Pete's Expert Summary
My human has presented me with what appears to be a vertical plastic monstrosity from the "Barbie" corporation, a known purveyor of things my human can trip on in the middle of the night. It's a three-story "townhouse" for a tiny, perpetually smiling plastic creature, complete with furniture I could swallow. While the sheer amount of pink is an assault on my refined senses, I must admit certain features show promise. The structure offers multiple levels for surveying my domain, a child-activated elevator could prove to be a fascinating moving perch, and the rooftop lounge is a potential sunning spot. The true gem, however, appears to be a "contemporary swinging chair." A dangling, battable object is never a waste of my time. The rest—the tiny tables, the miniature bathtub—are merely future projectiles to be swatted under the sofa.
Key Features
- Three deluxe stories of play space make this Barbie townhouse home to all kinds of storytelling fun!
- Four rooms and a rooftop lounge, all with realistic details, make Barbie doll’s newest home ultra-deluxe.
- Travel between floors on the sleek child-activated elevator - when Barbie doll (sold separately) reaches the second floor, the rooftop opens up for a truly fun surprise complete with a colorful pop-up umbrella!
- The kitchen and living room occupy the first floor; the bathroom and bedroom are on the second; there’s even a closet upstairs for Barbie doll to hang her fashions!
- A contemporary swinging chair in the living room opens up so Barbie doll can swing on the inside or the outside of the house.
- Furniture pieces feature contemporary designs and include a table and two chairs, a sofa, a coffee table, a bed, a bathtub and the swinging chair.
- Additional accessories - like a towel, place settings for the kitchen and doll-sized tablet device - add to the storytelling possibilities.
- Arrange furniture and accessories to suit your style and your stories!
- Skill Level: Beginner
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The thing arrived in a box so large it created a new, temporary wall in the living room. My human spent what felt like an entire nap cycle grunting and snapping pieces together, muttering about "Tab A" and "Slot B." I watched from the safety of the armchair, my tail a metronome of disdain. When she was finished, it stood there: a gaudy, pink-and-purple tower of plastic arrogance. She called it a "townhouse." I called it an eyesore. She tried to show me its wonders by placing a rigid, blonde doll inside. The doll stared at me with lifeless eyes. I was not impressed. My skepticism began to wane, however, when the human demonstrated the "elevator." It was a simple, open-sided platform that rose when she pushed a lever. A moving observation deck? An automated lift to a higher snoozing altitude? The strategic possibilities began to unfurl in my mind. Then she made the rooftop pop open, revealing a flimsy umbrella. A sudden, unexpected movement! My ears swiveled forward, my pupils dilating. This structure, this *townhouse*, was full of surprises. But the main event was the chair. It hung in an opening on the ground floor, a perfect, white, webbed basket, suspended and vulnerable. Once my human was suitably distracted by her glowing rectangle, the investigation began. I ghosted across the floor, a silent grey shadow. A quick sniff confirmed the scent of cheap plastic, but also the tantalizing hint of my human's hand lotion. I gave the swinging chair a tentative pat. It danced away, then swayed back toward me. I jabbed it again, harder this time. It swung wildly, a frantic, silent ballet. I was captivated. For ten minutes, the chair was my sparring partner, my prey, my sworn enemy. It yielded to every blow, yet always returned for more. It was glorious. Tiring of the battle, I explored the interior. The tiny furniture was, as predicted, useless for anything but batting. I nudged the minuscule coffee table with my nose until it tumbled off the edge, landing with a satisfyingly dull *clack*. I ascended to the second floor—via the stairs, like a commoner, as the elevator was too slow for my ambitions—and discovered a bathroom. The tub was a decent size, a smooth, curved basin. I tested it, circling three times before settling in. It was surprisingly comfortable, a perfect cradle for my magnificent form. From my new throne, I could peer down at the swinging chair, plotting our next encounter. The verdict was in: the plastic palace was garish and absurd, but its bathtub and swinging chair were treasures of the highest order. It could stay.
