Adhesive strips: The misunderstood medical device. They are for your heart and your funny bone, people.

When I was a child, my mother insisted that we shouldn’t “waste Band-Aids.” Thirty-five years later, I’m still not really sure what this means. But I’m fairly certain that I only insisted on a Band-Aid when there was something really wrong such as a little bit of skin hanging off my elbow. Or a knee that looked liked it had been French kissed by a cheese grater. I will admit that there probably wasn’t always blood. But close enough. And now that I have two toddlers, I am a bona-fide expert in minor cuts, bruises and abrasions, as well as adhesive strips. I’m also a klutz, so I continue to experience Band-Aid incidents first hand.

But here is my point: The value of a Band-Aid as a medical device is vastly overrated. The purpose of a Band-Aid, unless you have accidentally tried to sever a digit while chopping vegetables or cutting a bagel, is to make you feel better, not to stop the bleeding or protect the injury from infection. That shit is just made up by Johnson & Johnson to sell more Band-Aids. Adhesive strips calm the nerves and stop the tears. They are useless in protecting a real injury.

So with that in mind, here is my Band-Aid philosophy. Waste away! Knock yourself out. If you bumped into the wall, get a Band-Aid. If you stubbed your toe, you might need one for each of your phalanges. If you’re having a bad day, unwrap one and stick it anywhere.

With this in mind, I’ve made a point of getting better Band-Aids. And I don’t mean better quality. No, that is irrelevant. I mean cuter. We have Barbie Band-Aids. Sponge Bob. And best of all? Bacon and eggs. There is nothing like a little fried egg, sunny-side-up, on the back of your hand to raise your spirits. Or a small strip of fried, salted pig meat on your knee to make you feel good.

But this has led to just a bit of confusion at times. When we first got the Barbie Band-Aids, I did not clarify that they were for humans and not for Barbies. And here is what happened to the first box.


Now doesn’t that make you feel way better!

(Click on the pic to enlarge)


A commentary on race, class and gender or why we need to so many Barbies

Our current Barbie count is seven — four adult females, two adult males and one child, also female. We have two blond Barbies. Two black-haired Barbies. A Ken. A little girl Barbie named Chelsea. And Danny Wood. Yes, the guy from New Kids on the Block. I purchased the blond Barbies, as well as Ken and Chelsea, who are also blond. We adopted the other three (the dark ones, I might add) from day care.

For me, every Barbie has a theme, one that the manufacturer intended, and another one which I am using to justify the ownership of so many Barbies.

For example, one of the black-haired Barbies came with knee pads, elbow pads and one rollerblade. No helmet. OK. She’s an athlete and a risk taker. That’s a good role model, right? The only problem I have is the lack of helmet. But even if she had one, it probably wouldn’t fit. Inexplicably, all Barbie hair is approximately 10 times the thickness of ordinary human hair. Putting anything on her head is like trying to shove a marshmallow to the bottom of a cup of cocoa.

Now, onto the child.

One of the blond Barbies, Big Barbie as she came to be known, was in the same box as Chelsea with a miniature toilet and a sink. Is Big Barbie the sister? A single mom? Hey, it’s family helping family. Regardless, this was very handy during potty training time, when my daughter and I could go through all the steps for using the toilet with Chelsea and Big Barbie before we tried it ourselves.

And then there are the guys.

They are fine, I suppose, but having Ken – the Ultimate Boyfriend – has reinforced some behavior that I don’t love. Ken has a recording device in his chest that allows you to say things like “naked butt” and then repeat them in three different tones of voice. Awesome (not). But last night I noticed Barbie wearing Ken’s shirt and jeans. So that’s a good sign. We’re not letting gender stereotypes dictate the dress code.

This leaves Danny Wood. His plastic head is painted with black hair, but he also has a two-inch string of black hair down his back, which makes me fondly refer to him (in my mind only, people!) as sperm head. He’s kind of gross. I don’t share this with my daughter, because I don’t want to be a Barbie racist, but if I had my way, I would not have gone back up to her bedroom last night to help her take off his pants. So I guess that’s my lesson. I need to be more open-minded about Danny, his needs and his sense of style.

In a few weeks, we’re getting two more Barbies for Christmas. Yes, blond! I have already bought them and they are hidden in the trunk of my car – a good place to hide presents, I might add. One Barbie is a doctor and the other comes with the Malibu Dream House. So that’s good. We’ll have one with a post-graduate education and another with the good sense to invest in real estate that will increase in value. Whoever said there is anything wrong with Barbie?

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