I'm told Barbie is a bad role model. I hear she's anti-feminist and a threat to women's progress in the world. Whatever. I'm smart, confident and capable and I love Barbie. Yup, I said it. Barbie's my girl.
I think I was about five or so when I got my first Barbie doll. Getting a Barbie was major, not like getting clothes or toys. Really. Because Barbie wasn't a toy - she was an investment. My little sister and I couldn't count on getting one every birthday. The birthdays when we did get them are among the ones I still remember very clearly.
My first Barbie was named Agnes, after the aunt who bought her for me. A couple of identity modifications later, and she's now known as Rachel. (She went through an Amy phase, but we don't like to talk about that.)
While some girls spent hours brushing Barbie's hair and keeping her dressed in the same old clothes for months, my sister and I had ambitious plans for our plastic posse. First of all, they had to have names. "Barbie" was like "Jane Doe" - each doll needed an identity, a background, a tortured past. We had the rich, upper crust family, the poor orphans, the adopted daugther, the cop, the fashion designer, the model, the scientist...we had a whole TV cast and they even lived in their own make-believe town. And yes, they all had their own personalities and individual styles.
Barbie clothes and accessories were expensive, and asking our mother to buy them, after spending so much on the dolls themselves, was unimaginable. So we got creative. We made them everything from Catholic school uniforms to wedding dresses. Each new Barbie game required a new wardrobe, and we became consummate costume designers. The stories we came up with were almost as fantastic as the clothes - we got so good at making our own versions of things that it extended to our own stuff. We can be recycle anything. We got creative in other ways, too - when we didn't have enough Kens to go around, we were open to cross dressing. When a Barbie found her way into the jaws of one of our dogs, we didn't write her off. We improvised. So we have Tyler, a combination of Cindy's head and Ken's body, Dawn, the one-legged reporter, and Sue, who has no legs left at all.
It is a little creepy that Mattel has gone to the extent of getting lawyers for Barbie and putting out public statements when she breaks up with Ken. She is, after all, just a doll. But, unrealistic physical proportions aside, she represents a whole lot to girls like me who grew up idolizing her. And no, I'm not just talking about impossible beauty ideals and absurd social expectations. She represents art, fun, hours of wonderful childhood memories, imagination and a spark of creative genius that, like her, never dies. Barbie pushed me to think outside the box because she was just too cool to wear one rhinestone covered jumpsuit all the way into the 90s. She had to have options, and I had to come up with them. She inspired me to come up with new ideas, new stories, new characters for her to portray. She still inspires me by reminding me how much fun it was to come up with a whole storyline, plot, characters and clothes in one day.
My Barbie collection has now taken up residence at the top of my closet, in a massive bag bulging with the clothes, shoes, accessories and props my sister and I designed over the years to make our games more interesting. I don't play the games anymore, but the stories never stopped coming. I may have traded the world of plastic dreams for the real world, but, thanks to all those hours of Barbie games, I have options, too.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Monday, September 7, 2009
10 Reasons Dogs Are a Girl's Best Friend...10 Reasons Diamonds Are Not
1. Dogs are always happy to see you. (People can fake smiles, but dogs can't fake wagging tails)
2. Dogs appreciate your terrible cooking even if no one else does.
3. Dogs are excellent listeners, and they never say "I told you so".
4. Dogs are incapable of deceit. Well, mostly.
5. Dogs are never too busy to hang out.
6. Dogs really will love you forever, and they don't need to perform grand gestures to prove it.
7. Dogs do strange, silly little things...and they don't get offended if you laugh.
8. Dogs can't hold a grudge, and are never stingy with affection.
9. Dogs don't care about your looks, status or bank balance.
10. Dogs will never judge you, no matter how many times you mess up.
AND
1. Diamonds are rocks, people. Pretty rocks...but still rocks.
2. Diamonds are not very good at returning affection...or anything else.
3. Diamonds are forever. And some people pay for them forever, too.
4. Diamonds bought by men for women are called bedroom bling. You put them on, you take everything else off.
5. Diamonds are a great way to learn responsibility (when your credit card company starts calling), compassion (for all those who can't afford diamonds), and generosity (through your regular contribution to De Beers).
