A Magnifying Glass and Barbie's Butt

Several friends were involved in collecting antiques.  Someone mentioned Vintage Barbie and my ears perked up. I could take part in the collecting fun, too, because I had a Barbie. I surmised she must be an antique, checking the dates online. I wondered what collecting Vintage Barbie entailed.

In the Antiques and Collectible section of the local bookstore, books and magazines published on the topic of Vintage Barbie sported nostalgic colors and caught my eye. As I flipped through the magazines looking at the pictures and checking out the Index, I began to blink, not certain I was seeing correctly.  I reached into my bag for a calculator.

I grabbed up the magazines, bought them and a Barbie Collectible hardback, making a swift exit for home and the telephone.

“Mother, is my Barbie still in the attic? You’re sure? And her clothes, too?”

Indeed they were, so on my next trip home, I picked up Barbie, after I explained to Mother what was going on in the collecting world.  Barbie had no car and no friends, no Ken; no one else – just Barbie, and me.

As a member of the Tonsils-Out-Club in the Spring of 1960, I recuperated on the sofa, an ailing and pitiful sixth grade girl. Through our back door Daddy brought me a new world: Fashion Model Barbie and one outfit. Barbie would entertain me for several years. After those years of imagination and glamour, Barbie and clothes retired into her blue plastic wardrobe carrying case.  She waited through the decades until she was discovered for a second time and was poised to bring great pleasure and entertainment once more.

Once home from Mother’s attic, I called friend Gina and she rushed over that Sunday night with her Barbie. Like two young girls, we sat in the den and pulled out all our treasures. We read, looked at pictures with critical discernment and became more thrilled and excited by the paragraph, wide-eyed as we marked and underlined the Price Guide.

That explains why, when my teenage son came home and walked into the kitchen, he beheld two grown women under the kitchen light, head to head, with a magnifying glass, peering with furrowed brow, examining naked Barbie’s bottom in great detail.

“Let me go out and come in again,” he said in disbelief.  “What are you doing?” An explanation that the markings on the buttocks could get him a sizeable inheritance or a nice trip somewhere changed his disrespect into awe.

“Really?  Let me see!”  Now, I wish I was the one with the camera.

I have Blonde Ponytail Barbie #2, a somewhat rare edition. 

I also still owned classic high fashion wardrobe pieces sporting the Mattel TM label; that tag made each item more valuable.  From the classic striped swimsuit with sunglasses and “Friday Night Date” to the stylish gold sheath and full length coat, those outfits brought back many memories. Dressing Barbie once again evoked a wave of nostalgia.

During this Barbie Period, my obsession became therapy. I dressed Barbie #2 for display in various ensembles by the season and the holiday.  Friends humored me, as I was using Barbie as a diversionary tactic:  avoiding being consumed by chemotherapy.  My spirits were elevated as I filled every open moment with this crazy obsession. I did not watch television or read novels.  I worked, was mother and wife, behaved as a model cancer patient, and played with Barbie and her wardrobe.  It beat anti-depressants any day.

All I needed was a glance at Barbie and I’d transport from the ills of present day to childhood 1961, with affordable couture and an imaginary life to rival Carrie on Sex and the City.

The story of Mattel and Barbie is an exciting one, a jeweled time for the toy company and for the girls who idolized their one and only Barbie. As a postscript to this Barbie saga, I sold Barbie #2 to Marl of “Marl and Me,” a major Barbie collector.  I felt she’d be in good hands with Marl and I needed the money for my younger son’s college tuition.  He had that semester’s expenses paid in full.  Thank you, Marl, and thank you, Barbie.
(I'm sending this story to Reminisce Magazine with a couple of photos.)

