STRANGER THAN FICTION: WHO SAYS ANTHING IS WRONG WITH BARBIE?

The "Oprah" topic a few weeks back was how silent lessons taught to little girls affect their self-image years later.

As an example, there was a 5-year-old who, at her mother's urging, did her own makeup for the show. It was absolutely flawless. I considered calling for tips on eye shadow, but apparently kindergarten and going to the hair salon was consuming all the girl's time.

And, of course, Oprah discussed The Demon Barbie -- a doll that allegedly taught girls they had to have slim waists, huge breasts and tiny feet to be acceptable. According to calculations, if Barbie were a human, she would have something like a 22-inch waist, 44-inch bust and be nearly eight feet tall.

I have to think that playing with Barbie DID affect my self-image, because I'm over six feet tall and have always regretted not being able to achieve those last two feet.

It all began when I was an impressionable pre-schooler, and Mom gave me the Barbie and Ken she played with as a girl. Barbie was brunette, not blonde -- didn't anyone know about true beauty then? -- and still was suffering from an accident years ago. She couldn't hold her head up, so the weight of her hair caused her to constantly look at the ceiling.

Ken had a crew cut made out of felt, and some sort of Mattel chemotherapy resulted in the loss of half of it.

They were a sad-looking couple, and that probably affected my self-image more than anything. I often find myself walking down the street staring at the sky, hoping a muscular man with no discernible private parts and half a head of hair would come into my life.

Seriously, those dolls provided a lot of fun despite their shortcomings. Their knees and elbows didn't bend, so they spent a lot of time seated on shoeboxes -- Mom and Dad couldn't afford the pricey Barbie Dollhouse and furniture -- with their legs and arms shooting straight out.

When they spoke, you had to make them jump up and down slightly with each word, sometimes holding a Barbie in each hand so they could have a conversation.

The absolute best was when everyone got together with their Barbie and Ken collections so the group could mingle. Vera from across the street was an only child, so her Barbies were best. They had multiple outfits for the office, cocktail parties, exercising, dancing -- the works. Their Beverly Hills mansion was immaculate.

My pitiful duo was the poor white trash of the Barbie world.

Times got better for my family, though, and Mom bought me a Malibu Barbie and Ken. Their only clothing was swimsuits, and they had TAN LINES! I was in heaven.

One day my family was barbecuing at Lake Wappapello, so Barbie and I went for a swim. We were both sopping wet, so I decided to dry my hair with a towel and dry Barbie's on the lid of the barbecue grill.

The stamina of the Barbie body is a tribute to Mattel's modern technology. However, her hair quickly melted to the grill, and when I pulled her off, it stretched like a mozzarella cheese stick.

Mom cut the melted part off, giving Barbie a weird sort of "bob" haircut that stood on end. She was a broken woman after that, putting on the pounds and boozing until daylight.

Ken eventually left her for Skipper.

It was tragic.

~Heidi Nieland is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.