Cameron: She's quite a doll, but she's awfully hard on the wallet

Published November 11, 2006 at midnight

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My 8-year-old niece loves to write thank-you notes and is always pressuring me to give her reasons to do so. Recently she came to visit and brought her "American Lass," a doll that's remarkably like a real child except that its clothes are more expensive.

"Well, Mia, what did you name your doll?" I asked in an I'm-not-buying-your- doll-a-pony voice.

"Oh no," Mia scolded me in her a-pony's-not-enough tone. "You don't get to name her. Her name is Lucy."

Apparently, all American Lass dolls come with their histories written by the toy company so that children will be spared the pain of imagination. According to her "dollography," Lucy lives in Detroit. Her father is a wealthy industrialist involved in the booming auto industry who can afford to buy Lucy wonderful clothes!

What an odd choice for the toy company to make.

A few months ago I agreed to take Mia and her doll to the American Lass Palace, because I wasn't paying attention when she asked me. "Wouldn't you and Lucy rather do something more fun, like sweep the driveway?" I suggest. This turns out to be a crazy idea - Lucy's gardener, Miguel ($78.99), does stuff like that so that her father ($109.99) can drive his 1955 Cadillac Coupe DeVille ($68.99) without getting the tires dirty.

The American Lass Palace is sort of like a theme park, and the theme is "come abandon your money." First stop is the doll beautician, who clicks his tongue when he sees Lucy. Mia doesn't have much skill in the hairdressing department, so Lucy's hair has a wild, party-at-the-Sigma-Chi-house look to it. While Lucy's being shampooed ($15 plus tip), Mia and I go look at some basic American Lass accessories, like jewelry and mink coats.

"When I was a kid, I'd pick up a stick in the yard and pretend it was a gun," I say, trying not to sound desperate. My niece sniffs at this, probably thinking my idea is impractical because all sticks would be removed by Miguel.

"Lucy needs an ice-skating outfit," Mia advises me.

I nod, swallowing. "Maybe her dad can lend us the money."

There is, of course, an American Lass restaurant. It's over by the American Lass hot tub and massage parlor. "How many dolls in your party?" the hostess asks, though I'm not sure party is as good a word as ordeal. The three main food groups represented at dinner are glucose, sucrose and fructose.

Lucy eats very little, just sits there gazing at me as if mentally assessing my credit limits. TV monitors play the latest American Lass movie, about Tess, who braved the American frontier in the late 1800s wearing lots of different outfits. Meryl Streep stars as the mother, and Ben Affleck plays a sheriff with a dreadful secret: He can't act.

Because of the efforts of the American Lass people, little girls all over the country are learning things about history that they otherwise might not know, such as "Daddies always bought their daughters gifts!" This education is good because nobody with an American Lass-obsessed child will ever be able to afford college.

"If your doll would like a seaweed facial, I can add it to your bill," the waitress advises me.

"Oh, I'm sure you can," I agree.

After dinner, Mia skips over with her doll to get Lucy a pedicure ($11). I nod at a man whose daughter owns Shawna, the American Lass whose father is an oil baron. "I caught Shawna's hand in a car door and broke it," he confesses to me.

"That must have been hard for your daughter," I observe.

He nods. "The American Lass counselors at the doll hospital helped us get through it. Glad I bought the American Lass health-care plan; the physical rehab cost an arm and a leg!" He winces. "Sorry."

"It's OK, I can take it - I'm a humorist."

Mia and I eventually decide that what would make Lucy most happy is her own llama farm ($349.99 plus llamas).

In the car afterward, Mia's blood sugar crashes and she falls fast asleep, but that's OK - I have Lucy to keep me company.

Write to Bruce at bruce@wbrucecameron.com.

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