Vintage Barbie was a Vamp

My Vintage Barbie was far more Liz Taylor than Sandra Dee.  She could melt a man (made of plastic or not) with her seductive, heavy-lidded gaze.  You could have spotted her posed at the bar of the Ritz, a cool Singapore Sling cocktail in her manicured hand.  She would have never set a perfectly pedicured and stillettoed foot in a pastel pink soda shop or plastic McDonald's.   Her clothes were sophisticated but sultry, far from revealing yet clearly to mature for your average teenager.  She was, in fact, a respectable 22 years old when my mother ceremoniously passed her into my small and eager hands.  A mature college graduate with a Jackie Kennedy bouffant instead of a perky, pony-tailed  and overly-endowed teenager.


My Barbara Millicent Roberts was a single girl in the city (long before we discovered sex or the television series).   Her budding career changed as frequently as her clothes--one day she was as a copywriter at a slick New York ad agency straight out of Mad Men, the next a fashion buyer at Bloomingdale's or an editorial assistant at Vogue.  She could have been a flight attendant, but only on private charters escorting celebrities to exotic destinations (which she photographed for travel magazines).  She would never have considered mermaid, fairy, princess (except for a brief dalliance with the idea around the time of Lady Di's wedding), or Dallas Cowboy's Cheerleader to be acceptable career choices.  And babysitter and dog walker were certainly left for young Skipper and her friends.

My Barbie did not live in a townhouse or dream mansion.  How could a cosmopolitan girl-about-town afford a place like that, really?  She was no  Holly Golightly on the fly, nor would she ever settle for being a kept woman.  She rented a chic little loft or pied-à-terre in the city. 

Malibu beach parties were far to unsophisticated for her tastes. My Barbie would have been found lounging on the sands of the French Rivera before a big night out in the casinos of Monte Carlo.  If Ken wanted to catch her eye he had better be wearing a custom tux, drinking a martini (shaken not stirred), and charming her with some witty yet intelligent repartee while he won big at the baccarat table.    If he happened to be a prince,  he was too busy learning how to efficiently run a country to be prancing around in tights and singing sappy songs.

 Then came the inevitable, a pre-adolescent right of passage which causes every feminist to cry out in pain. Brainwashed from years of watching Saturday morning cartoons (back when they were ONLY on Saturday mornings) and caving into peer pressure, I cast Vintage Vixen Barbie  aside for a bubbly embodiment of anorexic cheerleading princesses everywhere. I saved up all my allowance and birthday money to buy my very own fresh-faced Pretty In Pink Barbie doll complete with a ratty pink fur stole and gossamer nylon cape.   Her face was sweet and wholesome, like a mid-western homecoming queen just dropped at the gritty L.A. bus station.  Her outfit was a teen pop diva's dream. She went to pool parties and attended Sweet Valley High.  She dated Ricky Martin (a la Menudo days...if only she had known).  She still didn't have a Dream House or pink corvette, but she hoped her part-time modeling gig would pay off soon and hung out with carbon-copy BFFs who shared their wealth.   Her wardrobe shifted into tacky 70's and 80's ensembles (legwarmers!) but she still had some fabulous shoes.

Little did we know back in those days of innocence why my beloved Vintage Barbie had such a seductive, come-hither gaze.  She's not the all-American teen fashion model we believed her to be.  Barbie's creator, Ruth Handler, produced her after discovering Bild-Lilli: a surprisingly similar doll based on a sexy German cartoon.

Bild-Lilli 1955 vs. Barbie 1959

Lilli was a curvaceous country girl who came to the big city to work at a newspaper and used men to get exactly what she wanted.  She was sassy, showed off her hourglass figure with tight skirts and spiked heels, and was referred to by many as basically a prostitute.  Her advertising tag line proclaimed, "Whether more or less naked, Lilli is always discreet."  So, yes, Barbie was based on  a novelty doll marketed towards *ahem* adults.
Male adults.

Now that I have discovered Barbie's scandalous history do I think any less of her?   Not a chance.   She was Carrie Bradshaw before Chick Lit, a Mid-Century Scarlett O'Hara bursting with her ambitions and desires.   Far more a smoldering young Sophia Loren than Gidget.  And far more interesting.

I always realized that I would never have Barbie's 38-19-33 measurements, flawless skin or luxurious mane of hair.  She is a doll.  I never suffered through years of depression, eating disorders, or surgeries trying to become a cheap piece of plastic.  But I wanted her life--not the prostitute's or the blond beach bunny babe's--I wanted to be the chic city girl savvy enough to utilize both her brains and beauty.   

And I wanted her fabulous shoes.

 

I still do.

The Soul of Spring

We celebrated Spring Break this year with a stay-cation.   My only writing was done with a piece of driftwood in the shell-strewn beach sand.  Instead of sweating at the gym I paddled a scenic river, planted a vegetable garden, built a sandbox, strolled through a tropical oasis, and chased Kiddo around a strawberry field under serene blue skies.   It was a relaxing week filled with reading (two fabulous books by the talented Meg Waite Clayton), sunbathing (although I still have no tan), and reveling in some down time with family and friends.   Sometimes we all just need a little time off to catch our breaths, a bit of quiet amidst the never ending clamor of our daily lives.

