Bratzfeldt Jakopink Disease, And PCB Is Soppy
I’m doing this post because, at some point, every parent of daughters is going to have to get their inner rage at Bratz dolls out. If you have no females under four feet six in your lives then you might not know about Bratz dolls. They’re the Paris Hiltons of the doll world. They dress like hookers, have “attitude” and are fashion-maaaaad, girlfriend! They have Bratz hair salons, nail salons, dog-grooming salons and boutique shops. When their web-site (http://www.bratz.com/) is loading, the message is “Please wait – it takes time to look this good!” That’s dully sassy coming from a teenager but are our under 10s expected to talk like this too? Are they meant to have such a precious, entitled, image-ever-aware attitude? isn’t there a lower age bar for this kind of thing any more?
Bratz are incredibly popular and are outselling Barbie as the pre-teen doll of choice. I was never much of a Barbie fan but at least she had careers and maybe even a few adventures. Bratz dolls don’t have adventures, they have appointments.
Barbie is slightly better by a squeak – although even she has a “Fly Girl” line now – but she’s just so pinkpinkpinkeverything’sfluffyandperfectandpink that wee girls are conditioned into a sort of pinkypinkysugar-thinking: the normal pink part of their femininity is grossly over-developed at the expense of imagination. Barbie’s web site’s greeting IS actually “Think Pink!”. (http://barbie.everythinggirl.com/) To be fair, the marketers lay all their cards on the table when they push slogans like that – there can be no doubt amongst parents about what they have planned for our little girls.
Everything is supplied with Barbie and Bratz – hair-dryers, electronic diaries, fully accessorized bathrooms, pools, offices, bedrooms, all sorts. Your play story has already been worked out for you by Mattel; Barbie just wanders from one pre-arranged situation to the next. There is no need for imagination; that part of a girl’s development atrophies.
It’s called PSE – Pink Spongiform Encephalitis – or, in its human form, Bratzfeldt Jakopink Disease: The pinkening of the pre-teen mind; the creating of cotton candy floss brains such that, when young girls are run over through not being able to chew gum AND cross the street to the sale! safely, the pathologists have to wear white caps and twiddle the brains out with 12 inch food-standard sticks. They’re already wearing the white coats, so that’s OK.
I could go on and on all day about these cynical plastic morons but, Brittney and Paris aside (Didja see how I played that one for the laughs there, folks? Didja? Didja?), when it comes to Bratz dolls there is enough rage out there for everyone. My pals SafeT Inspector and The Bearded One, both daddies to little girls, have mentioned them with despair in recent posts. (They’re linked in sidebar – Wordpress hates me and won’t let me do proper in-text links) I don’t want to hog all the frustration ‘cos it does a number on one’s ability to keep one’s eyebrows from spontaneously combusting in fury about what consumer culure is so baldly, brazenly trying to do to our little girls: to create tiny little super-consumers earlier and earlier, with little idea of life beyond the mall but a very good idea of how they want to accessorize to go there.
It’s not a happy thought but I half-suspect these dolls were created to facilitate a new layer of bonding between mothers and daughters. “Mommy loves to shop and now so do I! Giggle.” Hearing “I just liiive to shop!” coming out of Joan Rivers mouth is a bit amusing… ‘k, it’s not – but hearing it from an 8-year old is just kinda Chuckie-creepy. It settles in your brain far too close to the the neurons that store unwanted info on child beauty pageants and – making another surprise! appearance in this post – Miss Pointless Hilton. This new layer of mother-daughter bonding-through-consumerism corrodes the other layers.
Right, it’s out. A goodly bit of the blood has cleared from my vision after that. When the inevitable happens and a wee chum gives the girls a Bratz for their birthday or some such, I might be able to chisel out a jagged stony grimace of gratitude on my face now. I might be able to crouch down and eyeball my children only once, hissing darkly “never, ever let me see that thing before I’ve been pre-mellowed by at least two cups of tea and a pint of gin,” wild-eyeing it with all the maternal tenderness of a puppy-eating Shakespearean witch. I might. Or one morning, the children might awaken to discover their Bratz doll hasn’t slept in her black satin pimp sheets at all, and that there’s a fresh roughly 8″ long mound in the garden. That might well happen. When the red mist falls…
*
In a piece of unrelated reportage, The Problem Household had a lovely Valentine’s Day. The kids were sweet and chocolately and went to bed early with no fuss so mummy and daddy could have a nice quiet Valentine’s meal. We stayed in to avoid crowded restaurants and prix fixe menus and I cooked. The meal had steak in it so it was a success from the Problem Husband’s point of view; and it had pudding so I liked it too.
