Thirty Years War Behind a Pink Door: Barbie Barkeep, Keep 'em Coming

When I found these World's Smallest brand Barbies and Barbie Dreamhouse on Amazon and Zulily respectively, I thought, that's weird.  And not just because the Barbies, Thumbelina-like as they were, were too big to fit in the house.  But because shrinking classic toys down to choking hazard size for the amusement of adults is funny.  The Barbies came in just two styles: 1965 Barbie, who's an astronaut, and 1992 Barbie, who reigns under the Rapunzel-esque title Totally Hair.  

1965 Barbie was, of course, way before my time, and I was too old for 1992 Barbie when she hit the shelves.  But my preschool had the same A-frame dreamhouse, albeit in orange and yellow.  So seeing its mini me made me nostalgic and had me clicking "add to cart" faster than you can say, "We girls can do anything, right Barbie?"  (Well played, World's Smallest, well played.)  

When the goods arrived, I saw that the dreamhouse came with decals of domestic doodads including curtains, shrubbery, and one long lounge chair that didn't seem to fit anywhere.  As I stuck them to the interior walls, my wrist at an unnatural angle, I couldn't help but think that the task seemed needlessly difficult.  Maybe the brain trust at World's Smallest wanted to make the experience as authentic as possible by transporting us back to a time when we were still struggling with silverware.  Then I realized that I could detach the cardboard, making everything easier, and felt kind of sheepish.  Which shouldn't have been a surprise, because it took a long time for five-year-old me to learn how to tie my shoes.  In that vein, "setting up house" also made me think about how far Barbie has come -- and how far she still has to go.  What would 1965 Barbie and 1992 Barbie say to each other -- and to us -- if they could?  This is what I imagine: 

1992 Barbie climbed out of the Uber and looked up at the pink dreamhouse.  A passing breeze ruffled her floor-length hair, and a squirrel almost got stuck in it.  She sighed.  Once, a seagull had become ensnared, its filthy feathers caught in her crimped blond locks during a freak nor'easter on Coney Island.  She'd been doing a photo shoot for Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow magazine, her very first modelling gig.  She thought she'd been big stuff back then, but it turned out that the only big thing was her hair.  Barbie 1992 sighed, ordered herself to shake it off Taylor Swift style, and tugged at the hemline of her too-short dress.  The squirrels didn't need to see her butt crack.

Before she knew it, she was ringing the doorbell, her heart going into overdrive.  This was all so strange, and she hadn't had time to process it.  But when the door opened, she was forced to tuck her thoughts away.  A woman sporting a spacesuit and a blond bob straight from the '60s stared back at her, a tight smile straining her face.  "You're late," she said.  Then she stepped aside to reveal a pink-furnished foyer and living room.

"I know, I'm sorry," sputtered 1992 Barbie, her feet hitting the glossy marble.  "There was an accident on the Santa Monica Freeway; a dog groomer's van overturned, and there were Yorkies and Shih Tzus everywhere.  Oh, and a pit bull that didn't make it."

Helmet Head nodded.  "A pity.  Let me show you your room so you can put down your things."  She paused, suddenly noticing that the newcomer was nearly empty-handed.  "Where's your luggage?"

Barbie 1992 looked down at her pink high-heel-encased feet.  "This is all I have," she said, holding up her handbag.  "Ken 1992 got everything in the divorce.  He wanted a second chance, but I could barely look at him after catching him in the '57 Chevy with Teen Sweetheart Skipper."

Helmet Head's ice blue eyes narrowed.  "Bastard.  You know, Ken 1965 died drinking a mai tai that turned out to be lava lamp liquid.  He left me penniless."

"That's awful."  Barbie 1992 tucked her hair behind her ears and sat down without being asked.  "I hope you don't mind, but my feet are killing me."

"Stop apologizing," decreed Helmet Head.  "It makes you sound like a child.  And you don't have to tell me about aching feet.  Why do you think I still wear these moon boots?  They're so comfy they're like walking on clouds.  I'm Veronica, by the way."

"Nice to meet you.  I'm 1992 Barbie."

"Not here you're not.  Every woman in this house has a name.  What do you want yours to be?"

1992 Barbie was quiet.  No one had ever asked her that before.  But once she relaxed, the answer was clear.  "Well, I've always liked the name Lila.  It makes me think of lilacs, my favorite flower."  Emboldened, she went on.  "I probably shouldn't be asking you this, but if you were an astronaut, then how did you end up broke?"

