The Ridiculously Expensive Taste Of The American Girl Doll

The American Girl Doll And Her Ridiculously Expensive Taste
scarlett1854 / Creative Commons / Flickr

I was born in the early ’80s and fondly remember American Girl. However, I didn’t have any of the dolls. In fact, I didn’t even know the dolls existed; I had books. I loved reading the adventures of Felicity, Josefina, Kristen, and my favorite character, Addy.

I had long since forgotten American Girl as I aged in life. However, once my daughter turned 7-years-old, I was re-acquainted with American Girl and quickly familiarized with the American Girl doll (and her astronomical price tag). It took about three minutes for me to realize that American Girl in the 21st century was similar to my generation and its obsession with “Pogs.” Please tell me you remember Pogs. 

Little did I know, an American Girl Doll costs roughly the same as a week’s worth of groceries, or two tanks of gas in my mom mobile. When my youngin’ decided that she wanted her very own American Girl doll, I did what any normal person would do—I went to Target and purchased the knockoff doll for $24.99. That seemed like a fair price to pay for a doll.

Within a matter of time, my daughter explained that she just had to have the REAL American Girl doll. Her reason? The American Girl dolls’ had “better hair that didn’t tangle.” I handed my daughter a hairbrush, a bottle of Johnson & Johnson detangling spray, and wished her luck. If it worked on human hair, it sure the hell had to work on doll hair.

I was not spending $120 on a fucking doll. I can’t even think of the last thing I spent $120 on for myself.

Not happening.

Sure enough, my wise wee one went to my mother and father, her grandparents, and during a visit explained what absolute deprivation she was living at home.

A home with out a real American Girl doll.

My God, could you imagine the horror? I know, I’m shocked CPS didn’t arrive that same evening and take me away to American Girl Prison.

My mother swooped my daughter away for her own “mini-birthday celebration” two days before her actual birthday. Sure enough, she came back home with her very own American Girl doll.

My eyes rolled so far back in my head, it took me a few days before I could see again.

Shortly after, more American Girl doll shit was arriving at my house for my daughter’s November birthday and then Christmas.

Each time I saw an Amazon Prime box, I had to kick my usual instinctual urge of excitement and replace it with horror, as I knew the exact contents of each Amazon Prime box. I started receiving text messages from family members: “Should be getting another Amazon box this week!” “Hope you don’t mind wrapping the American Girl doll clothes!”

No, not at all! Why would I mind wrapping a doll outfit that costs more than the one that I’m wearing? Come on—”Who wouldn’t want to do that?!” is the real question here! This has to be the highlight of parenting thus far!

I responded to each text message, “Not a problem! I have gold-laced wrapping paper ready to go for each item for Princess Grace. I hope she doesn’t know that it’s only 14K gold. I know she has Kim Kardashian-like standards.”

My daughter first received a pair of pink, silk pajamas for her American Girl “Grace” doll. Now, I’m not sure if these things are real silk; however, I can tell you that they are sure as hell nicer than the Costco sweatpants and Hanes T-shirt that I sleep in. And, what pisses me off further, I’ve watched that doll for two weeks straight, and I’ve not caught her actually asleep in that silk pajama set once. I know she’s just taunting me: “Ha ha! Look at me. I’m an 18-inch doll and I have silk pajamas on, that I don’t sleep in! And you wrapped them for me, sucker!”

For Christmas, this doll received an armoire. Yes, you read that correctly: an armoire. My husband assembled it, looked at me, and said, “Wow, this is really nice. In fact, it’s probably the nicest piece of furniture in our entire home.”

He was right. Goody two-shoes “Grace” is even too royal for plastic hangers. Her armoire is lined with white-lacquered, wood hangers to hang her pristine clothes. (I share a closet with my husband, and for the record, I’m quite sure I still have hangers that I stole from my parents home before I vacated for college nearly 15 years ago.)

Next up, little Grace received a recreational vehicle. Now, we’re not talking some Breaking Bad-style RV. This RV has decorative curtains, a little couch, and surely no meth-lab (that I know of).

Under the tree this year was a kitchen for Miss Grace. Of course, what 18-inch doll doesn’t need her very own custom kitchen? Duh. Her counters and backsplash are killer. I’m thinking about asking for her contractor’s name to see who did her renovations. Also, I might inquire what she does for work, because at this rate, she might be a Grace doll by day and “Cinnamon” by night, turning tricks to secretly lead a better life than I do. Or, maybe her RV really is Breaking Bad style.

I recently found out that Princess Grace needs her own “specially designed hairbrush” because the ones that we use on our human heads are “not right for her hair type.” This nemesis of mine even has her own socks. Yes, socks. My daughter can’t find one matching pair of her own socks, but you sure as hell better believe she knows where all 46 matching pairs of Grace’s socks are.

This doll is starting to remind me more and more of Gwyneth Paltrow the longer I rant type.

I got wind—more so a tidal wave announcement—from my 8-year-old that there’s now a new doll on the market, “the doll of the year” or blah blah, and went to take a look. What baffles me most is that you spend $120 on a doll, and they pitch her to you as some worldly scholar, yet she comes with none of her scholarly shit! “Lea loves photography, quick trips to Brazil, and is an avid philanthropist.” Of course she’s a fucking philanthropist! It’s up to me to pay for her $85 kayak for her to paddle around and save the world, $35 plastic camera to document her experience, and her $400 rainforest hut that she’ll live in—inside my own home—that I also pay for.

I may have to take a quick look to see if the site sells health insurance policies, because God forbid something happens to her, I sure as hell cannot afford to take her to the American Girl Hospital. I’d imagine that someone with a lavish RV, kitchen and bedroom decor likely expects medical care no less than the Mayo Clinic. That would be top-notch Obamacare, which this Kardashian spawn would clearly demand.

Okay, gotta run. I just got notification I’m being outbid on eBay by AmericanGirlMom44 for a pair of American Girl Doll slippers.