A catalogue of Hallmark special products for Barbie's 45th birthday arrived in the mail this afternoon reminding me once again that we are the same age.
Frankly, it's hard not to hate the bitch.
She still has the twist-and-turn wasp waist. Mine is a waste.
She's been a doctor, lawyer, princess, animal trainer, surfer, veterinarian, teacher, debutante and scientist without ever having to take out a student loan.
She has at least ten gowns for every one of my t-shirts and can still wear spike heels and smile.
Unlike the significant percentages of most Hollywood types, she is all plastic and has been from the start. The closest I've come is braces on my teeth.
She was issued from her first box with a set of personal flotation devices that could have saved the entire Titanic crew, while I'm still waiting for my ship to come in.
She's had a Dream Car and Dream House. I once had a Dreamsicle.
Then again, she only recently got the guts to ditch Ken after more than 40 years with a good looking guy with absolutely no genitalia.
Poor girl.
No comments:
Post a Comment