you know those boys don't wanna play no more with you

While growing up, my best friend and I would meet each afternoon in her driveway, conveniently located next door to my house, to play Barbies. After lunch, I'd cart out my pretty pink Barbie case, filled with tiny outfits my mom had crafted and even tinier pairs of plastic shoes and boots, and we'd hold summit for hours, playing and imagining wonderful lives for our plastic dolls to live. Lives we, no doubt, wanted for ourselves.

Model.

Teacher.

Successful actress.

News anchor.

Rock star.

Gymnast.

Mother.

Doting wife.

Porn star.

You can pretty much be whoever you wish to be when you're 10 and playing with Barbies. Even if you're not sure, exactly, what a porn star does aside from having the ability to be quite friendly while not exactly having to talk very much.

And you will always have the name Jessica, for our Barbies were always christened "Jessica."

I've a secret desire yet today to play Barbies. I would play them every day had I someone to play them with. In my mother's basement are my pristine dolls in the same pink case, a Barbie jumbo jet and a travel bus. And they're waiting for me. I'm ready. I just need someone to play with.

The boys won't play with me, of course (not to mention their father would freakin' freak if I convinced them to tear apart the couch cushions to make a Barbie penthouse on the living room floor!), so I'm relegated to having to play superheroes and action figures with them.

This, honestly, is not necessarily my cup of tea. First, action figures do not come with sexy clothes and plastic stilettos. This is a crying shame. While Barbie looks lovely in a cape and brandishing a plastic sword or tiny light saber, it's not exactly couture. Plus, those little weapons look like twigs in Barbie's delicate hands.

Second, boys stink. They stink and they always want to kill things. Barbie girls such as myself are peace loving creatures who smell of daisies and clean laundry. We just want someone to take us to the charity ball and tell us how beautiful we are, and then have that someone lay on top of us so that suddenly we share a brood of giant babies together.

Third, boys are loud. There are always explosions, crashes and screaming when you play with action figures. Additionally, there is an apparent rule about coming back to life three seconds after you've been killed by your nemesis. You know it's exactly three seconds because you and your nemesis count it out (despite the fact that you're dead) and then, when the reanimation process is complete, you're best friends. Barbies practically sing as they talk in their whispery voices, and are never loud and screechy. OK, except when it's "porn star Barbie" time, but that's just a side thing for her. Don't judge her! Clearly, Barbie loves everyone.

The boys have tried to include me in their little afternoon action figure scenarios, but as you will see below, it's pretty obvious why I get encouraged to find something else to do rather quickly:

My ode to "Dirty Dancing" -

"My frame! Where's my pleasing arc? Spaghetti arms?! Would you give me some tension please? You're invading my dance space! This is my dance space. That's yours. Let's cha-cha!"

To love uncontained -

Oh, they tried to deny their feelings. But how could that which would be seen as so wrong feel so utterly and completely right? Bringing the forces of good and evil together in wave after wave of passionate, penetrable madness. What would the world say?

"I don't care about the world," the Green Goblin whispered, leaning in to nuzzle at the neck of love. "Just let me sink into your web..."

My testament to the truth:

"I don't care what you stinky boys say! Your smokin' hot mom is totally kick ass! I mean seriously! I'm not slingin' any web B.S. That fiery mane of hotness and insane rack? Come ON! For those about to rock, we salute her!

If you're ever in the neighborhood and wish to play Barbies, just look me up (remember, just look for the cracked Little Tykes frog sandbox on Google Earth and it will lead you right to my front door)! If you want to play superheroes instead, sure, I suppose you can still come knocking. Just beware. If I get enough of these action figures together in one room, I'm totally reenacting "St. Elmo's Fire" next time. As a porn. And then you'll probably take all your little toys and go home. Just like all the other boys. Or better yet, you'll cave and want to be the Ken to my Barbie (Yeah! Someone to play with! Wait. Do you stink?). Go ahead and admit it. We all have our little secrets, afterall.

My secret? I have all the "Charlie's Angel's" dolls...and I'm always Sabrina. You better believe an Angel isn't caving to being renamed Jessica.