me.  (She promised food at the end of the shopping experience.)  So what's my point.  I'm getting to it.  Here's what happened.  Violet's shopping rubbed off on me.  I don't have it, but I became a carrier, like Typhoid Mary.  I give it to people.  Like my daughter.  Poor little girl.

I tried to tell Cressy that there are little kids in Africa who have to make their own toys from rusting wire and stones, but she looked at me as if I had lost my mind.  (This reminds me of my mother telling me to clean my plate because of starving children in China.  That really worked, too.  Not.)  I found a picture of a child who made a car out of a milk carton to show her.  She was not impressed.

See, he's happy but Cressy was all like, "So?  What does
this have to do with me?"  Subtlety is lost on her.
Anyway, trapped in the toy zone at Target.  You'd think I would have previously gotten all the blogging material out of this specific subject that I could possible squeeze.  It turns out that the toy companies are INTENT on providing more material for me.  (They sit around saying, "Shall we give Fat Woman more material for her caustic yet inventively amusing blog?"  "Yes, we shall!" yells another CEO.)  I shall demonstrate in the form of photographs.

First up, this isn't really a Barbie.  It's Tinker Bell revisited in pink emo-gothic, something-or-other, because Tinker Bell wouldn't be Tinker Bell if she didn't get to change her outfit and your daughter didn't want to buy Tinker Bell in her new outfit.  (Fortunately for me, Tinker Bell seems to be on the way out.  Sorry Disney, don't send your goons to the house.)


Then there was, what the hell is it?  Creepy little Baby Alive, as compared to what?  Baby Dead?  (The brand name is Baby Alive.  I did not make this up.)  The expression on this doll freaked me out.  I thought she was going crawl out of the package and start chewing on some part of my anatomy, and not in a good way.  Furthermore, they want passerbys to reach in and touch that mouth.  (See it says so on the box, "TRY ME!" just in case you missed the creepy little open mouth and the creepy little buck teeth that are ready to chomp down on you, dumbass.)  Like ewwy:

You know, I have to amuse myself somehow while Cressy is shopping.  Otherwise my brain will explode.  So, I saw this next.  Cressy called it a "Feather-butted Barbie," which I thought was apt and pretty clever coming from an eight-year-old.  It's hard to tell from my bad photograph but those ARE feathers around the doll's posterior area:


Next up, there's Barbie as a teacher.  Typically I wouldn't say anything.  (I wouldn't!)  But this one ticked me off because of the glasses.  You know only people with glasses are smart enough to educate our children.  Really?  REALLY, Mattel, you should slap your own hand.


Then there was this one in the special Barbie section.  (It's very, very special!)  At first I thought they were going for lederhosen Barbie or Lost in the Alps Barbie.  All she needs is cheese and sheep.  Also one of those big horns so she can call, "RIIIIICOOOOLAAAA!"  But I looked closer and saw that it was really Irish Barbie.  (Did they go to Ireland?  Did they check with the Irish?  I don't think so.)  I think Mattel missed the mark:
In the same, special section for Barbies, I saw this one and well, I'm thinking maybe Mattel's trying to tap that 70s blackplotation market or something, but wouldn't they have a guy dressed like Superfly or Blackula instead?  Mattel, seriously?  Dolls from the fashion hood?  (Whoops, did I cross the line?  Well, it wouldn't be the first time and I'm pretty sure it won't be the last.):

Okay, finally, before Mattel sues me for something obscure, there was this one.  Computer Engineer Barbie.  While I applaud Mattel's pursuit of the "intelligent" Barbie, I have to say, "Glasses again?"  If Barbie is smart enough to be a computer engineer and trendy enough to have the pink computer and the cool fashiony clothes that only Computer Engineer Barbies can have, then SHE'S GOING TO GET CONTACT LENSES!  I'm pretty sure.  (But maybe Mattel figures that since no one really knows what a Computer Engineer does, then they can get away with it.)

Hours later, we escaped from...the toy zone.  Acquisitions included a Lego set featuring Mario and an Angry Bird plush.  No Barbies this time, thank God.

4 comments:

Anonymous said...

Oh carp! Not ANOTHER damned plush toy!

Carwoo said...

We have a country of plush toys in this house. Pretty soon there will be elections. The other day my daughter said that Megaroy was the president and Megaroy is her moron cat, so you can guess how this country will be run.

Anonymous said...

We used to have a baby alive. It pooped. Really, you fed it and it came out the other end. I will never,never, never, ever buy another doll that poops. Worst. Doll. Ever.

Carwoo said...

I think I blogged about that baby doll. Peeing dolls (water) well okay. Pooping dolls (what the eff is the poop?) no.