You live so far away. A few times a week, we Skype. You show me your toys, your drawings, a new T-shirt. You ask me to sing as if I had puppets in my hands.
I bought bright apple green headphones to make you smile. The contrast with my grey hair is quite special. I pretend I’m a monster and I open my mouth wide-wide into the camera. At your end you scream and giggle, playing at being scared.
All that time, I’m sitting in a café. People at nearby tables wonder if the old lady over there in the corner roaring and waving her arms at her screen hasn’t gone a bit mad.
You want me to dial Barbie, but I tell you she’s busy. She can’t come to her laptop. She’s probably making a movie in some fairyland where she is going to have in 3D lots of yellow hair and extremely long legs.
Barbie was created when I was myself a kid. She’s no spring chicken, you know. The first adult female toy. Sounds pornographic.
In 1959, I hated her. Her feet annoyed me. They didn’t make any sense. How could such a tall woman stand upright in microscopic shoes? And it was difficult to get her dressed. The clothes were sexy-tight. I could never get her arms into the sleeves without ripping the entire seams.
My mother, on the other hand, loved Barbie. She shopped for Barbie, made plans for her, took her to the department store announcing to the sales girls it was to please me.
Back home, she would call her best friends and marvel at the great wardrobe Barbie had. Boxes and plastic packages covering the kitchen floor as my mother unwrapped dresses, coats, swimming suits and tiny-tiny-tiny sunglasses, hats and gloves.
My mother would, in her Barbie-praises, insist she knew what she was talking about: the precision of the finishing touch, the quality of the fabric, the details, always the details, zippers, buttons, the lining, cuffs and collars, and on and on and on.
Hours of fun my mother had, talking about Barbie and the latest trends, specifying again how much she knew what she was taking about since she was, herself, a fashion designer. Therefore, someone who deeply understood Barbie, and could appreciate the doll’s good taste in evening, casual or sports wear.
Putting a price on the doll’s extensive lingerie, my mother would insinuate that, yes, I was an expensive daughter to have, but the educational aspect of the investment was well worth it. It would teach me what nice things were supposed to look like. How to coordinate them with gusto. It would prepare me for life as a Barbie-woman.
Unfortunately, Barbie got an awful haircut. The scissors one day just slipped from my hands and the blades went right through the doll. Her stupid nylon hair fell to the ground. The rubber-like texture of her face ended up with scars that weren’t going to heal anytime soon. Then I washed the whites with the colors. Barbie’s red velvet coat made everything else pink. And a few drops of genuine bleach made sure the garments wouldn’t survive another day.
Accessory-wise, absent-mindedly I also misplaced at least one item of whatever came in a pair. Barbie was an unfair bitch. She simply had to go.
Now, for you, little one, it all seems to be different. I guess Barbie in the last 50 years has wizened up. And it’s true, she’s into cinema now.
That’s how, by the way, you know she speaks English. The DVDs. You don’t speak English to anyone else but her.
I do realize you live in a world full of Barbies. I see them crossing the street, laughing at cars breaking not to hit them, cute dresses flapping in the breeze, Hello Kitty stuff hanging from their fushia cellphones, glittering bows holding their ponytails. Crowds of Barbies.
And you know what? I don’t mind.
We burned our bras decades ago for equal salary, for respect, to be considered for our potential, not our looks. And now, Barbies have taken over. It’s OK.
Lately, I’ve been looking at Ken, Barbie’s boyfriend. He’s everywhere. Shallow. Much too fashionable for his own good. The color of his shoes always matching that of his T-shirt. A PSP turned on, thumbs all out, him too zigzagging blindly into the traffic. Seems roles are equal now.
Your laolao is a teacher, dear.
I teach Barbies and Kens all day. And they seem to like me.
Kisses, Laolao
I bought bright apple green headphones to make you smile. The contrast with my grey hair is quite special. I pretend I’m a monster and I open my mouth wide-wide into the camera. At your end you scream and giggle, playing at being scared.
All that time, I’m sitting in a café. People at nearby tables wonder if the old lady over there in the corner roaring and waving her arms at her screen hasn’t gone a bit mad.
You want me to dial Barbie, but I tell you she’s busy. She can’t come to her laptop. She’s probably making a movie in some fairyland where she is going to have in 3D lots of yellow hair and extremely long legs.
Barbie was created when I was myself a kid. She’s no spring chicken, you know. The first adult female toy. Sounds pornographic.
In 1959, I hated her. Her feet annoyed me. They didn’t make any sense. How could such a tall woman stand upright in microscopic shoes? And it was difficult to get her dressed. The clothes were sexy-tight. I could never get her arms into the sleeves without ripping the entire seams.
My mother, on the other hand, loved Barbie. She shopped for Barbie, made plans for her, took her to the department store announcing to the sales girls it was to please me.
Back home, she would call her best friends and marvel at the great wardrobe Barbie had. Boxes and plastic packages covering the kitchen floor as my mother unwrapped dresses, coats, swimming suits and tiny-tiny-tiny sunglasses, hats and gloves.
My mother would, in her Barbie-praises, insist she knew what she was talking about: the precision of the finishing touch, the quality of the fabric, the details, always the details, zippers, buttons, the lining, cuffs and collars, and on and on and on.
Hours of fun my mother had, talking about Barbie and the latest trends, specifying again how much she knew what she was taking about since she was, herself, a fashion designer. Therefore, someone who deeply understood Barbie, and could appreciate the doll’s good taste in evening, casual or sports wear.
Putting a price on the doll’s extensive lingerie, my mother would insinuate that, yes, I was an expensive daughter to have, but the educational aspect of the investment was well worth it. It would teach me what nice things were supposed to look like. How to coordinate them with gusto. It would prepare me for life as a Barbie-woman.
Unfortunately, Barbie got an awful haircut. The scissors one day just slipped from my hands and the blades went right through the doll. Her stupid nylon hair fell to the ground. The rubber-like texture of her face ended up with scars that weren’t going to heal anytime soon. Then I washed the whites with the colors. Barbie’s red velvet coat made everything else pink. And a few drops of genuine bleach made sure the garments wouldn’t survive another day.
Accessory-wise, absent-mindedly I also misplaced at least one item of whatever came in a pair. Barbie was an unfair bitch. She simply had to go.
Now, for you, little one, it all seems to be different. I guess Barbie in the last 50 years has wizened up. And it’s true, she’s into cinema now.
That’s how, by the way, you know she speaks English. The DVDs. You don’t speak English to anyone else but her.
I do realize you live in a world full of Barbies. I see them crossing the street, laughing at cars breaking not to hit them, cute dresses flapping in the breeze, Hello Kitty stuff hanging from their fushia cellphones, glittering bows holding their ponytails. Crowds of Barbies.
And you know what? I don’t mind.
We burned our bras decades ago for equal salary, for respect, to be considered for our potential, not our looks. And now, Barbies have taken over. It’s OK.
Lately, I’ve been looking at Ken, Barbie’s boyfriend. He’s everywhere. Shallow. Much too fashionable for his own good. The color of his shoes always matching that of his T-shirt. A PSP turned on, thumbs all out, him too zigzagging blindly into the traffic. Seems roles are equal now.
Your laolao is a teacher, dear.
I teach Barbies and Kens all day. And they seem to like me.
Kisses, Laolao
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