When she was about six or seven, Debbie really wanted a Barbie Dream House.
It was the toy all little girls wanted - three floors of furniture, glamour, and pink plastic elegance - so Mom got it for her. It was going to be the surprise gift that Christmas. I don't remember where she hid it, but I do know she didn't dare try put it together (like all Barbie paraphenalia, some assembly was required) until Christmas Eve. That night, she sent me to midnight Mass with my aunt and cousins, put Debbie to bed (so she wouldn't walk in to find an assembled Dream House before Christmas morning), poured herself a glass of Cream Sherry, and got to work. It only required "some" assembly, and Mom worked at a plant helping assemble M1A1 tanks. This was going to be a piece of cake, right?
When I came in from Mass at around 2:00, I found Mom standing in the midst of a pink plastic nightmare scattered all over the living room floor that seemed ankle deep. In her left hand, she had a screwdriver and an instruction pamphlet that might as well had been written in Greek because it was so foreign and confusing. In her right hand was a nearly emply glass of Cream Sherry. The bottle sat nearby on the dining room table. She hadn't bothered to put the top on it. It was that kind of night. The look on her face was a complicated mix of emotions - confusion, frustration, exhaustion, and a touch of tipsy.
"Mom?" I asked. "Are you okay?"
"Am I glad to see you," she sighed. "You have to help me...."
"How much have you done?" I asked.
"Well, I got the box open...do you see all this shit?"
All I could do was sigh.
The folks at Mattel clearly didn't understand the meaning of "some assembly required," unless by "some," they meant that you didn't have to pour the molten plastic into dies to set each individual piece. Not only did you have to put together the (three piece, two story) house, you also had to assemble each piece of furniture (including applying felt "upholstery" to the chairs, sofa, and bed), and even place each individual item of "groceries" in the refrigerator - after you placed each individual label on each can, bottle, and carton.
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| This house had to have a gazillion little pieces and parts. It was a very detailed pink piece of torture. |
"You're kidding me...don't worry, we'll get it together," I said as I shook my head and took off my coat. It was going to be a very long night.
We went over the directions for putting together the house and figured out how to put each section together. As Mom put together the house, I got to work on labeling miniscule groceries, assembling the window boxes, and upholstering the furniture. I even had to place a dozen of the tiniest plastic eggs I've ever seen into a tiny egg carton to put in Barbie's pink refrigerator from Hell.
That was the year Mom and I learned to hate Barbie.
My fingers hurt from putting little bitty labels on little bitty groceries. Mom, wrist sore from twisting all sorts of tiny screws into tiny pink holes, cursed and drank more than I'd ever seen her drink and heard her curse. It took about three hours, but we managed to correctly assemble that house, place it in the living room and put all the furniture inside.
Now, the whole time we battled with that pink nightmare, Debbie was equally busy. She kept showing up through the night to see what we were doing. Once, she snuck into the kitchen to get a drink of water. Another time, she managed to slip into the dining room and sit under the table to watch the assembly. When I'd catch her, I'd shoo her away back to her room. Mom, somehow, never saw her.
"Mom," I said at one point close to the end of our work, "You know Debbie's seen everything."
"No. No, she hasn't," Mom said and sipped. "She's really going to be surprised," she continued, like she was going to will it to be so, or sip the truth away.
"Okay...if you say so...."
When we finally got done, Mom realized she hadn't wrapped any of the other presents. We spent another hour wrapping boxes and placing them under the tree and, all the while, Debbie peeked through doors, sat under tables, sipped water, and watched Christmas unfold as it was wrapped and screwed in place right in front of her. Finally, around 5:30 we were all done. Debbie managed to tiptoe back to bed unnoticed by Mom before we turned in for the night.
I have to admit, it was a beautiful sight. The only lights on in the house were on the tree, and they sparkled off that Barbie house in a way that made it glow like it was lit from within. The gifts were stacked with care around the tree, almost too pretty to open. The bottle of Cream Sherry, was too pretty to stay closed. It was uncorked and polished off about an hour before we went to bed. If I remember correctly, I think Mom even let me have a couple of sips of holiday spirits.
When I went into our room, Debbie looked like she was out cold - eyes closed, relaxed, snoring slightly. You could almost see the Sugar Plums dancing over her head. I tiptoed to my bed and quickly dozed off.
It only lasted about an hour or so before I was frantically awakened by Debbie grinning broadly, shouting, "IT'S CHRISTMAS! WAKE UP!" A jumping, giggling, whirling dervish, she woke everyone in the house up and made a mad dash for the tree before squealing with delight over her coveted Barbie house. Her happiness and joy made up for the lack of sleep.
We passed presents to each other and, as we opened them, Debbie would repeat things Mom and I said during the night as we put together the house and wrapped presents.
"Where have I heard that before?" Mom would ask. "It sounds so familiar."
"It should," I'd reply. "You just said it an hour ago."
Debbie, in a pink plastic heaven with her dolls and her coveted Barbie Dream House, simply laughed as she played and played back the night before for us.
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| Her grin as she ran the instant replay looked something like this. Substitute that perm for ponytails, and you'll get the idea. |
She kept that toy for years, playing with it, keeping it in really good shape, not losing one piece, even after she'd outgrown Barbie dolls and grew into a young woman.
She eventually and happily gave it to a neighbor's little girl, one who shared a love of Barbie dolls and dreamed of having the perfect house for them.
The girl's mother got a gift, too. She didn't have to stand in an ankle high pink plastic nightmare with a screwdriver and a glass of Cream Sherry, trying to figure out how to put it all together.
Sure hope she appreciated that gift.
Tomorrow: Parents play a game of Christmas Chicken, or, "Anything you can buy, I can buy bigger."
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