9.6.08

The Decapitation of Mr. Heart



Anyone else remember the Heart Family? Fake Barbies with matchy-matcherson red velvet and white lace outfits. I loved that family. Mrs. Heart was much more elegant than Barbie. I named her Rebecca. Only a Rebecca could wear that shade of "classy lady" red lipstick and take care of her two clearly adopted children. I never approved of little Timothy's floppy baby Hugh Grant hairstyle, so as many girls my age felt compelled to do, I took matters into my own hands. This is never a good idea, as many girls my age quickly found out. Poor Timothy. You will forever be able to see all the weird hair holes in his little head.

Mr. Heart's outfit may be my favorite. Red velvet suit coat. Blue pants sewn directly into a white tank top with a permanent red skinny tie...you know...to pull the whole look together. Sexy. I loved Mr. Heart. A true family man. A sharp dresser. A perfectly coiffed head of hair. A real Carey Grant of plastic men.

One day Mr. Heart was on his way to work. The stairs of his office building (tree house in the backyard) were not up to code for someone of his particular handicap (plastic tininess syndrome), so he opted to take the elevator (empty sidewalk chalk bucket + jump rope). One minute he's singing along to the muzak version of Karma Chameleon and the next he is flying through the air, his bitty plastic life flashing before his unblinking blue painted eyes.

The paramedics (a panicked 8 year old version of myself) rushed to his side. The blood loss was suprisingly limited due to the severity of his injuries. It's kind of bad news when your head has popped off and rolled across the lawn.

Thank goodness for the All Powerful Wizard of Greatness (my dad) and his business of performing miracles (reuniting heads with bodies). Mr. Heart was whisked into the hospital (garage) where he underwent an emergency noggin' reattachment procedure. Tensions were high. Hands were wrung. Tears were shed. And then the light at the end of the tunnel arrived.

Mr. Heart was back at the office the very next day, most likely with a fairly sore neck. The remainder of the Hearts were surely relieved to have their brave poppa back in business. And I was pretty thankful for mine as well.

2 comments:

yvanka said...

I remember being far less kind to the cherished dollies who came to live with us... my sister and I would tie a string around the leg of a grungy, naked, neglected doll victim and throw her across the road, for example. And then we'd drag her back up through the brush with the dog running after her the entire time.

No wonder.

SMD said...

I remember those days of mutilating barbie (lite) dolls for my own enjoyment. The haircuts! And then the perverted things they got up to...why exactly did their legs spread quite so far?