6. It makes perfect sense to spend a few months' rent on something that decorates your ears. Or your neck, or your finger. Because you're worth it, says another company that only wants your money.
7. Diamond rings symbolise commitment, love, fidelity and eternal happiness, according to American Swiss. And after the divorce I guess they can symbolise alimony and child support.
8. Diamonds can't protect you from intruders. Actually, they kind of attract them.
9. Diamonds aren't any prettier than any other precious stone. Really. Look hard.
10. Diamonds put a sparkle on your body, but not in your heart. (And because they're inanimate objects, they can't even appreciate how corny that last line was.)
2. Dogs appreciate your terrible cooking even if no one else does.
3. Dogs are excellent listeners, and they never say "I told you so".
4. Dogs are incapable of deceit. Well, mostly.
5. Dogs are never too busy to hang out.
6. Dogs really will love you forever, and they don't need to perform grand gestures to prove it.
7. Dogs do strange, silly little things...and they don't get offended if you laugh.
8. Dogs can't hold a grudge, and are never stingy with affection.
9. Dogs don't care about your looks, status or bank balance.
10. Dogs will never judge you, no matter how many times you mess up.
AND
1. Diamonds are rocks, people. Pretty rocks...but still rocks.
2. Diamonds are not very good at returning affection...or anything else.
3. Diamonds are forever. And some people pay for them forever, too.
4. Diamonds bought by men for women are called bedroom bling. You put them on, you take everything else off.
5. Diamonds are a great way to learn responsibility (when your credit card company starts calling), compassion (for all those who can't afford diamonds), and generosity (through your regular contribution to De Beers).
6. It makes perfect sense to spend a few months' rent on something that decorates your ears. Or your neck, or your finger. Because you're worth it, says another company that only wants your money.
7. Diamond rings symbolise commitment, love, fidelity and eternal happiness, according to American Swiss. And after the divorce I guess they can symbolise alimony and child support.
8. Diamonds can't protect you from intruders. Actually, they kind of attract them.
9. Diamonds aren't any prettier than any other precious stone. Really. Look hard.
10. Diamonds put a sparkle on your body, but not in your heart. (And because they're inanimate objects, they can't even appreciate how corny that last line was.)
Sunday, June 21, 2009
10 Inexplicable Fashion Items
1. Harem pants. Forget the style, I can’t get past the name!
2. Parachute tops. Ditto.
3. Skorts. Or is it skants? For the indecisive, perhaps?
4. Pantyhose. Ladders. And they make your legs look like you’ve coloured them in with oil pastels. The only thing they’re good for is covering your freshly-done hair at bedtime.
5. Shoulder pads. I’ve contemplated this one since the 80’s. I’m still clueless.
6. Clothes made of metal. I mean…rust?
7. Transparent plastic platforms. Unless you’re Baby Spice.
8. Jeans that rest just above the knee instead of just above the pelvis. How people who dress like this manage to walk is one of life’s marvels.
9. Statement t-shirts, when worn by people who don’t appear to understand their meaning…or who simply aren’t “bringing sexy back”…
10. Statement underwear. Unless you’re taking someone on a treasure hunt. “G marks the spot”, or something…
2. Parachute tops. Ditto.
3. Skorts. Or is it skants? For the indecisive, perhaps?
4. Pantyhose. Ladders. And they make your legs look like you’ve coloured them in with oil pastels. The only thing they’re good for is covering your freshly-done hair at bedtime.
5. Shoulder pads. I’ve contemplated this one since the 80’s. I’m still clueless.
6. Clothes made of metal. I mean…rust?
7. Transparent plastic platforms. Unless you’re Baby Spice.
8. Jeans that rest just above the knee instead of just above the pelvis. How people who dress like this manage to walk is one of life’s marvels.
