Mark Spitz took home seven golds under the shadow of the Munich massacre. The World Trade Centers, their two peace fingers bisecting the clogged Manhattan sky, were proudly unveiled. Nixon went to China. In the universe according to grade school girls, however, the headline news was the emergence of a line of Barbie doll knock offs, known as Topper Dawn Dolls. As my parents murmured to each other in the kitchen about rising gas prices, my sister and I held long conferences detailing the virtues of each doll. Dawn was the line’s namesake, leading the league of ridiculously proportioned supermodel miniatures. The dolls were a perfect size: large enough to hold their own in a toy box filled with big bald baby dolls, but small enough to tuck into a school bag with a PBJ. Both came to the table dressed in full drag queen glamor, replete with tiny rubbery heels and plastic chunks of handbag; both had numerous fashion accessories (sold separately), but only Glori had a thick hedge of bangs that nearly tangoed with her spidery lashes. She had red hair. She had a side part. I wanted her.
As Christmas drew near, the number of presents beneath the tree mounted, and my sister and I began our annual ritual of snooping around the tree, stacking, tallying and cataloging. When caught and questioned, we informed our suspicious parents that we were “arranging” them, a thinly veiled ruse that was nevertheless an extremely important pre-Christmas activity, for otherwise how else could we know which of us our parents loved best, and by extension, exactly how upset to get on Christmas morning? My parents wisely countered this competitive streak by purchasing identical gifts for each of us, simply varying in color or type, but never in size or amount.
Around this particular Christmas Eve our television set broke, and my father in his infinite wisdom (or more likely immigrant cheapness) chose not to repair it. The oscillating lights of the tree were a crappy yet acceptable substitute for our TV starved brains, and the endless hours freed up by no longer having to keep abreast of Fred, Wilma, Ginger, Maryann and the whole Brady Bunch allowed us many more hours of haunting the tree. We sorted and shook the gifts until my sister triumphantly held up a package that had been poorly taped by our sleep deprived father. Carefully she weaseled the edges apart to discover (oh, happy day) a Glori doll for me. Locating the identical twin package, we managed to nudge enough of the paper apart to see that the name on the edge of the box started with a “D”, and was clearly the companion Dawn doll. Satisfied, we shoved both boxes to the farthest point under the tree to avert suspicion, brushed teeth, said prayers, and tried to go to sleep.
After what seemed like two weeks, Christmas morning finally arrived. I eagerly tore open my gifts, mentally tallying as I went. Mostly clothes: red checked pants (my sister got blue). Green tennis shoes (my sister’s were yellow). Religiously themed children’s stories. The heap beside me, mostly destined for “accidental” loss in the coming months, grew as I methodically worked through my small pile. My sister worked feverishly beside me, focused, unflinching. Finally I pulled out the compromised gift with a fake cry of “oh, there’s another one back there I think!” and arranged my features into a rictus of joy before ripping into the paper, but alas, when opened, the little plastic coffin held not Glori but the middle parted jaundice haired Dawn. I blinked in shock, then burst into tears and ran for the bedroom, my beliefs in a benevolent God slipping down around me like a too-small bath towel. Apparently all of the “rearranging” had caused several gift tags to fall off, and my father had simply slapped them back onto the packages willy nilly.
After a little light grilling, my sister caved like a philandering televangelist and weepily confessed everything, a character flaw which to this day she mistakes for truthfulness. My father asked her to trade dolls with me but shrewdly sensing a lucrative business opportunity, my sister declined. It was only after he successfully bribed her with a quarter that she relented (though later she pretend not to have received it and got a second payout). In this manner the spirit of Christmas was restored: for me, through the acquisition of my beloved Glori doll, and for my sister, through a newly refined business sense as well as double the asking price.
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