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.

Stylish Aprons: Just "2-Cute"

Colorful, mixed patterns, accessories, and pizzaz!
2-Cute Aprons will launch November 23, 2013, at the Rector Crafts Fair. 
The fair will open Saturday morning before Thanksgiving.
Shoppers will be looking for gift items and treats for loved ones.
Prints with coordinating trim suggest a festive season approaches.
Couples chef aprons in Razorback pattern, chevrons, John Deere, and camo hang ready for gifting.
Frilly fashion statements with zebra print and pink hint at dessert festivities.
Lace, ribbon, flowers, and trim make these aprons "2-cute."
Finding patterns that coordinate, not match, challenges my eye and color sense.
 New fall and winter patterns and colors will be ready for you.
"2-Cute Aprons" will debut at the Rector Crafts Fair. 

Something just for you is waiting.  Custom designs may be ordered.

Lady Bug's Souvenir Fashion and Decor Tips

Motto for spending money on vacation souvenirs: “I may not pass this way again…”

Philosophy for purchasing items while on tour –one of a kind designs unlikely to appear within a 4-state radius.

                 I do wish Mother would have let me buy a “lady bug” dress.  Remember those? Everybody had one. Sometimes, 3 or 4 girls happened to wear them on the same day, perhaps by agreement. No one minded. The madras bodice with Peter-pan collar sporting the little ladybug was a must-have.  That was then. While imitation is a form of flattery, no ladybug wants to be in a duplicate outfit at the same grocery store.
                Big retailers such as Dillard’s and Macy’s carry cute outfits – but the same design in a range of sizes from 2P to 24WXL.  If you choose to splurge on a “way cute” pair of palazzo pants for your newly sculpted size 8, what could be worse than to see the same pair standing in line at the movie theatre, but in size 80XLT?  Thus, when thinking about articles of clothing as souvenirs of your trip, consider one-of-a-kind designs from that locale, something highly unlikely to appear at your neighborhood Starbucks.
                   Home décor souvenir items, such as screaming “Chevy Chase’s Vacation” tablecloths, are not used in today’s modern schemes.  Subtle in scheme, colorful, light-weight throw blankets that are useful. Look for colors and designs that blend with your living area décor or those that would accent  a guest room bed.  It would be impractical to bring home a mounted Moose head for your den, unless you actually shot it….Nah, not a good idea, regardless of circumstance.
                     Magnets, once the rage in my circle, took over my refrigerator front and both sides. My office magnetic bulletin board was covered with the cutest representations of exotic locations such as Lamberts, Home of the Throwed Roll. I may buy an especially iconic representation magnet, but one that’s small and “tasteful” like a Wyoming cowboy on a bucking steed.
                      Another temptation awaits inside the gift shop at Cracker Barrel, oft frequented by folks on the road. You could buy your wardrobe there...but wouldn't. State by State logo-designs in seasonal colors, holiday profusion, state sports team outfits…you name it. Several of our crew bought ponchos while in Nebraska. Once on the bus, they realized they could exchange them in Jonesboro, AR!!!

Like an Ole Miss T-Shirt at a Razorback Tailgate Party

Does one need special permission to wear white after Labor Day?

               The answer, of course, is “yes.” You need permission, but that permission will be granted. Exceptions exist for every rule. 

                For example, should you have the misfortune to live outside the South, and you don’t know the fashion rules, then you could be forgiven for wearing a white dress or shoes (gasp) after Labor Day.  Forgiven, but still talked about.  Should you own a yacht and host a gala onboard, your white slacks and nautical jacket could sport sailing-red, white, and navy blue. Wedding-Dress white is preferable in all seasons, especially when “off-white” once suggested something scandalous. If, let’s say, you are the Pope, the white robe and cassock combo is ok and no permissions are necessary. 

                     A white 100% cotton or linen shirt is southern-casual-classy paired with skinny-leg jeans; that is, if you’ve been blessed with skinny legs!

 

So, with all those exceptions, why is there a rule in the first place? Let’s get down to the nitty-gritty. Society thrives on rules.  Rule-breakers would be so disappointed should there be no rules to break. But, let's qualify this particular rule: it’s not the white in the outfit that screams fashion faux-pas.  It’s the shoes. 

                    Your mama told you from the day you could choose cute shoes, “Put your white shoes and sandals in their boxes on the day after Labor Day.”  Her advice was right-on. White shoes after Labor Day, well, it’s “just not fittin.” When your fellow fashion friend gives your appearance the once-over, starting with your hair style and travelling down to your toe-nail polish, don’t cause rumbles throughout the South. Acknowledge that September weather is still hotter than the hinges of Hell, and humidity plus temperature dictates comfort.  Go so far as to give the OK to shorts and sandals. But the sandals must not be white.

                  White Shoes after Labor Day is akin to a beribboned picture-hat at a funeral or use of the wrong fork at a dinner party. White shoes in September stick out like 4" heels at a rodeo, like an Ole Miss t-shirt at a Razorback tailgate party. Plenty of reasons exist for why “Princess Margaret would never be a KKG,” but the paramount one must have been that she did not adhere to the upper/utter-most rule in fashion-conscious society:  There Shalt Be No White SHOES after Labor Day.

Front Porches and Southern Hospitality

                       What is it about the Front Porch that is so Southern iconic? Its shade is pleasing and coolly inviting. An expansive porch once wrapped around the non-air-conditioned house to preserve the cool of evening for the main house, well into the mid-day.


July, 1929

                Architectural designs throughout the South often encompass a front porch, a Southern staple, as much as a tomato and cucumber summer salad.
                 For moonlight and magnolia southerners, the Front Porch served as the stage for flirting, memory making and generational stories. Many a tentative Romeo has stolen a kiss while “just swinging” on Juliet’s front porch. 
      My growing-up family home had a front porch, a back porch, and a sleeping porch. We called it “the big house.” Front porch weather summoned us outside for “porch sitting.”  A cool breeze might saunter by as family gathered to share the day’s encounters.
                             When our family moved to our first “neighborhood,” our house also had a front porch. Sitting under the ceiling fan, my parents and grandparents, neighbors, too, watched us cavort across the neighboring yards and into the streets, often calling out, “Watch that car!”
                        Sometimes we kids talked and laughed while sitting on the curb until the mosquitos became vultures.  A screened front porch extended porch sitting well into the evening so there could be conversation sans mosquitos.
                       In our neighborhood, we grew up under the watchful eye of a front porch sentinel, our own version of Mrs. Gladys Kravitz.  Keeping watch from her Front Porch perch, she saw everything. Because this neighbor would not only see all, but tell all, some of us were cautious in our behavior. 

                  Comments about “curb appeal” now come from those who drive or stroll by our homes. Living beyond the front door, porch, and sidewalk, the community senses welcome from the family who dwells within a house with a pleasing front porch area. Perhaps that is why many families today continue front porch hospitality traditions rather than the more private backyard venue.
           Back yards, patios, decks, and privacy fencing have moved our porch sitting habits to a more secluded area. Fancy outdoor living spaces include grilling kitchens, private swimming pools, landscaping and outdoor lighting located in the rear of the home. The ambiance for a marvelous experience exudes hospitality, but nothing replicates the inviting community feel of a beautiful front porch and the family that welcomes us to join them for some “porch sitting.”