Totally Birthday Barbie

Looking at us together, you probably can’t tell that Barbie and I are the same age; sister Baby Boomers from 1959. It’s hardly a fair comparison. You can’t help but notice that plastic face and wide-eyed stare. Frankly, I think she’s had work done. Either that or she’s been cooking up something in her cutting edge gourmet kitchen besides Vegetarian Delight. If it’s Barbie’s fault that I have to sign for Sudafed during allergy season, I hope she gets a sinus infection that all the pills in her executive briefcase can’t cure.

But even with all the corporate trimmings, the girl can’t hold a job. Of course, what do you expect from someone who tattoos her underwear on her body? I can think of some suitable careers, but nothing she’d want to write home to Totally Downhome Mom and Dad about. After all, who knows what’s gone on in that Dream House over the years?

Fifty years ago Barbie hit the fashion scene as a teen—the first Supermodel that didn’t eat. That famous high step the runway models use come from Barbie before she had knees put in. Now we know where Heidi and Giselle got their inspiration. Barbie was around even before Victoria had a secret.

Frankly, I wouldn’t give the girl a job reference. A jobhopper like that will just ruin your reputation. Honestly, if you run for president three times and can’t collect a percentage of the popular vote, it’s time to move on. She’s been through more careers than Hilary Clinton has power suits. The next profession that comes out with a powderpuff pink uniform and a logo crafted from Swarovski crystals, she’ll ditch the corporate office for the double dipper position at the ice cream shop. And who knows what kind of shape the files are in at the job she left behind. It’s not like she can bend properly to put anything away. The last time she leaned over to open the bottom drawer, Ken had to go in for surgery that ultimately led to their breakup.

As a matter of fact, career stress is probably the cause of that pasty face and wide-eyed gaze. After fifty years of fretting how she’s going to make payments on that luxury Malibu lifestyle, there should be a worry line or two across that smooth forehead. Who does she think she is, Jennifer Anniston? Instead she shows up day after day with a new dress, a plastic smile, and a recycled boyfriend. One more accessory binge, honey, and Skipper and the gang are going to have to stage an intervention.

It's not that I don't love Barbie. I still have my 1960 Bubble Hairdo Barbie in a box in the closet. And come to think of it, she doesn't look anything like the perfect models on display. She shows suspicious signs of sharing a tea party or two over the years, and her home perm makes her look more bobblehead than Bubble Head. In my living room, she was the center of more weddings than a handful of Gabor sisters with an Elizabeth Taylor kicker. She never had a career, but she played out all my childhood fantasies and made a little girl’s dreams come true.

And that’s the most important job of all.

Happy Birthday, Barbie.

Blow Dryer, Flash Fryer

I’m convinced my hair dryer, the Flame Thrower, is trying to kill me. Oh, there’s nothing I can point my finger to and say, “Here are the transcripts from a conversation with the hot rollers which definitely points to annihilation by hair sabotage.” It’s subtle things like hurling sparks at my ear early in the morning when it thinks I’m not paying attention. But I’m too cheap to throw the thing out until it chokes on a hairball and sputters to a stop for good. So unless it bites off more once-blonde locks than it can chew, we’re together for another year.

Luckily, since this is a low wattage appliance and therefore has a limited capacity for complicated planning, it has been limited to spitting fire and summoning bursts of superheated air dedicated toward restyling my hair into the flash fried appearance of an overcooked Dorito. My left ear is scorched and it appears that I shrink wrapped my head in an old Brillo pad, but other than that I’m fine.

Lately the wretched thing has been sabotaging me with clandestine bouts of guerilla warfare. Its latest campaign involves the secretive, but effective technique of grabbing clumps of hair and consuming them in a teeth-gnashing frenzy like a buffet-bound supermodel on the first day of retirement. Whenever I bend over to dry the back of my hair, I end up with a festive “hairdo by shredder” look. And the hair dryer looks like a Chia pet in full bloom.

Given the embarrassment of losing daily battles with an appliance that can’t make ice, iron my clothes, or dispose of my garbage, I hoped my hairdresser wouldn’t notice. Perhaps I would sneak in for a trim.