I love my husband more than I can say. We have an unconventional relationship, very. Aside from the ludicrous age difference, we coexist in unusual ways that I suspect many wouldn’t understand, so I won’t be baring any of them here. He is an odd duck, I’m an odd duck and our marriage reflects that. But we are odd ducks in ways the other doesn’t mind and are as comfortable in each others brains as slouchy cardigans and tea and toast by a mental fire. We built our relationship from the ground up, customising it to suit us, rather than pretzeling ourselves to fit somebody else’s idea of what love and marriage are about. We would have failed absolutely and miserably if we’d tried to conform to any shape of marriage other than the one we’ve made up for ourselves. But, 11 years on, we still sit and talk every night for hours. We can lose afternoons in inanity or serious discussion and often both at once. We’re wildly different from each other, and he’s way smarter than I am, but our minds fit together like substrate and catalyst molecules; we respect each other – usually – well, a fair bit – but he is wrong about many things and I do have to ’splain him stuff, particularly on why he’s quite wrong to hold various political beliefs; but we laugh a lot and I am happier than I’ve ever been. His mind sparkles and he challenges and teaches mine more than anyone I’ve ever met. He’s my best friend and I love him deeply. Sometimes he can be a right irritating old git though. I amn’t; I’m always perfect. Despite my perfection and his occasional misguidedness we grow better together every year. People are funny creatures and I would never have predicted the relationship I have with himself, but it’s the most satisfying and challenging of my life and I love him to the marrow of my bones.
Blimey, I’m a soppy one today. We’ll fight tomorrow and I’ll bash out something outraged and bitter. That should get the blog back on an even keel, ‘cos we don’t often do romantic memotions here on PCB and it all seems to be awash in mush today.
PS: To the person who came by via a Google for :”my child wont eat or drink due to size of tonsils”, I’m sorry I couldn’t help you. You see my children have normal sized tonsils and are obviously genetically superior specimens, tonsilly speaking. It might be difficult for you, as a loved one, to hear that about your child but don’t be down-hearted! It doesn’t make your children any less nice than mine you understand but when all’s said and done – your child has dangerously big tonsils and mine don’t! Na-na na-na na-na.
That nana bit was very wrong of me and you seem like a nice, concerned parent. *Burning with shame*
All my site meter told me was that you’re from Britain somewhere so, if you’re thinking of going for the tonsilectomy, I’d suggest going private even if you have to sell some of the child’s other organs to do so. I’m not saying the care’s any better than with the NHS but they have Perks and cute wee individual jars of marmalade with your toast in the morning. They alone are worth a kidney.
Nope, see, my children are genetically programmed not to have severe tonsilitis til they’re in their mid-teens and at the whining acme of their whole lives; when their self-pity is bottomless and their unbelievable disdain for their daddy and me is topless. (I can see a post with the 3 keywords “topless”, “hairnets” and “twiddle” is going to garner me a fresh new crop of the finest sort of Googlers)
The abrupt end.
February 15th, 2007 at 6:23 pm
Have you ever used a doll to scratch your back, Sam? If you showed that to your girls they’d learn something useful.
If only you could invite googlers back after they’ve googled. I suspect they look at your blog for 10 seconds and then disappear like tears in the rain, as the blond replicant said.
February 15th, 2007 at 6:48 pm
The Problem husband brought the world’s most repellant back-scratcher back from Hong Kong once. It was an actual splayed cat’s paw on a stick. Tragically we lost it when we moved to California.
I bet you get some wierd and wonderful Google searches over at your’s, Nanas.
February 15th, 2007 at 7:47 pm
checking my drawers, I found something pink. d’you think I should see a doctor?*shivers*
reading the part for the Valentine dinner I found a similarity – odd ducks, long conversations and complete loss of reality awareness, deja vu… does it come with the upbringing?
oh, and both me and my girl have our tonsils removed when we were 4 (not at the same time, though… haha), did I irrationally spent a fortune?
brrrr….
