Cabbage Patch fear

Like every child in 1980's, I had a Cabbage Patch Kid, courtesy of my Uncle Joe.

The interesting thing about this fact is, I never really wanted one. Sure, it seemed like every girl in America wanted, needed, and had one or two... But I never really cared much for them. 

I didn't like playing house. I never enjoyed playing "mommy & baby." I preferred action figures, or even dolls that you could project unto, like Barbie or Strawberry Shortcake. Baby dolls did nothing for me.

However, I did enjoy having Cabbage Patch Kid as a playground status symbol. Owning one made you fit in, and I wanted to fit in with the girls in my class so desperately. So I played with it in public. At home, it just sat on my vanity and stared at me.

It was a little disconcerting, to say the least. However, it went from weird to downright horrifying not soon after.

Now, something you must know about my mother, she loved reading trashy tabloids. The weirder the headline, the better. So it was not unusual to find the latest copy of the National Enquirer or Weekly World News in our shopping cart at the local Key Food. 

On one such trip, I found myself at the checkout with my mother as she glanced over the latest "Newspapers." A blurb on the cover of the National Enquirer mentioned a Cabbage Patch Kids collector. I found that interesting and picked it up to check out the article while we waited.

I wish I hadn't.

The article went on to describe an obviously looney woman who could not have kids of her own, who had taken to "adopting" a slew of Cabbage Patch Kids and turning a room in her house into a nursery for them. She went so far as to purchase a baby monitor and schedule "feedings." She insisted they weren't really dolls, but real children that pretended to be dolls when people were in the room, but she could hear them laugh and play through the baby monitor.

That's about as far as I got before we had to leave, so I put the rag back on the shelf, but my 8 year old brain kept churning that information. When you don't watch them they come to life!

Later that day I sat in my room watching my little 13" black and white TV, avoiding eye contact with the doll. It seemed like every time I'd turn my head, I would swear the thing moved. Any tiny noise was blamed on THAT doll, as I began to call it in my head. I would lower the volume on my TV and strain my ears and swear I could hear it breathe!

That night as I lay in my bed, I was overcome. I couldn't sleep. If I slept THAT doll would come to life and kill me. I was certain.

So I got up and did the only thing I could thing of to do. I grabbed the doll and snuck into my parent's bedroom and stuck the doll in my baby sister's crib.

My rationale? If it wanted to taste blood, it could start with my sister. That would give me a head-start.

I never told my parents that, though.

In the morning when they found the coveted Cabbage Patch Kid in my sister's drooling mitts, I said I was giving it to her as a gift. My parents thought I was being a generous and loving big sister. I smiled and accepted the praise when in reality, I was nothing more than a coward, afraid of a doll, willing to sacrifice my sister to save my own hide. 

And the funny thing is, I'm still creeped out by Cabbage Patch Kids, to this very day.

Michael Jackson dreams

The year was 1984, and I was an 8 year old caught up in the Michael Jackson craze.

There was no escaping the mania. Thriller was *the* album. Kids of all ages were either wearing or begging for red leather jackets covered in zippers. Knowing how to execute the perfect moonwalk on the playground won you more accolades than owning the latest, greatest toy. My elementary school even piped in Weird Al's "Beat it" parody, the aptly titled "Eat it" in the cafeteria during lunch.

My mom even fell victim to the craze and I found myself wearing a red leather "Beat it" jacket that winter. I wore that jacket with pride, over my Michael Jackson Thriller cover iron-on T-shirt, my vending machine Michael Jackson pendant, while carrying my Michael Jackson loose leaf binder to school.

I thought I had it made, until I saw the commercial on TV for the LJN Michael Jackson 12 inch fashion dolls. Forget Ken. Barbie needed Michael Jackson!

I told my mom.

This wasn't something I wanted. This was something I needed! I needed this doll. Every kid I knew needed this doll.

My mom understood.

Christmas was coming up and she said I'd done extra well in school and that I earned the doll. I just had to choose which Michael I wanted.

He came in three styles if I remember correctly: Thriller, Grammy Awards, and Beat it.

I choose Beat it. I liked that particular jacket best, and I did already have a child sized one I wore every time the temperature dropped below 70.

I remember going to several stores with my mother looking for it. Seems I had been correct: everyone needed this doll. They were no where to be found. If you got lucky and found one, it was Michael wearing the sparkly military jacket he wore to the Grammys. No one wanted frilly Grammy Michael. You wanted cool Zombie Thriller Michael, or young street tough gang banger Beat it Michael.

I'm not quite sure how, but my mom managed to find a Beat it Michael with the help of her brother, my uncle Joe. Of course, I was unaware at the time. All I was told was that Santa brought me *a* Michael, but not which one.

To make thing worse, Santa dropped off the present in early December, where it sat under the Christmas tree... Taunting me nonstop for weeks on end. I do believe that was the longest wait of my young life. Every day I woke up I would go to the tree, pick up the wrapped box and look at the label with my name on it. Every day I had to force myself to put it back before my mom caught me.

Those endless days were absolutely nothing compared to Christmas Eve though. That was the epitome of a slow torture: 24 hours that would never end, that dragged on and on, no distractions since it was too cold to play outside, nothing on TV, and that brightly wrapped box with my name on it.

The night before, I had the most vivid dream. I dreamt I opened the box and played with my new Michael Jackson doll.
Michael went camping in Barbie's camper and hung out with John Travolta. We ate lunch together. We built a snow fort outside in our matching red zippered jackets. It was magnificent.

Then I woke up and I realized I had been dreaming. The sense of loss I felt was overwhelming. I had to go out and look at the box to remind myself that, yes it was a dream but that I still had a chance to live it.

When the time came to open presents, I grabbed the Michael box and set it aside. I was going to savor the moment. I was going to open all my other presents first to get the crud out of the way so that nothing would taint my Michael moment.

I remember getting a plush Gizmo from Gremlins that year, which I was pleasantly surprised by. I loved Gizmo. I also received a Cabbage Patch doll. Cabbage Patch dolls were the hot ticket item that year, and I fear what my uncle must have had to do to get me one... only to have me set it aside, unimpressed. Xavier Roberts' golden goose was nothing compared to the power of "The Thriller," as Vincent Price was fond of telling me.

Finally I ripped open Michael. He had the Beat it outfit on. I was overjoyed.

I don't think I came out of my room for the rest if Christmas break, as Michael and I were busy. Michael enjoyed wearing Ken's fashions and traveling by Barbie camper. Sometimes Barbie wore his jacket.

That was an awesome Christmas vacation.