Brownie Drops Out

    Don’t you think it would be delightful to be a “Brownie?”  How pixie cute is that?  Imagine a sprite, a Tinker-Bell in brown with daisy-yellow accents, skipping hand-in-hand with other equally fashionable Brownies. The Brownie uniform’s signature hue:  warm milk chocolate with marshmallow extraordinaire! Charms for my bracelet would be so cute. 
     Highlighting my early ventures within a scouting career was the traditional Flying-Up Ceremony.  I reverently repeated the Girl Scout Pledge about honor and duty.  I gave the appropriate salute which permitted me to solemnly step across the little plank bridge that spanned the creek between the elementary school and our neighborhood. I had thus “flown-up” to be a Girl Scout! 
     Earning decorative accessories called badges and spending bonus time with friends created a perfect hobby during my youth. Our mommies helped us make craft projects, record family traditions, and bake cookies. We’d also make cakes topped with pink icing and design doll clothes, to complete each segment on the badge-earning quest. The mommies would then sew the symbols of accomplishment onto a diagonal swath of fabric, reminiscent of the Miss America sash, only green and glitterless, what a pity.
     All was progressing relatively well through the elementary years, earning badges at a breathtaking pace, selling thin mints and butter cookies, until I abruptly met my Waterloo:  It was time to go Camping.
      No outdoor event did I master; I was terrified of creepy, crawly, multi-legged varmints, hell-bent on my destruction.Let me explain my descent into Girl Scout Hell.
       The first outdoor event rounded up all the aspiring super-scouts, and me.  We crammed into station wagons and were driven to an undisclosed location where we were to earn our “wilderness cooking” badge, our “identify poison-ivy” badge, and our “tinkle in the latrine” badge.  I earned none.  May I beg the question:  If one has a nice stove at the house, actually inside the kitchen, why in God’s Name would you wish to cook a potato in the ground?
        When I was deposited at my front doorstep, I fled into civilization and begged for permission to QUIT.  That’s a 4-letter word to my family, so I was advised to persevere and do my best, for God, Country and Generational Pride. 
         The next outdoor test involved a songfest and a campfire in the sweltering heat of summer: mosquitos, bugs, spiders, and itchiness.  Shorts didn’t cover much flesh when Miss Muffet sat upon a (yikes) log, singing “Make New Friends but Keep the Old.”  Thus, bugs of unknown origin and species crept up my legs and I felt every step of their adventure northward.  I slapped mosquitos, brushed off bugs, wiggled and waggled, exaggerating each movement, exercising my practiced deep sigh of exasperation. 
           At long last and as an answer to prayer, The Ayatollah commanded, “If you are going to continue acting like that, just go inside.” Prayer answered! So, I went inside and helped wash dishes with lye soap.
          My “third time’s the charm” chance for earning the coveted badge was an overnight at the OK Corral, complete with indoor plumbing, cots with linens and a pillow, screened-in sleeping porch, plus s’mores.  All was going quite well until night fell. 
          Night quiet brings out spiders. They creep along, they squiggle up cot-legs and bound, unseen and unfelt, upon sheets covering those sleeping, peacefully unaware. Silently, stealthily, the spider crawls, taking his own sweet time to stretch his extra hairy legs, until he reaches his goal – my face.
         I threw the sheet from my body and the cot teetered. I bounded from the mattress, shaking my head, body, hands, and hopping from foot to foot, screaming “I felt it, I felt it! It was on my face!” Lights flicked on.  Other girls did the same, thinking they, too, had felt whatever “it” might be.  Drill Sergeants appeared, their hair in curlers covered with a shower cap. We all fell into silence. No spiders were discovered.  We were all told, “get back into bed, quiet down, and go back to sleep.”
         Who could sleep with Tarantulasaurus-Rex on the loose?  Within a few hours, the sunlight began to stream through the branches of pine trees signaling that the horrors of night had ended and breakfast was served.  Somebody earned a badge because the eggs sparkled with encrusted campfire ashes.
          Mother did not require many details after I spoke but one word:  tarantula.  She phoned-in my resignation. No attempt was made to dissuade me.  I simply drifted into obscurity as a Girl-Scout Drop-Out.

Dusting

A sprinkling of powdered sugar on a less-than-perfect cake covers the imperfections, resulting in a lovely presentation.  So, too, Rector, AR, with a morning dust of snow.