Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in her infinite and often misguided wisdom, has procured another plastic effigy. This one, a "Barbie," appears to be a monument to a bygone human era of questionable fashion choices. It is a small, static humanoid encased in a clear prison, intended for nothing more than being stared at. I must concede, however, that certain elements pique my professional interest. The glossy, "pleather" material of its jacket and hat suggests a satisfying texture for claw-testing. Its long, crimped hair dangles with a certain allure, promising a delightful challenge for batting and tangling. The numerous tiny accessories are, of course, destined for a one-way trip under the nearest piece of heavy furniture. While its primary function as a shelf-sitter is an utter waste of space, its potential as a multi-part gravity experiment is… moderately intriguing.
Key Features
- It’s My Scene, you know what I mean? My Scene dolls are back in a fabulous tribute to the fashion-forward chicks who turned every place they went into the coolest scene ever!
- My Scene Barbie doll sizzles in a red and cream outfit inspired by her character’s debut look! A glossy red moto jacket layers over a cropped cami and split-hem flare pants.
- Giving Y2K to the max, she accessorizes with a “pleather” newsboy cap, tinted sunnies, saddlebag, matching belt, and red block heels.
- Wavy blonde hair with crimped accent pieces accents her original face sculpt. With her super cute displayable packaging, My Scene Barbie couldn’t possibly look more fab!
- Reunite the whole crew! My Scene Madison, Barbie and Chelsea dolls make an iconic trio -- they’re total must-haves for My Scene fans and Barbie collectors alike!
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The thing arrived under the cover of daylight, handled with a reverence I typically reserve for a particularly plump sunbeam. The Human called it "My Scene Barbie," cooing about nostalgia. I called it The Silent Watcher. She placed it on the mantelpiece, a strategic high ground from which it stared blankly into my domain. Its pose was rigid, its painted-on smile a mask of unsettling stillness. I recognized this for what it was: a test. A new variable introduced into my perfectly controlled environment. For days, I observed it from my post on the velvet armchair, my tail twitching in slow, deliberate arcs. I cataloged its weaknesses: the flimsy sunglasses perched on its head, the synthetic cascade of blonde hair, the shiny red jacket that practically begged for a snag. One evening, as twilight bled through the windows, the Human made a fatal error. She took The Watcher from its stand to "admire the details." She laid it on the coffee table for a moment while she answered her noisy rectangle. This was the moment I had been waiting for. I didn't pounce. That would be crude. Instead, I flowed from the chair like a gray shadow, landing silently on the rug. I approached the table not as a predator, but as a connoisseur of chaos. My first move was surgical. A single, precise tap of my paw sent the tiny sunglasses skittering across the hardwood and into the dark dimension beneath the sofa. One sensory organ, neutralized. Next, I focused on the hair. I gently hooked a claw into a crimped section, pulling ever so slightly. The doll tilted, then rolled onto its side. It was as helpless as I'd suspected. My final act was a slow, deliberate push with my nose, a gesture of ultimate dismissal. It toppled off the table's edge, landing with a hollow *clack* on the floor below. I peered down at the vanquished foe, now disheveled and undignified. The pleather jacket had a satisfyingly tacky feel against my paw pad. The hair was now an interesting mess. As a sentinel on a shelf, it was an insult to my intelligence. But as a multi-stage puzzle of gravitational potential and accessory-liberation? I must admit, it provided a solid three minutes of high-quality entertainment. It is not worthy of being a *toy*, but it served its purpose as an object of my fleeting, destructive curiosity. I sauntered away, leaving the clean-up to The Staff. Some jobs are simply beneath me.