9. Statement t-shirts, when worn by people who don’t appear to understand their meaning…or who simply aren’t “bringing sexy back”…
10. Statement underwear. Unless you’re taking someone on a treasure hunt. “G marks the spot”, or something…
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Soap Opera 101
There are people who say you can’t learn anything from watching the soaps. They say such fare is frivolous, ridiculous and completely over the top. I am one of those people. I can actually hear my brain cells frying each time I watch the Days of Our Lives.
Nevertheless, I have to admit that a lot of the things I know today, I learnt from watching the soaps when I was a kid. For example, almost everything I knew about the legal system as a kid came from typical soap opera episodes.
Thanks to Santa Barabara, I knew what a subpoena was long before I learned to tie my laces. I also knew that a capital crime was one that could get you executed (courtesy of Days of our Lives). The phrases “Objection, Your Honour!” and “Overruled” were as familiar to me as homework, and all my friends could quote the Miranda Rights. The Bold and the Beautiful educated me about DNA, paternity tests and custody battles, and introduced me to the wedding march, wedding vows and wedding crashers, as well as adultery, incest and alimony.
It was because of soap operas that I figured out where babies came from years ahead of the awkward videos we were shown at school, and that I developed a firm belief that the truth always comes out in the end. Soap operas gave me faith in true love and sexy lingerie, but made me wary of maternity wards, twins and anyone wearing black leather gloves or a massive ring with a strange symbol on it.
My exposure to in-vitro fertilization came courtesy of Sunset Beach, my first encounter with a non-stereotypical gay character happened with Isidingo, and Generations opened the door to advertising accounts, pitches, campaigns, and black people who drink orange juice with breakfast. Every morning, too.
How clever I felt when kids whispered that kissing got you pregnant, and I declared knowingly, “It does not!” Everyone who watched the soaps knew that two characters had to roll around naked in satin sheets before babies were written into the script. Duh!And, naturally, all soap watchers are familiar with the terms “ulterior motive”, “vendetta” and “ultimatum”. At ten, my vocabulary was second to none.
It’s rather incredible to me that I manage to maintain my disdain of the soap opera industry despite all the wonderful (and not so wonderful) ideas it put into my young head. Honestly, if it weren’t for Brooke Logan I’d never know that it’s really creepy to sleep with all the men in one family. If it weren’t for the Bradys of Salem it would never have occurred to me that if I really love someone I’ll be able to “feel it” when he’s alive and trapped on a desert island, even though I saw his body go up in flames.
I would never know that nice guys (and girls) don’t have to finish last, after all. At least not in soap opera world, where all the sweetest people are in love with each other and all the evil people (who also happen to be exceptionally good-looking) have to resort to kidnapping and blackmail in order to get their hooks into decent partners. Oh, if only…
Home and Away revealed that people in Australia walk around in bikinis and shorts all day, sans make-up, baring freckles, spots, love handles etc…and everyone still thinks they’re so hot. The show also made me realize, for the first time, that children can’t age sixteen years in three seasons. No, those folks age in real time, baby. They’re betting on a seriously dedicated fan base. Ahhh…God Bless Summer Bay!
But nothing trumps my enviable soap-based medical knowledge. Years before McDreamy’s hair won Meredith Grey’s heart, I knew all about blood types, rare diseases, mysterious skin disorders, cancer (the number one killer of soap opera characters), bone marrow transplants and miracle cures. I watched as tireless doctors who specialized in every condition under the sun pronounced people dead, only to have them rise from the ashes. I was initiated into the world of unattended scrubs, slippery scalpels and super-fast surgeries, and experienced vicariously the infamous awful hospital coffee.
There’s no doubt in my mind that soap operas remain the most outlandish form of entertainment in existence. Fantasy novelists have nothing on the folks behind Passions and Days. Nevertheless, I can’t deny that my years as a reluctant soap fan have done wonders for me. Thanks to the ageless stars of these shows, I now know that when I’m fifty and looking forward to my first grandchild, I won’t look a day over 25.
