The Hit List - I’m not a Barbie. I’m a Midge.

When my mother was a little girl, she loved playing with her baby dolls. Her goal was to be a mother, so that wasn’t surprising.

She hoped her daughters would be like her, so we were gifted baby dolls. Alas, my sister and I had different agendas. My nose was always in a book, while my tomboy sis could be found hanging from trees and playing with the boys. Those dolls sat in the closet, barely touched. My mother was disappointed – and wasn’t shy about letting us know.

One time, I pulled one of those dreaded dolls and pretended to cuddle it just to shut her up. When she seem placated, I quickly tossed that thing back into the dark recesses of the closet, never to be seen again.

One day, the neighbor from across the street came over with a box of dolls. His daughters were teenagers and no longer interested. My mother said yes and presented us with this treasure trove. She was thrilled that most of the bounty was…baby dolls. But at the bottom of the box were two Barbies.

We never had Barbies because they were too expensive. Other girls would bring theirs to school, and I remember feeling envious of those dolls and all the tiny accessories. Now I would finally have my own.

My sister quickly snatched the one with the long hair, which meant I got stuck with the bubble-haired Midge. I was pissed because my life mission was to be a makeup artist, and now I had a doll with hair I couldn’t style. Who the hell thought this bubble cut was a great look for a doll anyhow? I examined her closely and noticed she had a snarky look on her face, while my sister’s Barbie had a big smile. Hmmph.

I named the doll Ginger because I thought it sounded exotic. The only Ginger I knew was the actress on Gilligan’s Island. I imagined the doll would have a glamorous life – and definitely wouldn’t be dumb enough to get shipwrecked.

Hours were spent making elaborate clothes. I would use scraps of fabric from old dresses and aprons to construct skirts, blouses, and hats. Sometimes I would knit a scarf or dress. My Midge/Ginger was going to be well-dressed. My sister and I also purchased an old wooden dollhouse from a rummage sale and renovated it. (A Barbie Dream House was too expensive.) Now our Barbies had a place to live. We played for hours with the house. Sometimes we made the Barbies do dirty things together in there.

Our dolls also took on our “personalities.” Or maybe we took on theirs. My sister’s Barbie was sweet-natured, peppy, and outgoing. Midge/Ginger was salty, secretive, bitchy, sarcastic, and bossy with a cynical side-eye. In time, I realized I had the right doll for me. I was never going to be a Barbie girl. I was strictly a Midge.

Midge was for the outsiders, the wing women, the goth chicks, the artists, the beatniks, and the rebels. She didn’t give a fuck if she fit in, met the beauty “standards,” or if her hair wouldn’t style. She never cared about any of that. Midge was too busy being Midge to worry about banging Ken or having the right anything. Nope. She was her own woman/doll.

Eventually, my sister and I outgrew our Barbies. One day, I found Midge/Ginger in the bottom of a toy box, marked up by my brothers, who decided she needed pubic hair. Sigh.

It’s funny seeing the big fuss about the Barbie movie. I suppose I’ll see it at some point. My daughter, who, unlike me, had a massive hoard of Barbies and all sorts of dolls, definitely wants to go. Of course, I have assumptions about it being some sort of sugary confection, even though the rumors say it’s feminist as all get out. All that pink, though? Gag. But who knows? Maybe, just maybe, there will be a Midge standing in the background with a sly smirk on her face, book in hand, clad in all black, with a bubble cut. I’ll keep my side-eye peeled for her.

Theresa

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