February 15th, 2007 at 8:29 pm
Sam, I was reading the “Barbie” bit and was going wax on about how I always discovered the Official Daughter’s Barbies lying in a pile without clothes on. This state continued even after the Official Sons obtained GI Joes. So much for the “Man In A Uniform” theory. Do you think all that Toy Story stuff really happens?
Then I got to the part about you and the problem husband. Very sweet. I hope you showed it to him. You’re both very lucky.
At least your google visitors are seeking health advice. I once got a hit via “Spanking Senta Berger.”
Cheers.
February 15th, 2007 at 9:17 pm
I’ve already purchased a Barbie for our E. Her mom threw a fit. Maybe I should shift to Bratz – but I can’t stand the way they look at me – the eyes!
February 15th, 2007 at 10:59 pm
God, I’m going to have to go through all that Bratz stuff in the not-so-distant future. I may need counselling from someon who’s been there.
February 16th, 2007 at 1:39 am
Jenpen, re the dinner and the odd ducks: it is a fact that odd ducks will never be found to eat duck for their dinner, even should that duck be entirely normal and not odd at all. It’s one of the ways you can tell an odd duck: that they’re not eating duck. If that way fails for any reason you could try asking the suspected odd duck if he/she likes port. If the answer is no, then you have a very odd duck on your hands indeed and it would be best to leave the premises immediately. Possibly call some sort of policeman as well.
Randall, were you able to help the Spanking Senta Berger visitor? A good blogger ought always aim to please his or her visitors. Although I wasn’t prepared to help the pervert who found me by Googling “horny tupperware orgies.” If I’d only had time to prepare and give a thoughtful answer!
Joeinvegas, I know what you mean about the eyes. Bratz dolls are like ghetto-chic Mona Lisas with their damned inscrutability.
Kav, I counsel you not to get any.
February 16th, 2007 at 1:42 am
Sometimes pink is good, like when it’s dolphins or lovehearts or ukuleles. Sometimes pink is bad, like when it’s barbies or spots on testicles. It’s the whole endless battle between good and evil just continuing through the medium of pink.
My reaction to the whole thing as a child was to chew the feet off my barbie. I’m really not sure what kind of statement this was, but I am sure that it was effective. Let’s just hope that your daughters have a slightly more creative, less vomitty reaction to their dolls.
February 16th, 2007 at 2:06 am
I prefer the Bratz dolls to Barbies. They start out as cheap looking hookers, but then you start feeling sorry for them because they have detachable shoes Such circumstances can be wonderful opportunities for having discussions with your pre tweens about human rights/rights for disabled prostitutes
February 16th, 2007 at 3:29 am
Great post, Sammi.
I tried to post this comment a few minutes ago, but was discombobulated by your commenter, Carolyn, who referred to pink spots on testicles!!!
Then, I accidentally pressed the wrong key and lost my earlier post.
But, your post is still an excellent piece of writing.
And I hope Carolyn’s pink spotted whatsits have returned to normal service.
February 16th, 2007 at 3:46 am
They’re not my pink spotted testicles! I don’t have testicles! Not even one!
February 16th, 2007 at 5:14 am
Well Carolyn, pink ukeleles obviously! All the best ukeleles are pink – that’s just the exception that proves the ruler.
Emma, what are your views on the hanging of Bratz by the neck until they are dead? I once watched a girl do that to a Barbie when i was wee and it disturbed me. I was watching Miss Marple movies at around the same time and not sleeping well anyway. Then this girl hung Barbie and it haunts me still. That’s an excellent point about using the dolls to make sociopolitical points. I might get one and simulate a life of meaningless consumerism for the girls, where, after all the toenails are polished and the pomeranians are off to sleep, the Bratz cry great fat tears from their great insect eyes because they feel so unhappy yet they have no idea why and no recourse to anything meaningful to help pull themselves from the abyss ,and nothing but horrendous credit-card bills to face when they do. If Bratz were to come out with a play set of that very situation complete with tissues and angry bill-collectors, I can’t say I’d be surprised.
Luke, best watch that discombobulation doesn’t develop pink spots, mate. They’re spreading like wildfire through comment boxes everywhere. I’d watch that Carolyn one too – the rash only started here when she came.