Nevertheless, I have to admit that a lot of the things I know today, I learnt from watching the soaps when I was a kid. For example, almost everything I knew about the legal system as a kid came from typical soap opera episodes.
Thanks to Santa Barabara, I knew what a subpoena was long before I learned to tie my laces. I also knew that a capital crime was one that could get you executed (courtesy of Days of our Lives). The phrases “Objection, Your Honour!” and “Overruled” were as familiar to me as homework, and all my friends could quote the Miranda Rights. The Bold and the Beautiful educated me about DNA, paternity tests and custody battles, and introduced me to the wedding march, wedding vows and wedding crashers, as well as adultery, incest and alimony.
It was because of soap operas that I figured out where babies came from years ahead of the awkward videos we were shown at school, and that I developed a firm belief that the truth always comes out in the end. Soap operas gave me faith in true love and sexy lingerie, but made me wary of maternity wards, twins and anyone wearing black leather gloves or a massive ring with a strange symbol on it.
My exposure to in-vitro fertilization came courtesy of Sunset Beach, my first encounter with a non-stereotypical gay character happened with Isidingo, and Generations opened the door to advertising accounts, pitches, campaigns, and black people who drink orange juice with breakfast. Every morning, too.
How clever I felt when kids whispered that kissing got you pregnant, and I declared knowingly, “It does not!” Everyone who watched the soaps knew that two characters had to roll around naked in satin sheets before babies were written into the script. Duh!And, naturally, all soap watchers are familiar with the terms “ulterior motive”, “vendetta” and “ultimatum”. At ten, my vocabulary was second to none.
It’s rather incredible to me that I manage to maintain my disdain of the soap opera industry despite all the wonderful (and not so wonderful) ideas it put into my young head. Honestly, if it weren’t for Brooke Logan I’d never know that it’s really creepy to sleep with all the men in one family. If it weren’t for the Bradys of Salem it would never have occurred to me that if I really love someone I’ll be able to “feel it” when he’s alive and trapped on a desert island, even though I saw his body go up in flames.
I would never know that nice guys (and girls) don’t have to finish last, after all. At least not in soap opera world, where all the sweetest people are in love with each other and all the evil people (who also happen to be exceptionally good-looking) have to resort to kidnapping and blackmail in order to get their hooks into decent partners. Oh, if only…
Home and Away revealed that people in Australia walk around in bikinis and shorts all day, sans make-up, baring freckles, spots, love handles etc…and everyone still thinks they’re so hot. The show also made me realize, for the first time, that children can’t age sixteen years in three seasons. No, those folks age in real time, baby. They’re betting on a seriously dedicated fan base. Ahhh…God Bless Summer Bay!
But nothing trumps my enviable soap-based medical knowledge. Years before McDreamy’s hair won Meredith Grey’s heart, I knew all about blood types, rare diseases, mysterious skin disorders, cancer (the number one killer of soap opera characters), bone marrow transplants and miracle cures. I watched as tireless doctors who specialized in every condition under the sun pronounced people dead, only to have them rise from the ashes. I was initiated into the world of unattended scrubs, slippery scalpels and super-fast surgeries, and experienced vicariously the infamous awful hospital coffee.
There’s no doubt in my mind that soap operas remain the most outlandish form of entertainment in existence. Fantasy novelists have nothing on the folks behind Passions and Days. Nevertheless, I can’t deny that my years as a reluctant soap fan have done wonders for me. Thanks to the ageless stars of these shows, I now know that when I’m fifty and looking forward to my first grandchild, I won’t look a day over 25.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Fashion Frontlines
Second skins
I hate skinny jeans. I have nothing good to say about them. They are unflattering and absolutely impossible to get into and out of. They were obviously designed by skeletal humanoid aliens with no hips and no feet.
And yet, for some unfathomable reason, EVERYBODY wears them. Skinny jeans with ballet flats, skinny jeans with Converse sneakers, skinny jeans with stilettos, skinny jeans with Uggs. All that soft flesh and toned muscle begging for release…to no avail.
