Ken and Barbie Survive the Zombie Apocalypse

In the process of trying to give this blog a bit of rhyme and reason, I've been playing with the idea of making Wednesday's posts: Witty Wednesdays. I am not a very funny person. Forcing myself to try an write with a flare of wit and humor might do me some good. Right?


Today is Wednesday and I am a sleep deprived, worn out, weary mother of a sick two-year old. I've spilled Children's Tylenol all over myself in the middle of the night, have rocked and walked the halls, have ears ringing from ear-splitting cries, and am picking my brain trying to remember if I brushed my teeth yet this morning. I know. Gross.

That's when I went so far as to type into the google search bar: Witty things to write about.

Yeah, that's right. I turned to google. How sad is that? The first site that popped up gave a few short writing topics. None of them piqued my interest but one: What if toys could talk?


Images of my daughter's three-story high barbie house come to mind with the barbies strewn across the floors and furniture overturned over their plastic bodies--their painted smiles and bright eyes lifeless but hinting at blissful fun. There's a few rubber dinosaurs plopped around, one sitting atop Beach Barbie with her brilliant brunette hair snarled and teased. But still she smiles. Cinderella is caught by her neck, handing in the elevator shaft--red smile and blue eyes undaunted. It looks like an apocalypse of some sort. Zombies, maybe...

Rule Number one: Be sure you can outrun the zombies! If you get caught, you become a zombie too!

Obviously they never learned the rules to survival...

Then I see Ken, saddled up to a table, leaned over in a stupor. I can imagine him saying, in a slow, Bogart drawl (speaking of the mischievous toddler, more dangerous than a zombie, of course), "Of all the dollhouses, in all the nurseries, you had to terrorize mine."

And I can picture them regrouping when the children are asleep. Ken stands over the injured Barbies who straighten their pink, frilly dresses, trying to pull those chubby brushes through their tangled tresses. He shoves stiff drinks in their hands (literally, stiff, as we're in plastic land). "You did great today, ladies," he says, winking at Beach Barbie. "Everyone has all their arms and legs--even our heads. We made it another day, ladies." He pulls Cinderella to his side. She bats her eyes and nestles up against his strong, hard chest. "We made it another day."


And that's the best the I can do. Maybe there should be a writer's prompt about What if a mother's bathrobe could talk? Think of the inhumanity it could speak of. ;)


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