So I attended this Barbizon thing, well, from a distance (aka, the hotel bar). I watched the scores of Barbie wannabes marching into Ballroom A from my stool.
I snuck over and listened outside for a time and heard the speaker say, “We are only going to choose several girls in this room today.”
That’s all I needed to hear. My wife and I had this plan, you see. Buy her an X-Box game and take her to her favorite restaurant to hasten the recovery process. There were dozens of kids in there. What could possibly go wrong? Then the call came the next day…
Yep, in between the last post and this one, she was accepted. My daughter is adorable, but, then again, I’m kind of partial. So, I immediately Googled “barbizon scam”, which netted only several hundred sites. Uhh, girls, this is bullshit. Can we please think about this logically? This line of reasoning availed me nothing. The whole reasoning part was the issue. My wife and daughter are, in fact, women, so logic rarely has anything to do with it. I was going to go skiing in Durango, now I’m apparently going to Barbizon. It’s going to be like the Breakfast Club, except Barbizon is four hours…in a row…on a weekend…forever. And, yes, when I titled the last article: Everyone Gets a Trophy, I get the Bill I was, indeed, totally jinxing myself. I like to stick with my strengths.
Now I don’t like to complain—sorry, that was the joke.
Wow, now, I really stepped in it. She gets this 2-year modeling contract thingie, a weekend get-way at some spa in California, an incredibly slim chance to be on television, soooooo what are the chances of saying, “Ahhh, we’d really love to honey, but daddy has certain habits to support.” And now I need to sell, among other things, Reggie Jackson’s 1969 rookie year card. They named a candy bar after that man, damnit! The Reggie Bar…well, truth be told, the thing kind of looked and tasted like something Reggie scrapped off his cleats, but it’s the bloody point! Barbie doesn’t have a candy bar named after her but, if she had, it would taste like straw!
Barbie’s Fiber Fructose Flakes: Seven Weeks of Fiber in Every Bite!
Then, when the big call came, and she was still smiling, I said, “uh oh.”
Actually, I uttered the more fecal version of “Oh gosh.”
So, I took one last stab it, “So how many kids did you know at this mass interview and how many were accepted into Barbiscam…er, I mean Babizon? It didn’t work. That line of reasoning bordered on math, which is very passé in America. Our motto should be “Reason & Math, O for 2”.
So, I did what any good father would. I Google mapped every microbrewery within 10 miles of the Barbizon studio. Hey, there’s a Bookman’s only a few miles away! Whoo hoo! Bookman’s is an awesome coffeeshop/bookstore, a place where I have fifty smackers in credit. Oh, and Sonora Brewing Company is only a few miles away! Let’s look at this from a whole new angle…how much would I pay for 80 some odd hours of babysitting in downtown Phoenix? This deal is getting better. Nope, I still don’t want to go down to Phoenix every other weekend for the rest of my life…one last try.
Umm, what if I got out my checkbook and handed you the equivalent in cash so you and your friends can go blow it on candy, Red Bull, and video games?
When I ultimately lost the battle, outvoted 2 to 1, I did take some small comfort in the fact that Sonora Brewing Company kicks ass. Maybe I should bring the head Barbie a growler of the vanilla porter to get off on the right foot. I’m joking, of course, Barbizons don’t drink beer, which is precisely why I loathe them. I think in my vertebrate zoology class they told us bitchy girls evolve into either cheerleader or Barbizons (come to think of it, maybe it was invertebrate zoology).
I will leave you with a conversation that I had with my daughter a few hours after we bit the bullet and signed on the dotted line:
“If you stress me out, dad, I’ll get pimples and if I get pimples I’m FINISHED.”
She really said that. Yep, a wash out at eleven…so sad. You see, my generation didn’t figure out we were losers until almost 16. Kids are so precocious these days.