WHY??? I stare in wonder at women of all shapes and sizes, in their skinny Levis and skinny Miss Sixtys, and ask myself: Don’t they chafe? I imagine the constant friction, denim against skin, and those designer crotches riding up, up and away…And when the skinnies are teamed with a nylon thong…in summer…the only possible result is thrush. Really.
I love clothes as much as the next girl, but I also love being able to walk down the street without a desperate urge to scratch in sacred places. Of course, the skinny squad might say that their uniform is an acquired taste. I can’t escape the fact that skinny jeans mysteriously look good on a lot of women. Just not on me, apparently.
This has nothing to do with my opinion on the trend. I mean, sure, skinny jeans expose all the flaws I try so hard to cover up. In those jeans my knees, where I seem to deposit almost every bit of fat on my body, tend to stretch the fabric to breaking point, and I hear sinister rustling noises every time I walk…
Okay. So I have a personal vendetta against skinny jeans. But I know I’m not alone in my dislike of another fashion statement. I’m talking about jeans that were clearly made for women with small behinds, but into which those with generous butts will squeeze with no thought of the consequences. Those consequences are not pretty. No one wants to be treated to an eyeful of plumber’s crack every time someone leans over. To make matters worse, these ill-fitting jeans are almost always paired with equally ill-fitting underwear – the kind that seems to vanish southwards when most needed to cover up the non-airbrushed bits of mere mortals.
Women the world over! It is time to accept that, unlike Britney Spears, whose pants are laced with sorcery that keeps them intact no matter how much she gyrates, the rest of us have to simply invest in jeans that fit – or throw on a belt. And as for skinny jeans…if you can wear them without flinching, I applaud you. I only hope that you won’t ever have to be cut out of them. Not that that’s ever happened to me…
I hate skinny jeans. I have nothing good to say about them. They are unflattering and absolutely impossible to get into and out of. They were obviously designed by skeletal humanoid aliens with no hips and no feet.
And yet, for some unfathomable reason, EVERYBODY wears them. Skinny jeans with ballet flats, skinny jeans with Converse sneakers, skinny jeans with stilettos, skinny jeans with Uggs. All that soft flesh and toned muscle begging for release…to no avail.
WHY??? I stare in wonder at women of all shapes and sizes, in their skinny Levis and skinny Miss Sixtys, and ask myself: Don’t they chafe? I imagine the constant friction, denim against skin, and those designer crotches riding up, up and away…And when the skinnies are teamed with a nylon thong…in summer…the only possible result is thrush. Really.
I love clothes as much as the next girl, but I also love being able to walk down the street without a desperate urge to scratch in sacred places. Of course, the skinny squad might say that their uniform is an acquired taste. I can’t escape the fact that skinny jeans mysteriously look good on a lot of women. Just not on me, apparently.
This has nothing to do with my opinion on the trend. I mean, sure, skinny jeans expose all the flaws I try so hard to cover up. In those jeans my knees, where I seem to deposit almost every bit of fat on my body, tend to stretch the fabric to breaking point, and I hear sinister rustling noises every time I walk…
Okay. So I have a personal vendetta against skinny jeans. But I know I’m not alone in my dislike of another fashion statement. I’m talking about jeans that were clearly made for women with small behinds, but into which those with generous butts will squeeze with no thought of the consequences. Those consequences are not pretty. No one wants to be treated to an eyeful of plumber’s crack every time someone leans over. To make matters worse, these ill-fitting jeans are almost always paired with equally ill-fitting underwear – the kind that seems to vanish southwards when most needed to cover up the non-airbrushed bits of mere mortals.
Women the world over! It is time to accept that, unlike Britney Spears, whose pants are laced with sorcery that keeps them intact no matter how much she gyrates, the rest of us have to simply invest in jeans that fit – or throw on a belt. And as for skinny jeans…if you can wear them without flinching, I applaud you. I only hope that you won’t ever have to be cut out of them. Not that that’s ever happened to me…
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