I'm worried. I'm worried for little girls. Maybe I'm being a smidge over-reactive, which is possible, of course, because, like those for alcoholism and cancer, the genes for melodrama run rampant in my family. But, I don't think so. The trouble is there‹I see it‹and it's got me feeling troubled.

Having perfected the art of procrastination in college, I found myself recently, in Target, immersed in a breakneck shopping expedition for a birthday gift for my nine year-old sister-in-law, Kimberly. Ever since the independent toy store downtown financially surrendered to corporate joints like Zany Brainy, the pickings were slim when on the prowl for smart and engaging toys for our tyke counterparts. And when the local Zany Brainy folded under the metastases of big box empires like Wal-Mart and Target a couple of months ago, cool and intriguing toys became virtually extinct. And since I adamantly refuse to patronize Wal-Mart, Target it was.

Armed with cluelessness and thirty minutes, I geared my optimistic hind parts towards the toy section, figuring that something there was certain to inspire me. Not in the slightest. I was totally overwhelmed by the gender dichotomy of toys. If there were ever a childhood institution that reinforces gender expectations, it would be the toy department. Pink-colored play kitchens for girls. Spy tool kits for boys. Marilyn Monroe "How to Marry a Millionaire" Barbie dolls for girls. Microscopes for boys. And when I stumbled upon the discouragingly popular "Bratz" dolls that look like half-pint hookers, I knew my rose-colored jaunt through toy section was over.

So I stopped and quickly thought about the things that made my nine year-old world go Śround. There was Nancy Drew, my favorite detective heroine. Oh, how I hung on every mysterious turn of those stories, my nose practically pressed to the spine of the book. Sure, Nancy drove a convertible that her wealthy daddy bought for her, had a maid, and never managed to bump into any black people. Still, she was smart. Then there were reruns of the Patty Duke Show on Nick at Nite, detailing the adventures of cousins-identical-cousins-all-the-way Patty and Cathy Lane. My family is from West Virginia, you know, so identical cousins wasn't a far-fetched notion for me. Still, Patty and Cathy were witty, robust, and mischievous. If they had lived in my neighborhood and I was in high school, you could have bet your bottom dollar they would have been invited to my slumber parties. And finally, there was the dame royale: Debbie Gibson. Coolness seemed to seep from her every glowing pore. I collected every issue of Teen Beat that simply mentioned her name, plastered my walls with every picture I could find, and fell asleep every night listening to her tapes. And just like Debbie on the cover of Out of the Blue, I ripped a hole in the knee of my jeans and drew a smiley face on the bare skin beneath. She was a pop tart, all right, but to her credit she wrote all of her songs and even did AIDS charity work.

Taking a cue from the latter girlhood inspiration, I had one of those eureka moments. Music. I could get Kim something music-related. In the electronics section, I picked out a portable cd player, one that came with interchangeable covers and the puffy paints and stickers with which to adorn them. That was the easy part. Finding an appropriate cd seemed a nearly laughable task. The music and artists mass-marketed towards young girls these days is, in all frankness, disgusting. This is where my worry takes stage. To whom can little girls look for inspiration? Where are the role models for little girls, because they sure as hell aren't in the mainstream music industry. My in-laws probably would have banished me forever had I brought into their home that Christina Aguilera cd, the one with the almost-looks-like-a-pubic-hair-peepshow cover. She may have a few interesting thoughts, that Christina, but I don't think Kim is quite ready to expand her vocabulary with words like "drrrty" or "hot pants."

To begin with, Target's music section is anemic. Trying to find little-girl-friendly music in a seriously lacking music selection is not a very promising venture. My waning optimism, though, pushed me on. Unfortunately, I mostly found cascading rows of Britney Spears. She was everywhere. Even though each of her albums sells fewer copies than its predecessor, she is still all over the place. Her celebrity and her appeal continue to heighten. She is packaged and promoted and puppeteered so well that her abilities and talent are irrelevant. That she may be smart or witty or robust or charitable is a non-issue. That she may be a vapid or unhealthy or over-sexualized role model is ignored. It may be a far leap (I don't think so), but her continued popularity clinches it for me: We are so consumed by outward appearances that character and integrity and intelligence carry little weight. And our little girls unconsciously process this. It worries me.

Feeling flummoxed on the drive to Kim's birthday party, I had to remind myself that there are hugely positive influences still out there for little girls. Like sports and Girl Scouts. Like Rock and Roll Camp. Portland's Rock and Roll Camp for Girls is jaw-droppingly amazing. After-school programs as well as summer camp programs geared toward 8-18 year olds focus not just on learning an instrument, but also on self-expression and self-reliance. Zine writing, sound and lighting, self-defense, women-run independent labels, peace activism through music and body love and acceptance are just a sampling of the topics covered at the Camp. I wish so badly that something as phenomenal as this was around when I was little. Instead of daydreaming about Nancy Drew and Debbie Gibson, I could have been daydreaming about Carrie Brownstein and Nomy Lamm, who have both served as guest panelists at the Camp and make for kick-ass role models. There is great need for such mentorship and great need for the success of such establishments. Our little girls deserve it. They deserved to be valued for their grit and creativity. They deserve to be praised for what's nestled between their ears, not between their legs. But most importantly, our little girls deserve to be little, to not grow up too fast.

Oh, and I eventually settled on a Powerpuff Girls soundtrack at Target, by the way. It's difficult to go wrong with a track list featuring Bis, Sahara Hotnights, and Shonen Knife.