Hairdresser: Well, Amy, what shall we do to. .OH MY GOD! HAVE YOU BEEN IN A FIRE!?

Me: Just even up the gaps, please.

Hairdresser: That’s like pulling up your knee highs to meet your push up bra. Did you lean too close to the birthday cake again?

Me: No, I just had a little trouble with the settings on my hair dryer. It thinks off means "off with her head." Say, could you make me look like Jennifer Anniston?

Hairdresser: OH MY GOD! HAS SHE BEEN IN A FIRE TOO?!

Me: Never mind. Just shave it and I’ll tell everybody I’m sympathizing with Britney during the bad years.

I slunk out of the hair salon looking like a cross between Michael Jordan and last year's geraniums. My resolution for the New Year? That blow dryer’s going down. Even if I have to get the hot rollers to help me.

Watertight

It’s not that I don’t get embarrassed. There’s a name for the special shade of red I turned when my youngest son jumped the communion rail at church. But after years of doling out sermons on the subject, I’ve done the unthinkable, and I have the decency to feel a bit bashful about my lapse.

But since I’m 48 years old, I feel that I have earned the privilege to balance my walker on the wild side. So when I was wheeling my buggy down the aisle of the local Super Duper Market, I grabbed a bottle of water that was on sale.

That’s right. I paid for water. If Jennifer Aniston can do it, so can I. We have a lot in common, after all. She shaves one leg at a time just like I do. Except that she can afford laser removal and will probably stay silky smooth all her life, and I’m at the age when random hairs shoot out of various body parts with alarming frequency, requiring a doctor wielding lasers like Jesse James with a pair of six shooters to keep up.

Later, as Bill and I unloaded the groceries together, a little bonding exercise I like to call Marital Freezer Burn, hubby dear took the opportunity to lighten the mood with witty commentary. I kept busy trying to hide the bottled water beneath the Brussels sprouts. He’s a good sport, but he’s listened to so many speeches about money wasted on water over the years, the man is afraid to throw a penny in a wishing well.

“You got liver.” He made accompanying facial gestures that either indicated disapproval or suggested he had his boxers on backwards.

“It’s good for you.”

“I don’t eat internal organs.”

“Oh, it’s not to eat. It’s for a possible donor situation.”

“Very funny. What’re you hiding under the vegetables?”

“I’m not hiding anything. There are no secrets in our marriage.”

“What about the Johnny Depp poster you’ve got stashed in your women’s magazine?”

Drat. I planned an undercover Depp relocation for later that evening. “That doesn’t count. Besides, you’ve got Penelope Cruz stuck in that National Geographic in the bathroom.” I started edging down the hall with the grocery bag.

“What’s in the bag? Did you get saturated fat?”

“Yes. I’ll show it to you later.” I gave him what I hoped was a come hither look. “After the kids are in bed.”

“Did you drop your contact in the cat food again? You’re making that scrunchy face.”

I sighed. The hall was inches away. Trying not to draw attention to the grocery bag, I turned to saunter nonchalantly away.

“So. Is it a member of the crunchy fried family?”

“Ummm, I’d say it’s more smooth.”

“So it’s not pork rinds? You never get me anything I like.”

“Last week I let you have turkey bacon.”

“I’ll alert the media.”

“I’m looking out for your health.”

Sensing junk food on the horizon, the kids appeared from their room, the land where video games go to die. Hearing the rattle of bags in the kitchen, the dogs rushed past the boys to get their shopping day surprise, knocking the bag holding my clandestine purchase out of my hand and sending the bottle of storebought water rolling across the floor.

“What’s this?” (Why is it that gleefulness can sometimes be more irritating than being swerved Scampi with shells still on the shrimp?) “You’re cheating on the grocery budget with. . .SmartWater?” He was happier than a Collie in a cow pasture with all day free to roll.

I had the decency to harbor a bit of embarrassment. “Okay, I’ve been drinking SmartWater. But so far, it hasn’t helped.”