But it’s true she doesn’t have testicles. If she did there would be no way she’d get away with a green shimmery Valkyrian wedding gown without unsightly bulges.
February 16th, 2007 at 8:20 am
You can’t tell me there isn’t a Blunt Cogs strip in there somewhere depicting Bratz dolls. Go on, send me a script. You know you want to…
February 16th, 2007 at 8:52 am
I have staged an intervention!
http://i18.tinypic.com/2natovn.jpg
February 16th, 2007 at 10:36 am
Sam, the last three google-searches in my blog, and they’re entirely typical, are:
sexy vibrator in kolkata
spying in changing room
what’s under the skirt without no panties
They remind me of all the filth I’ve ever written.
February 16th, 2007 at 6:56 pm
Ironically enough, I’m after finishing a post on the loose morality of young women in the town where I live …
Great minds think alike they say …
February 16th, 2007 at 10:53 pm
Starting at the end, your relationship sounds a lot like ours but I call us odd balls. The relationship sounds good to me.
About little girls; I get stressed when I see them in up market magazines modelling jewellry. And I was sad when my own grand-daughters eschewed hand smocked dresses for boob tubes. The sad thing is they want to conform and to a degree one has to let them.
When my boys were little I sent them to school in grey flannel suits and white knee socks and was appalled when a teacher said it was cruel. I thought they should have the courage to be different but she was right and I was wrong. They have forgiven me I’m happy to say.
February 17th, 2007 at 4:44 am
Mrs. Waring has done an excellent job convincing the younger Waring that Bratz are shite. Whenever a Bratz ad comes on telly, the youngster makes it clear that she no likee. She’s six and yet to be influenced by schoolfriends at Kindergarten. Of course, there is a price to pay. Lion King breakfast, dinner and tea. Day after fookin day. I should be grateful. I am grateful.
February 17th, 2007 at 9:08 pm
Oh ninja turtle and Batman figures were just as bad, believe me. I lived with my son leaping out at me from behind every door for years. I felt like I living with Inspector Closeau’s valet!
I’m glad you like your old man, it helps if you like the people you love, if that makes sense.
February 18th, 2007 at 12:12 am
I used to treat my own dolls real bad as a child. I’m a boy, so they were Action Men, and it was the 1970s so they often represented Soviet spies. I’d throw them in the bottom of a ditch and tip rubble on them to force them to talk. They’d break, and I’d cry.
None of this is of any relevance – I’m certainly not suggesting you do the same to your girls’ Bratz – but I was so moved by your passage about your marriage that I felt I had to say something.
February 18th, 2007 at 4:27 am
Kim, I’ll see what I can come up with in the week. It might be fun to make a wee problemchildbride.
Sweary, that’s what I mean. That thing looks like a lightning fast reptilian tongue is going to come shooting out of her mouth and swallow the whole spoon. Then she might well lick those eyeballs of hers while maintaining that steady, freaky gaze. Those eyeballs! That head!
Nanas, any filth issuing from your blog is of the highest caliber, the finest on the internet.
Dario, you know, it’s possible that this Bratz generation might rebel and grow up into an army of dusty lady-librarians who’ve burnt the thong underwear they wore when they were 8 and want to break free from the chains of runaway consumerism. It’s possible. Or we might be just producing a generation of sad girls who’ve never been shown how to connect to anything beyond a cell phone and no way to entertain or be alone with themselves. It’s not their fault, it’s our fault and we’re doing them a disservice by pushing this mini-adult fast-track-to-grown-up crap at them.
Pat, these instincts we have and how they actually pan out in practice don’t look at all like each other sometimes. At least you recognized it wasn’t working – I bet many parents try to make their kids stick things out that they never would have, themselves. I know a certain amount of conforming is what it’s all about and at the moment the girls are too wee and not asking for brand toys yet. i just think they’ll be too wee for nail salons and leopard skin thigh-high boots for a while yet. The teenage years might well be out of my hands like that but I thought there’d be at least 10 years before I had to think about any of that. Childhood seems to have been hijacked by Bratz culture – they really are huge here.
