, , , , , , , ,

I have four children. Two of them are girls. With this, I have Barbie stuff. There are horses and cars and swimming pools and pets, dresses and furniture and tiny fashion accessories; and all of these minor marvels and tender trinkets are in some way gently kissed with pink.

In the corner of my family room sits Barbie’s massive pink residence, towering above all of the other toys in her neighborhood, sitting only one foot lesser than the mountain in her back yard that is my TV and the cabinet upon which it rests. Shameful, just shameful.

I started wondering…

Since God seems to have abundantly blessed Barbie with the mammon of this world, surely she must be a roller in this life. Entertaining friends must be usual. In fact, I know that she does so often because I, myself, a man of lowly estate, have been so privileged as to be invited to such galas. Of course, after a while, these particular gatherings end in Kung Fu fighting and marvelous acrobatics, but those upon which I have gazed from a distance, appeared quite classy. And so, as I began, since I know that Barbie receives and entertains in only the finest fashion, surely she offers her visitors Scotch. But what would a flirty, slender blonde born in 1959 and yet forever progressively young find endearing and worth sharing?

Being that she is, as I said, a woman of the ’50s, my first guess is that she is a Johnnie Walker girl. I know that to be a popular brand for that particular generation. But after further contemplation, I became restless with that choice. Perhaps Barbie would keep a bottle of Blue Label in the cabinet for sharing, but her house is vast, keeping other cabinets untouched and sacred. Searching those, what would I find?

I asked my wife. She laughed and said that whatever it is, Barbie would only drink from a pretty bottle. She’s right! A fine clue, indeed! Barbie enjoys the finer things. Admittedly, the bottle is probably an elegant one. It would serve to adorn the environs rather than distract. This narrowed the search. The finest most distinctive bottles, I’ve seen them. The Macallan 55. Glenmorangie Pride. Dalmore Amoroso. The Glenlivet 1964.

And so I tried to imagine…

It’s 8:00 p.m. The nighttime frivolities are over. The party guests have been called home by Mom and Dad. They’ve been tucked in upstairs, gathered to the lovely confines of unicorn pillows and Minnie Mouse dolls. Barbie, exhausted from the event, climbs into her penthouse elevator, retires to her third-floor bedroom, and falls into bed. A few moments pass and she leans over to the bedside table and reaches into the lower door. Because this is a “Barbie” house, fresh ice is available in a polished rock glass. She sets this aside and reaches in for a bottle. But a bottle of what?! Tell me, Barbie! Reveal your bastion of secrets!

Part 2…