From Head to Tow: An Unplanned Adventure

Sweatshirt: Macy's

Boots: Olivia Miller, Kohl's

Pink and True Blue Boho Necklace

Bag: Betsey Johnson, Macy's

Today the husband and I were all set to visit my sister, who had her third baby last week.  The outing called for an out-of-the-house outfit, and I went with my new celestial sweatshirt, old denim mini, and a necklace I made last night.  Oh, and also my beloved Betsey Johnson couch purse.  Or maybe I should say love seat, considering its heart-shaped pillows.  So attired, just before noon, I climbed into the husband's truck.  We took that instead of my Honda because we were stopping at a storage unit to pick up a shipment from the husband's wood monger.  Yet no sooner had we pulled into the lot than we heard the sickening hiss of a flat. 

A flurry of phone calls to AAA and Firestone later (sadly, our donut was toast), we went to the gate to wave in the tow truck.  An unmasked woman charged out of the storage unit office and profusely apologized for not having invited us in from the cold sooner, adding wouldn't we like to warm up now while the tow truck guy did his thing?  During the course of her monologue, she mentioned that she was sitting around doing nothing, waiting for Animal Control to come bag, of all things, a bat.  Oh, I thought, she's lonely; that's what this is.  Then, Go back inside, crazy bat lady.

I said thanks but no thanks, then turned heel and hopped in the tow truck.  The driver was also unmasked, which unnerved me, but the lack of a lethal critter made him seem like the safer option.  Little did I know I would question this a mile or two later when he started coughing.  As for the husband, he stayed behind to call an Uber (we both couldn't fit in the tow truck).  I spent the ride studiously staring out the window, clutching my couch purse and wishing that I'd never left the safety of my actual couch in the first place.

We met at Firestone, where we waited a couple of hours for them to replace the tire, then doubled back to pick up the wood.  We never did make it to my sister's.  Still, although this misadventure was annoying, expensive, and violated almost every personal COVID prevention protocol that I hold dear, it could've been a lot worse.  If the tire had blown out on the highway, then we might've gotten into an accident and been spattered all over the asphalt like an Olive Garden lasagna that flunked food inspection.  

That would've been awful.  

As would passing COVID or anything else on to any of you.  Which is why the Pink and True Blue Boho Necklace is now airing out in the craft room.

By the way, Pink and True Blue Boho is the name I settled on after rejecting Flat Out Fab, Road Rage Sage, and Wagon Wheel Teal.  

I had a lot of time to think in that Firestone.

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.