Last weekend I attended a birthday party. The guest of honor, Caroline, was celebrating her fourth and like many women her age, was really excited to be getting gifts of Barbie paraphernalia. She received a fabulous Barbie horse, complete with glorious mane, tail, and grooming tools; a selection of household items for Barbie's Dreamhouse, including a wee tube of Crest, a teeny-tiny cell phone, and a near-microscopic pager; and an outfit for her lone Ken doll. The outfit was labeled "Dealmaker Ken". Apparently, the deals Ken plans to make are all on the street - and I don't mean Wall Street. He'll be wearing charcoal trousers, a black-and-white patterned Italian shirt, and black loafers. In his pocket? A cell phone, a wallet, and a money clip stuffed with cash. Dealmaker Ken looks like he'd be right at home on "The Sopranos". While The Bunny and I marveled at the flashy eurotrash style of today's Ken, Caroline's mom said, "Oh good! Ken really needed something to wear. He just lies around upstairs naked all the time." What memories that brought back!

I loved Barbie. I played with Barbie from age four or five to at least twelve. I had not only my own Barbies, but all of my older cousin's hand-me-down dolls as well, bringing the total population of beaming blonde plastic bombshells in my bedroom to maybe two dozen. To distinguish between them, I'd give them all new haircuts or dye jobs. (You can dye Barbie's hair with a permanent magic marker - but I don't recommend it.) Into this seething sisterhood was introduced one man: Mod Hair Ken. He arrived with only the clothes on his back, a gleaming grin, and a set of sideburns to make any 1970's bachelor envious.

At first, all the girls were anxious to be seen on Ken's arm. He drove the Convertible - one-handed, cocky, sure of his charms. He was mobbed in the pool (actually, an old plastic dishpan), and absolutely swarmed at every party. But after a while, Ken's luster began to dim. Maybe it started with the loss of his shoes. They were either eaten by the dog or unapologetically vacuumed up by my mother. Since Ken couldn't share shoes with Barbie, he was forced to go barefoot. Then something happened to his shirt - it just vanished. One day he got into the pool for a swim and somehow, lost his pants in the yard. Naked, forlorn, he hung out in the far back corner of the dream house and was largely forgotten. There was no question of buying him new clothes - who ever heard of spending birthday money on Ken fashions?

Soon, GI Joe and Johnny West were hanging out at the pool. Despite the fact that by any standards Johnny was a giant, the girls all loved his courtly Western ways. And though it was well known that Joe wasn't the serious boyfriend type, there was something so haunting about his rugged visage that even aloof Francie couldn't resist a dance. Johnny and Joe blew into the Dreamhouse on their own schedules and were often whisked away mid-party. (By my brother, their owner, who said "They're not dolls stupid; they're action figures.") Their very unreliability made them glamorous, desirable. Next to a couple of hard-living alpha males like Johnny West and GI Joe, how could the naked Mod Hair Ken seem anything but emasculated?

You could draw all sorts of large social truths from the way that little girls play with Ken and Barbie. You could say that we learn early to dismiss the nice regular guy in favor of the tough, emotionally remote he-man. You could say that our obsession with appearance comes courtesy of Mattel. Or, you could say that a naked man has no business living with twenty-three young women in the first place. For me, the whole point of Barbie was changing her clothes and working - and re-working - all of her friendship dramas out in excruciating detail. Ken was in the way. How many dates can you go on? How many weddings can you stage? And then what? I never went in for those odd-looking Barbie baby-things - what were they called anyway? Was it Kelly? My Barbies had places to go, outfits to wear, girlfriends to hang out with. And so Ken stayed home, naked and dusty, waiting for the women to return.

I still love Barbie, despite her unrealistic measurements and those ridiculously arched little feet. Any difficulties I've had so far in this life have had precious little to do with the hours I spent wrestling her in and out of tulle ballgowns, believe you me. Some of my happiest childhood hours were spent with Barbie, P.J., Skipper, Francie and pals. Even my callous neglect of Mod Hair Ken hasn't, I hope, affected my view of how a man ought to be treated. Despite my former cruel - even sick, I'll admit it - disregard for Ken's feelings, I like to think that I've matured. For example, I would never ask my husband to spend his days lolling about the house completely naked, just waiting for me and my girlfriends to show up to change our outfits. I can't imagine insulting his intelligence or self-respect with such a demeaning suggestion....mostly, I'm afraid, because he'd like it.