Soccer Mom Crash Course

It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon at the Soccer Complex.  Osprey soared through the blue sky over the fields and the air was thick with excitement, sweat, and apprehension.  It was the first game of the season...and Kiddo's first game ever.

I had the requisite folding chairs and Kiddo's water bottle.   Hubby and I should have just settled down in the sunshine to watch a pack of six and seven-year-old chase a ball around a field.   Right?     Wrong...

This is Kiddo's first season  playing any sport.  My Hubby still sacrifices himself to the Soccer Gods each Sunday, so I wasn't exactly overeager to give up my Saturdays as well.  We waited for Kiddo to tell us he really wanted to play.  It just took a while for him to tear himself away from his Legos and hours of free play.

His team has had a whopping three practices.  Basically, the coach showed them how to kick a ball.  We haven't really gotten to distance, passing or even much aim.  Several times the players had to be rounded up from playing tag or picking dandelions.  Kiddo was excited to have cleats (excuse me, boots) and knee socks (a.k.a. soccer socks) like his Daddy.  Two little girls showed off their new shoes with pink stripes and chased their matching pink balls.  Most kids were in Kindergarten.  Newbies.  Fresh meat.

Hubby (soccer show-off that he is) volunteered to help the coach wrangle  kids and herd them towards their correct goals out on the practice field.  He had no official position--it was just a fun way to blow off some steam after a stressful day at work.  But last Thursday after practice the coach pulled him aside and said he couldn't make it to the first game Saturday and the assistant coach had been a no-show for two weeks.  Could Hubby possibly help out?

How could  he say no?  Hubby was drafted.

Now, it's Kiddo's first game ever and our first time even watching a kids' soccer match, and suddenly Hubby is the fearless leader of a pack of wild and mostly untrained players.  We figured it would be fine--just some low key bumble-bee ball.  He's played for 30+ years himself.  How hard could it be?

We arrived to find the opposing team doing organized warm-up drills called out by a drill sergeant.  There were a lot of them--the field was aglow with future World Cup contenders zipping along in their fluorescent green jerseys.  And they were all easily a head taller than our biggest player and probably double the weight of our smallest.  They looked as if they had been playing together since they were waddling in diapers. Ugh oh...

Their coach must be a professional high school football coach and/or a Marine drill sergeant.   He paced the sidelines barking orders and calling plays like,  "Hey Wolf--get on that kid--take him down!" and "Defense stay in your positions-- knock 'em out!" 

Coach Hubby ran along with the kids yelling, "Just kick the ball!  No, our goal's in the other direction!"

The other team had fourteen players.  They switched the entire squad on the field out every few minutes for freshly rested and watered reinforcements.  We had one sub.  Our little guys and gals were thirsty, unsure, and exhausted.  Their goalies hunched in front of the net wearing special pennies and goalie gloves.  Our goalies wore one of Kiddo's X-men t-shirts and I caught one picking clovers in the grass.  At half time the other team had an organized huddle while their coach dressed them down and went over new strategies.  At half time our team drank all of their water and tried not to cry. 



Coach Hubby just shook his head and muttered how it was like reliving The Bad News Bears.  Except soccer instead of baseball.  And he couldn't drink beer at the field--although we probably all could have used one.


In the end, it was a debacle.  The league is *not supposed to* keep score, but we went down in flames 13-0.

The parents still cheered as loud as we could each time one of our players got a foot on the ball or made a run towards the goal.  We took pictures and gave pats on the back.   We shouted words of encouragement.  Since there were so few players, we quickly learned all their names and ages and previous experience (or lack of).  We discovered who had unexpected speed and who wasn't afraid to lock horns with kids twice his size.  We saw how amazing our kids were no matter how they played.  And they did play well--the other team just played better.  We were all proud.

After the game Kiddo knew his team had been spanked.  But he still had fun.  And so had Hubby.  That made it a great day anyway.

 And I hope when our team gets into the swing of things we come back and kick the green team's collective ass.

My Word(s) in the Sentinel

I have not been getting much writing or blogging done lately for many reasons (i.e. spring yard work, concerts & late nights out, family things).  But one of the main culprits behind my writers block is how preoccupied I have been worrying about The Sunshine State's new governor and how his insane budget proposals may utterly wreck my family's world.  Nearly everyone in my family and many of my close friends are employed by (or retired from) the state...at least for the moment.  They might not be for long...

My Op-ed piece My Word: Public-private apples-orange  was published in the Orlando Sentinel today.   It does feel so very nice to see your name, your work, on crinkly paper and in black and white.

Now I should feel inspired and get back to work on my book...I can do it, I can do it...

She Writer Blogger Ball Redux

I'd like to welcome any She Writes members dropping by from the Blogger Ball Redux.   I had a such wonderful time discovering fellow member's blogs last go round and can't wait to connect with some more talented writers this weekend.


