Today we got in at work this assortment of Anne Geddes dolls. This is one of them; we also have several dressed up in animal outfits. One is an elephant, one's a dragon, one's a bear...you get the picture.
I am unpacking and pricing the dragon one today (I can't find a picture of it online, no matter how I try) and I'm sort of wrinkling my nose at it. It's this miserable looking thing; it's actually got two porcelain TEARS rolling down it's miserable pouty face and it's little spiky dragon mane is listing miserably to one miserable side, and my friend Cheyenne walks by.
"Ooooo, oh my GAWD! I want it!" she shrieks, and thrusts her arms out for the doll.
Eyes wide, I look at her.
"I don't see how you love that poor thing. I mean, it's just. Creepy. Looking. It terrifies me," I say, shuddering.
"Ah," she says. "But I love it BECAUSE it terrifies me."
"That must be why these things sell then," I say. "They're bought by morbid people who want to dress their babies up in costumes, but they won't hold still enough to let them do it. Look how this one is crying! It's a travesty of toymaking, and of Baby Representation. If I was a baby, I would so protest this. ANNE GEDDES DOLLS MISREPRESENT US!" I say, waving the doll around. "No, seriously," I drone on, "This is just wrong. This is putting the infant in a ridiculous, unneccessary, uncomfortable, and certainly embarrassing-in-later-life-type situation! It's exploitive!" I rant, as I sticker it to say $27.50. "AND IT IS OVERPRICED!"
"You think too much," she states flatly. "Just like, put it out on the floor where it goes, like, quick or something, before you get a hernia."
"I'm just sayin'," I repeat. "I'm just sayin'."
I'm putting the dolls out on the shelf, when one of our old-lady-type employees spots me and squeals:
"OOOO! Is that an ANNE GEDDES BABY?!?!?! I JUST LOOOOOVE THOSE!"
It is times like these, I wish I did not have the power of speech, so I wouldn't have to bite my tongue off daily.
Anne Geddes is the Devil.