Eddie Waring, I’ve done the same thing with McDonalds. When the girls see the golden arches they yell “That’s where silly people go for tea!” I was self-righteously proud of this for about a week until they started yelling it gleefully in the airport right next to the queue for McDonalds. My husband thinks I’m a twig-eating dork. He might be right.
Apprentice, I’ll bet batman wasn’t showing his bum cleavage though. He was too busy having adventures. Bratz dolls don’t have time for adventures in between their appointments.
Foots – hmm, there’s a lot to look at in this particular recollection. Have a lie down on that black sofa over there and we’ll see if we can’t resolve the self-loathing you still have about these episodes in your formative years. Did you manage to retrieve any information with these methods or did the torture somehow make you feel like less of the schoolboy you knew, deep inside, you were? Your account reminded me the tiniest bit of Ralph Fiennes in Schindler’s List. That’s not all bad – Ralph Fiennes is very, very sexy.
I may need the same sort of counselling soon. I think I advocated hanging Bratz dolls by the neck until they were dead, somewhere in this comment thread.
February 18th, 2007 at 8:14 pm
Hi Sami,
Couldnt agree more. I have had the Fear of the Bratz Dolls for ages. We must unite and end the evil Bratz empire now!
I have mentioned your blog on my one and only blog on my Myspace site. Hope you are ok with that.
http://blog.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog&pop=1&ping=1&indicate=1
Hope you and the family are doing fine. Thinking of you.
February 19th, 2007 at 12:03 am
I saw you were talking about Bratz dolls which really got my back up as they are mong barbies and I don’t like Barbies either and then I read what you said about yer husband which was just so sweet and now I find myself emotionally confused and drained, I must go and cry now, thankyou.
February 19th, 2007 at 12:42 am
Thank you, m’darling Fluffag. I’m hoping to get over to Britain this year, probably after the summer when the prices have come back from orbit. Then we’ll see about some fun with Orla, Roise and my pair. We’ll take some time to ourselves and go out for blethers and bevvies too. Any more O and R pictures? Hope it’s all going well, sweetie-pie. You’re no doubt sleep-deprived and that can be tough on the old body and mind. Take good care. I think of you and yours a lot too. x
Knuds you old goat, I suspect you of taking the mick. Are you? What with these tenuous electronic connections, you can’t always tell if a person’s having you on. Still, it’s fair enough, you’ve gotta take what you get in the blogging lark. I also suspect, as it’s yourself, that, if you are taking the mick, it is without malice. Is it? Buggrit – “C’est la vie”, say the old folks, “it goes to show you never can tell.”
February 19th, 2007 at 2:05 am
I promise to behave now. Not more pink spots on ANYTHING. Happy happy happy tra la la la la la la happy la…
February 19th, 2007 at 12:21 pm
Sami, blethers and bevvies with you sounds like just the ticket. I will look forward to that immensly!
I thought your little soppy bit was lovely by the way. Brought a wee lump to my throat so it did. Brian and I don’t normally share blogging moments but as it happens we were both reading your blog the other night. ‘Twas a lovely one to read together indeed. Thanks for spreading your soppy vibes around. It’s lovely and contagious. I don’t think that’s how you spell contagious but my brain has stopped working or caring about such things. Oh dear, I am letting myself go.
February 19th, 2007 at 6:53 pm
We’ve already made it very clear with our family (ie inlaws) that no Bratz–or guns for that matter. I find them equally offensive–are allowed within 10 feet of our daughter. We’ll see how much they respect that when the day comes.
I’m ashamed to admit that my agency briefly did ads for Bratz like six years ago. You’ll be happy to know that we sued the manufacturer for trying not to pay us as is their MO with all vendors. They’re slimy, despicable, lowlife businessmen, just as you’d expect. And yeah, they’re all men.
February 19th, 2007 at 6:54 pm
Would you like to know where the pink-for-a-girl tradition originated? It would make you angry.
February 19th, 2007 at 8:31 pm
See you Teuchter (yes I’ve been practising). My dolls looked like 8-year old girls and I called them Linda and Susan and Sally, and they were not anatomically correct. I also had a Chatty Kathy who would say “Do you like my dress?” and “My name is Rosebud” (which was odd, because it definitely said Chatty Kathy on the box) in a very posh voice a bit like the Queen. I think I also had a Tressy (“Her hair grows”) and cut all her hair off.
