Please don't ask me to open that doll
Though joyful, the holidays can be a risky time of year. Along with the financial threats, diet challenges and travel hazards, many will confront yet another danger. Yes, I’m talking about clamshell packaging.
If freeing a product from a nearly indestructible container doesn’t leave you injured, the frustration of trying to open one of these tamper-proof boxes will force you to ponder this question: Might it have been less excruciating to get waylaid by a herd of Nintendo Wii scavengers?
A 2007 Consumer Reports contest named a powered toothbrush the winner of its Oyster Awards for had-to-open packages. However, a popular Bratz doll came in second place.
Should you be unfortunate enough to have to help a child open a Barbie or Bratz doll this Christmas, before doing so, I’d suggest double-checking your medical emergency coverage.
Here’s what you’ll need to assist a doll’s escape from its carton: a sharp cutting tool, some work gloves, a few sedatives and, of course, a high degree of explosives.
I purchased a Bratz doll for my granddaughter’s birthday. “You open it, Grandma,” she said.
First, I had to deal with sawing into the outermost layers of heat-sealed plastic. By the time I’d finished cutting open the carton, I’d grown too weak to feed myself.
My son, the father of a 9-year-old, telephoned during my struggles. Aggravated, I asked him, “Have you ever tried to get a Bratz doll out of its package?
“Sure, it’s just like a Barbie doll,” he replied. “Don’t you remember that year I sliced open my hand on Christmas Eve?”
“You never told me about that,” I cried. “When did this happen?”
“A few years ago, after I tried to open a Barbie with my pocket knife.”
Most of us check the age recommendations (if not the lead content) of children’s playthings. But we don’t expect a product suggested for ages 6 and up to require more brute strength and problem-solving skills than a grownup might possess. (Evidently, I’m not smarter than a fifth-grader.)
This particular doll was dressed like a genie, presumably because I’d need to rely on magic to break her free from her confinement.
The advertisement for this toy said the doll had a “flair for fashion and mystery.” However, what most intrigued me was the number of times her tresses had been staked to her casing. I counted a total of 11 thread fastenings that perfectly matched the wishmeister’s hair color. All I could think was that whoever designed this packaging must be passive-aggressive.
Miss Balloon Pants had been sold with six miniature accessories that were perfectly suitable for removal by body-builder leprechauns—on steroids. Each was affixed inside its own special see-through compartment.
At her waist, genie girl was attached (by sturdy wires) to glued cardboard layers that had to be wedged apart with my now-nearly numb fingers.
I don’t know why it’s necessary to go to such extremes to secure a child’s toy. Paramedics give people who’ve suffered broken backs and necks less stabilization. My Bratz product was over-packaged for export, unless it had been intended for interplanetary shipping aboard spacecraft.
Still agonizing over the complex challenges of toy carton removal, I noticed my
granddaughter had wandered off somewhere else to play. She’d waited so long for me to give her the Bratz doll that she no longer cared about the gift. But it was just as well. I figured that before I could pry the item from its container she’d likely have outgrown it, anyway.
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