How terrible it would be to be
Barbie's little sister,
suspended in perpetual pre-adolescence
while Barbie, hair flying behind her
in a tousled blond mane, dashed
from adventure to adventure,
ready for space travel or calf roping
or roller disco in campy, flashy clothes
that defied good taste and reason.
Stuck with the awful nickname Skipper,
Barbie's little sis never got out much,
a mere boarder in Barbie's three-story
hot-pink Dream House, too young
to wear the thousands of outfits
stashed in the bedroom closets:
purple-beaded Armani evening gowns,
knit sweater dresses by Donna Karan,
specially commissioned tennis togs
sewn personally by Oleg Cassini.
Skipper had to buy off the rack
at Kmart, condemned to wear
floral sunsuits with Peter Pan collars.
Unlike her bosomy sister,
Skipper had no chest
for the boys to ogle,
until some bright toymaker
gave us "Growing Up Skipper":
with a twist of her right arm,
she grew taller, breasts sprouting
where there once were none,
a thick rubber band inside her
pushing her chest up and out
until the band snapped
and Skipper was stuck at age 15,
never the same again.
For consolation, she turned to
Barbie's black friend Christie—
who was just figuring out
all the fuss about equal rights—
and Barbie's best pal Midge,
who was tired of hearing
about spats with Ken, knowing
he was cheating on America's sweetheart
with every new celebrity doll on the market—
Brooke Shields, Cher, Dorothy Hamill.
Together, those three decided
they'd had enough of Toyland—
so they pooled their cash,
swiped Barbie's camper,
and tore out of California
for Las Vegas, where they bought
a little establishment not too far
from the gaming houses,
a restaurant for all of us
without thick manes of hair
or upturned noses, without
impossibly slender ankles
and tiny feet, without
perfectly molded breasts.
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