February 19th, 2007 at 10:06 pm
I had my tonsils out when I was three. My earliest memory is coughing up blood.
I had all of two barbies as a child. When their hair didn’t grow back after deciding that they needed a more modern look, I figured they were a waste of money. So I used GI Joes to ride My Little Pony instead.
Are the two stories related? Most definitely.
February 20th, 2007 at 11:41 am
You were the lucky ones. I just had a motheaten toy dog called Mona! Happy Pancake day Sam!
February 20th, 2007 at 11:57 am
Long life, happiness and many pancakes to you both, Sam. I’m well odd myself so I know how tricky it is to find a balance which doesn’t fit the usual ways of the world.
February 20th, 2007 at 4:04 pm
Carolyn, now don’t be making any rash promises…
Fluffag, I’m sloppy with my soppiness. I fling great damp mops of it around leaving unslightly splodges everywhere. You sound tired, m’darling. Take good care, y’hear.
Mom101, it’s like the Jon-Beneting of the whole elementary school culture. I’m kinda glad to hear the Bratz lot are men. It would seem worse for women to be peddling that crap to wee girls, somehow. You can’t even get Lego sets geared towards girls over 5 any more. There’s loads for boys Lego-wise but by then girls are meant to be learning the skills of not double-booking their leg-waxes with their hair extensions. Apparantly.
Conan, yes I would!
Bum. Gotta go finish this later
February 20th, 2007 at 6:39 pm
That was very touching. Sounds like you have a rather lovely relationship.
I also say down with Bratz, the plastic bug -eyed hussies. When I am queen I’m going to melt them, possibly on the paramour’s bar-b-cue.
February 20th, 2007 at 6:51 pm
Daphne, my friend had a Tressie-like thing called Girl’s World. It was just the head and shoulders of a largeish doll and the hair would “grow” out of her head so you could style it and cut it and stuff. I had bad dreams about that doll with the hair in her brain cavity.
Kara, I had all of no Barbies as a child, I did have a Sindy with a Sindy horse but I lost her on my granny’s croft. Can I link this story with tonsils in any way? Um. Well there were sheep on the croft and I once wondered if sheep had tonsils. Do they have adenoids too? Do sheep snore? Almost essential to know, I’m sure you’ll agree.
Pat, and to you! The girls and I are having pancakes and lemon juice for lunch in a bit.
Conan, I think odd ducks are just like other ducks only less even; uneven ducks. If an odd duck is to be happy she requires peace and a pond of her own. There’s a book in there somewhere – A Pond Of One’s Own.
February 20th, 2007 at 6:53 pm
fmc, has he broken out the pinnie yet?
February 21st, 2007 at 6:51 pm
No dahling, he has not. But I fear that day almost as much as I fear root canal.
February 21st, 2007 at 7:37 pm
I missed something that just flew by – “pink ukeleles”?
February 22nd, 2007 at 12:32 pm
a ps re Bratz/Barbies etc, the adored juniorest Drummlet has progressed from the pink elongated horrors to death-metal ‘zines and music…
February 23rd, 2007 at 3:08 am
Bratz dolls are unnerving. If you shave their heads and paint them white, you clearly have space aliens, which are trying to take over the world as it sis, so Bratz are obviously evil and not of this world.
I didn’t have too many Barbies as a kid. I mainly had Star Wars toys. I was 7 when Star Wars came out, and I thought Princess Leia was the shit. A mouthy, intelligent non-blonde for a heroine; what’s not to like? Still, I was obviously conditioned by society, as in much of my play I made the Millenium Falcon into a space-worthy RV, and Princess Leia and Han Solo were married, and the Jawas were their kids. Oh, and R2-D2 converted into a dishwasher.
I must have the most mundane mind on the planet.
February 23rd, 2007 at 5:16 am
fmc – think of all the pink-in-the-middle chicken you’re going to have to pretend to love before he gets his technique right.
Joe, check my sidebar. Carolyn’s splendid blog is called Pink Ukelele.
Conan, but when you think about it, better death-metal zines than pink elongated horrors – at least until she’s married…
Sparra’, I can’t think of a word I’d be less likely to use than mundane when describing your brain to anyone. Han Solo was so much sexier than Luke Skywalker. Chewbacca was sexier than Luke Skywalker.
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