Helmet Head -- no, Veronica -- smiled again, this time with a hint of humor.  "I could ask you the same thing, Ms. Hair Model of the Year five years running.  How does your neck not snap from the weight of that mane?  Never mind.  We've got plenty of time to talk about it.  In fact, we have an eternity."  Her smile faded when she glanced out the window, as if it showed her something she didn't want to see. "Welcome to the Halfway House of Broken Dreams, Lila.  Now, what can I get you to drink?"

And so wraps the pilot of Real Barbies of Beverly Hills, sci-fi edition.  Because that, apparently, is the medium through which our dear Barbie chooses to speak.  

Be sure to tune in next time to find out who poured Ken 1965 that fatal lava lamp cocktail.

But not really.  I think we already know the answer to that one.

A Room of My Own: Part 1

 

It was Virginia Woolf who said that every woman -- and more specifically every woman writer -- needs a room of her own.  To express herself, collect her thoughts, and escape from domesticity (i.e., dirty dishes and spit-up).  As a woman with lots of thoughts -- and things -- I went ahead and claimed not one but two spaces.

The first is my closet.  When I look at everything in it, I find it hard to believe that most of it was once crammed into the bedroom in my Brigantine rental.  Moving into my house was like learning to breathe.  For the first time, I could really spread out and embrace decorating.  Also, avoid getting black and blue marks every time I wanted to finagle access to a certain bag/pair of pumps/feather boa.  (Side note: I hate that something as fab as a feather boa is named after something as awful as a boa constrictor.)  Sometimes, I just stand in this room and look around as if I've never seen it. The world falls away, sealing me in my bubble.  I feel like Rapunzel. Minus the super-long hair and captivity.

Now, in my eighth day of coronavirus-inspired self-quarantine, I'm more grateful than ever for my sanctuary.  Although I've (happily) spent the last week in pajamas, it's nice to see my wardrobe waiting.

That said, stay tuned for the second installment of A Room of My Own -- and see what's behind door number two.

Ariel and Rapunzel and Cinderella and Belle

Top: Macy's
Skirt: Arizona Jeans, JCPenney
Shoes: Payless
Bag: Betsey Johnson, Boscov's

 Magical Mermaid Necklace, Royal Razzle Dazzle Necklace

Top: Rebellious One, Macy's
Shorts: Merona, Target
Flip flops: Marshalls
Bag: Xhilaration, Target

We've all seen the tee shirts.  Some name and some name and some name and some name from pop culture that all go together.  I used to have one with the names of the characters from "Sex and the City."  I wore it gamely until some dude at the bank stared at it a little too pointedly and asked, "How's Samantha?"  That tee shirt may be long gone, but my fascination with and respect for iconic quartets remains.

And there are few things more iconic than a Disney princess.

I'd been eyeing up Disney princess buttons in various craft stores for years.  Which, now that I'm typing this, sounds like a really long time to contemplate so small a purchase.  But last week I finally bought them and set to work making them into charms.  Which turned out to be more involved than I thought.  (Perhaps my subconscious was hip to this, accounting for that procrastination.)  Once I snapped off the loops at the backs to make them flat, they fell apart like puzzle pieces.  But I fixed that with a little Gem-Tac.  Next, I attached each princess to a disc charm.  Then it was finally time for the fun part: rhinestones and pink chain and Swarovski crystals, oh my!  Also, a spectacularly sparkly unicorn head.

I'd also picked up some Little Mermaid buttons, so I rinsed and repeated to make an Ariel necklace.  (Get it?  Rinse and repeat, like shampoo?  Because of the water in the shower and ocean and also the long, mermaid hair?  No?  Okay.  Never mind.)  Ariel gets to be in both necklaces because she's my favorite princess.  The scorpion centerpiece is a little weird, I'll admit, but I already had it from an old necklace that just wasn't working.  (Before that it was a brooch that I wore, in another lifetime, on the lapel of a suit.)  That said, I think it adds a little unexpected edge, a little, ahem, salt, if you will, to the sweet. 

I've decided not to list these lovelies.  For one thing, there's the age-old ethical question of character licensing.  Far be it from me to filch profits from the multi-million dollar machine that is the Disney empire.  For another, they were relatively expensive to make, and I feel weird about charging what might seem like too much for such delicate pieces.  But if I'm being honest (as I try, always, to be), then the real reason I'm not putting them on Etsy is because I want to keep them.  Like many a kawaii-Lolita enthusiast, I can't resist an accessory that blends the gossamer daydreams of childhood with the somewhat more gritty glamour of being grown up.

The Swarovski, in case you were wondering, is the grown up part.  Which is a lot more palatable than saying that being grown up means having to clean the bathroom.