Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: THURSDAY, September 1, 1994 TAG: 9409010060
SECTION: EXTRA PAGE: 1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: BETH MACY
DATELINE: LENGTH: Long
A bikini for summer, a Mrs. Claus suit for Christmas, even a yellow rain slick for the occasional dreary day. Mom has an entire goose wardrobe hanging on neat little clothes hangers in her laundry room - all for her precious cement goose, whom she calls Lucy.
``Do you actually go out in the rain to put a rain coat on a cement goose?'' I asked.
``Of course not,'' she snapped. ``I put the rain coat on her when it's clouding up - before it rains.''
I thought of Lucy the other day when I read about Mattel's latest walk on the wild side of popular culture: Dr. Barbie. And I had the same reaction to Barbie that I had when I first laid eyes on Lucy.
I didn't get it.
Couldn't relate to the good doctor's 38-22-32 measurements, nor her matching clunky blue earrings, her stiletto blue heels, her thicket of bleach-blond hair. Couldn't picture myself wearing her tight minidress, couldn't imagine my own female doctor carrying the ultimate M.D. accessory - a fuchsia stethoscope that hangs between Barbie's ever-so-pert breasts.
Was the ultimate airhead becoming a brilliant bimbo? Was she supposed to stand for the idea that women can be serious professionals - while looking like Heather Locklear?
Wouldn't the stilettos preclude her from 14-hour surgeries and patient rounds? Wouldn't she at least get corns and bunions?
I decided to investigate. I went to Toys R Us, where Katrina St. Clair - a clerk and a Barbie collector herself - pointed out that Dr. Barbie mostly likely is a pediatrician because: She's carrying a baby!
Consumers get to choose from a variety of four accessory babies, which come in Asian, black and two kinds of white (blond and brunette).
Asked if her child's doctor looks like Dr. Barbie, St. Clair said no. ``Ours is a man.''
Had she ever seen her pediatrician in high heels? ``No.''
Back at the office, I looked in the Yellow Pages, where I found two female pediatricians listed. One was on vacation. And the other, Dr. Dawn Forbes, ``thinks Dr. Barbie's really neat. She used to play with Barbies as a kid,'' according to Forbes's nurse, Mary.
That night I packed up my son, my husband, the diaper bag and a six-pack of beer and took Dr. Barbie to our friends' house for pizza. I wasn't there long enough for my son to spit up on me when suddenly both of the women there noticed Barbie sticking out of the diaper bag and squealed.
One of them, a historian with a women's studies background, went straight for the doll's feet, fingering Dr. Barbie's ultra-sloped arch and pointing out how unfortunate it is that Barbie's still stuck wearing high heels.
The other, a doctor herself, went straight for Dr. Barbie's mini-dress. ``You couldn't wear this around the geriatric patients - it would be too tempting,'' she said, relating how a frisky old man once untied her surgical-scrub pants.
I decided to call Cathy Hankla, the only Barbie expert I know in the area. A creative writing professor at Hollins College, Hankla is one of the authors featured in ``Mondo Barbie,'' a short-story collection that came out last year - printed on pink paper.
``Dr. Barbie is an attempt at P.C., but you can't change the nature of the doll: She's about growing up and sprouting sex appeal,'' Hankla said.
As Hankla spoke, I fingered the ear piece on Barbie's stethoscope, noticing that Dr. Barbie's clunky blue earrings get in the way of the doctor being able to actually hear the patient's heartbeat.
I also noticed how disproportionate her matching blue hairbrush is - longer than Barbie's entire arm, bigger than her accessory baby and much heftier than her accompanying ear checker and reflex hammer.
``See what I mean? It proves my point,'' Hankla said. ``Barbie has never been smart. If she's smart, she's smart in the way that women have always been allowed to be: Her smarts are in her boobs. I mean, come on. She has a hollow head.''
I thought of the snapshot of me in front of the Christmas tree, holding my very first Barbie. It was 1969. I was wearing plaid polyester pants and an orange pointy-collar shirt.
I was also wearing a very growly disposition - because Santa was supposed to bring me a baseball glove, not a stupid doll - and listening to Mom lecture me about how rude it is to frown on a gift. Little girls are supposed to like dolls, she said.
Mom never got why playing outside - or even playing doctor with the Kellenberger boys next door - was way more appealing than playing with the likes of Barbie or some other inanimate, anorexic piece of plastic.
I still don't get this tactile fascination so many girls have with Barbie, or why so many people will fork over $16.99 for this doctor doll and its 17 tiny, plastic accoutrements.
Unless it has to do with the same reason Mom checks her forecast each day to see if it's time to go outside and snap on Lucy's yellow rain slicker.
Dr. Barbie's a caretaker. Her identity isn't wrapped up in her profession; her job is to be a woman with babies.
You'll notice Mattel didn't give Dr. Barbie a metal speculum, rubber gloves or even one of those yucky rectal thermometers. She's all makeup, no mess.
Is Dr. Barbie a role model for little girls? Yes.
But not the kind her tiny cardboard doctor's certificate seems to imply.
I mean, get real. If Barbie's really transforming into a serious professional, then I want to see the new-improved Midge busy working at Barbie's kids' day-care center, and little Skipper busy cleaning Barbie's house on Thursdays.
I want to see Mattel come out with a Ken doll who changes diapers, cries during the movie ``Forrest Gump,'' and plays peek-a-boo like nobody's business.
Beth Macy is a features department staff writer. Her column runs Thursdays.
by CNB