As part of the getting to know you suggestion, I thought I'd share the first ten quirky things about me that come to mind:

1.  I can still recite the entire To Be or Not To Be soliloquy from Hamlet at a spit-fire pace twenty years after I  memorized it for drama class.
2.  I am distantly related to a famous pirate.
3.  I cannot think of a dessert I do not like.  Some may be better than others, but they are all good in some way, shape, or form.
4.  I don't like big weddings and think everyone should just elope.  And don't even think of asking me to be a bridesmaid.   Guess that's why running a bridal boutique was not the right career for me.
5.  I can't watch television, work out, or do much of anything without a book in my hands.
6.  I think I am the only person in America who has never had a Starbucks coffee or watched American Idol.
7.  I've never really seen snow.
8.  I used to be nicknamed "concert girl" because I adore the thrill of getting lost in live music and would travel far and wide to see my favorite bands.
9.  I actually liked being an only child and now have an only child.  And yes, it will stay that way.
10.   My hubby, brother-in-law, cousin and I all share the same birthday.  And yes, I was careful not to get knocked-up during a certain window to carry on that tradition.

And now I'm off to dust off my dancing shoes to prepare for the ball...  No, wait--actually I'll sit here in my gym/writing clothes as I waltz through the blogosphere.   I'll save the dancing heels for my concert Sunday night...

Dropping the Bomb on Motherhood

Imagine it is just another rough day in the mothering hood.  Children are crying and wiping snotty noses on your shirt.  The laundry pile is multiplying exponentially as one child had an accident and another spewed chocolate milk across the room and the white dog.  You haven't seen a television show without singing puppets, trains, or fairy princesses in years.  Your nails are chipped, your legs unshaven, and your not quite sure when you last washed your hair.   Each day is a struggle to find that precarious balance between  family, daily responsibilities, job, and an occasional moment for yourself.  Your life is full, yet you feel as if you lost a bit of yourself somewhere amidst the debris on the delivery room floor.

You may have dreams of escape...those moments when you imagine yourself lying serenely on a beach with a hunky cabana boy bringing you luscious umbrella drinks and there are no children in sight, or perhaps even ON your island oasis.  You may even be lucky enough to enjoy weekends escapes or small vacations sans children every once in a while.

What if an amazing  opportunity came up--your dream job--and you could reclaim some of your previous life and revive your career?  The only caveat: you would have to live on the other side of the world from your children for months at a time.  What if you did it?   And while you were living as a single, childless professional you decided you liked it better than your real life of chaos back home.    You realized maybe you never wanted this whole kids and family thing anyway.

Could you leave them all behind?

Author Rahna Reiko Rizzuto appeared on the Today Show this morning to promote her memoir Hiroshima in the Morning.   Given an opportunity to write about the survivors of the nuclear bomb drop in Japan,  she left her husband and two small children, ages 3 and 5, for six months to follow her career.   While she was away she discovered she had never really wanted to be a mother and didn't want her children or her husband anymore.  When she returned home Rizzuto divorced her husband of 20 years and gave him custody of their small children.  She spoke out about her struggle with her identity and her utter ambivalence towards her children and husband.

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Ruzzuto now parents at her own leisure and sees her now teen children several times a week to play games and watch television shows together.  The "heavy lifting" and day to day dreariness of parenting  is left to their father.  She says it works better for them, because now their relationship is based on "what we want to give, rather than our obligation to give and our assumptions of what we should get."  In a heavily debated Salon.com article she wrote, "I was afraid of being swallowed up, of being exhausted, of opening my eyes one day, 20 (or 30!) years after they were born, and realizing I had lost myself and my life was over."

Men say things like this every day, and society generally does not think worse of them.  Men can have a mid-life crisis and decide to leave their families because they are not fulfilled.  They abandon their children completely for a job or another woman or to rediscover themselves or just slowly drift away into until their presence becomes unexpected and inconsequential.  But they are fathers...

Why do we judge mothers on a different scale?

I cannot speak for all mothers.  We are a diverse sisterhood, each with our own circumstances and  backstory.   But I can confidently say that having a child, whether by giving birth, adoption, or other means intrinsically changes you.

I know I would rather cut off my right arm than give up my child.    I could be offered a million dollar multi-book deal and a villa in Tuscany and I would turn it down flat if it meant leaving my child permanently.  There is nothing wrong with wanting more in your life than carpools and crappy diapers, but once you have made that decision to be a parent it IS your obligation to give unconditionally to that child and provide them with what they need.   And yes, sometimes it's inconvenient and hard and excruciatingly exhausting.  It's a part of the job.  Get over it.

Motherhood isn't always what we signed on for.  It takes far more time, effort, compassion, and strength than I ever imagined I had to give.  It means sacrifice and change.  It also takes courage...and yes, some days that may mean the courage to keep giving when you feel as if you have drained yourself dry.  It means having the courage to stay. 

As my child grow more independent I struggle with my identity each and every day.  But I know no matter how my life grows and I choose to define myself, I will always be a  mother.  It is a primal concept that Ruzzoto is to selfish to grasp.