Barbie…Interrupted

An apple-scented breeze provided a second’s relief from the humidity enveloping the pond. Barbara’s waist-length hair hung heavy and damp, she wished she’d had time to braid it, but Ken’s recent cell call had been insistent. He’d be waiting in the orchard, with news too good to spill over the phone. Or so he’d claimed. Her heart swelled, pounding in her throat. Had he heard from her editor?

She skirted a downed limb and stifled a half-giddy squeal. Being married to your own literary agent had its bonuses. Be still my heart, she cautioned herself, it might not be writing related. She’d reached the orchard, jeans darkened to the knees from morning-wet pasture grasses. Pausing to catch her breath, she studied the crooked trees for a glimpse of him.

My real-life best friend lives five miles down the country road, and she happens to be a writer. We’ve spent many mornings and afternoons together, plotting, critiquing, encouraging one another. We’ve driven to conferences together. We’ve homeschooled together, been pregnant together, cried together, prayed together. Most recently, we laughed together.

Two of our daughters are near the same age, and during our last visit, my friend’s ten year old brought out a box of Barbie gear that hadn’t seen daylight in several years. A delighted flurry of fashion, furniture and dolls soon filled the cozy living room, accompanied by shrieks of excitement. Across the happy rumblings, I smiled at my friend. She sat near the end of her paisley green couch, patiently accessorizing a Barbie. When she caught me smirking at her, she held the doll in the air and tried not to giggle.

“Looks just like Laurie, don’t you think?”

I raised my eyebrows, knowing she referred to my fictional heroine whose auburn curls did indeed resemble those of the mannequin in question.

When she grabbed a Ken doll out of the box with black hair like my hero’s, I laughed in protest. No way would my character be caught dead in a dew rag and black leather!

But the laughing session grew into one of those tear-wiping fests we women indulge ourselves in as often as possible and not nearly enough. We both decided writing books is akin to playing with Barbies. Think about it.

Don’t you remember getting lost in pretend as an 8-10 year old, when orchestrating the lives of your Barbies was a most amusing way to waste an hour? Or two, or three?

The wild tales we would spin, where imagination was key to transforming a cupboard into a penthouse suite—talk about rags to riches. And relationships changed as often as soap opera romances. Killing a main character off wasn’t a big deal; we could always resurrect him later, as someone different. Nowadays, you can even buy dolls with magnetic “wombs” and maternity dresses.

And here I’d been guilty of thinking that such play was unhealthy, from the whole body image self-esteem perspective. I still recommend buying Target’s Only Hearts Club dolls, simply because they’re wholesome and adorable little things, the perfect alternative for moms who shy away from buying Barbies.

Okay, now for the rest of the story…

Barbara’s eyes widened. What had Ken done now? Sure, she’d always wanted an outdoor kitchen, but to move their dream kitchen outside? And so far from their eight room mansion? What was he thinking? She hurried toward the bright pink and white kitchenette, felled apples squishing beneath her pointed sneakers.

Ken was on his knees, blowing up their living room furniture.

“What are you, crazy?” She leaned over and thumped his shoulder. Besides moving half their belongings outside, he shouldn’t be kneeling. His knees didn’t unbend like they used to.

Ken plugged the navy chair’s air hole and stood slowly. She noticed he hadn’t changed out of his one-piece power suit. Thank goodness she wouldn’t be responsible for getting the grass stains out.

“Well?”

The sparkle in his eyes warned her. The last time she’d seen that twinkle he’d volunteered them for Mattel’s new line: Clone Barbie. Some days she still had identity crises. And wondered if Ken…was really Ken.

“You know how just last night you were wishing for a camping experience but with all the comforts of home? You know, for your book…so what’s her name sounds authentic?” He pressed his lips into a satisfied grin. “So I had this idea…”

Oh no. Mr. Visionary again. Barbara braced herself.

“It’s a new reality show, Barb.” He spread his hands, a beatific expression lighting his features. “Green Acres outdoor style. All the comforts of home without a home…”

She shook her head. “Dahling, you know I’m not a country girl. Not really.”

“But you should write what you know, right?” He winked. “What better way to experience the great outdoors? Sleeping under the stars—”

“Getting drenched in rainstorms. Eaten alive by insects—”

“But, here’s the silver lining sweetheart—” he wiggled his eyebrows, always the drama king. “You’ll be Green Acres Barbie, the star of the show. Eva Gabor and her ensemble will have nothing on you…”

Barbara caught her breath, realizing two things at once. “That show taught me how to make homemade apple jelly—” Buy jam from store, peel off labels. “—Oh, Ken, will I get the fancy French wardrobe?”

“Anything you want, babe.” Ken gestured to the mini-fridge and bent to open it. A brown plastic turkey fell out. “Listen, let’s eat out tonight. I heard your twin sis opened up a Pizza Hut just down the road…”

Twin sis?