Happy Birthday Barbie!

Posted on March 9, 2015 by Christine Vanderberg

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Today is Barbie’s birthday. She was born on March 9, 1959. That year, I asked for a Barbie doll. When I didn’t get one, I asked again for Christmas. And so it went, with each birthday and holiday, I asked for a Barbie doll, until I resolved that I would never get one of my own.

One of my friends had a Ken doll. Nobody wanted Ken, so he was mine by default. Ken did nothing but sit on the sidelines watching Barbie change her outfits – over and over again. Sometimes, Barbie would ask, “How do you like my outfit, Ken?”

That was my cue and my big chance to interact with Barbie. I would make Ken hop up and down, feigning excitement saying, “Oh Barbie! You look so beautiful!” Then Barbie would dash off to change into something else. That was it for their interaction. Ken and Barbie never went anywhere or did anything together, and other than those words of adoration, Ken never spoke to Barbie. Without a Barbie doll of my own, these play dates were pretty boring.Featured image

One day, when I was nine years old, my mother asked me to fold the clean clothes in the laundry basket and put them away in everyone’s dresser drawers. While I was putting my father’s undershirts away, I caught sight of the corner of a magazine peeking out from under his socks. I was stunned, as I sat there on the edge of the bed, flipping through Playboy magazine, gasping from time to time.

Something clicked in my subconscious that day, and the next time my friend invited me over to play with her Barbie and Ken, I came up with some activities that both dolls could enjoy together.

One day when our laughter was a little too boisterous, my friend’s mother came in to see what we were up to. She stood there, her mouth agape, as my friend and I tried to untangle naked Barbie and naked Ken. I was never invited over there again.

I was probably too old to be playing Barbie anyway, at that point. But I have to wonder, on this auspicious occasion of Barbie’s 56th birthday: What if I had been given a Barbie doll for my seventh birthday?

I won’t get too deep here into the psychological effects of a young impressionable child role-playing with a self-absorbed, egotistical, anatomically exaggerated narcissist like Barbie.

Suffice it to say that my mother was more comfortable handing me a knife at that young age, to help her cut apples for a cake, than she was handing me a Barbie doll to play with. I spent a lot of time in the kitchen with my mother and my grandmother learning the art of cooking with real food, while my little friends were pretending with Barbie’s toy kitchen.

Today, I sill love cooking and would prefer being in the kitchen, any day, to the torment of shopping for an outfit for that special occasion. It’s true my fashion sense is severely lacking, and I could use a little guidance. (Can I blame this on not owning a Barbie fashion doll?)

My idea of a nice outfit for the holidays is a colorful apron worn over a black t-shirt with black stretch pants and a comfy pair of crocs. Let’s face it, who really cares what the cook is wearing if the meal is a winner?

I should have paid more attention, when I had the chance, as my friends mixed and matched Barbie’s wardrobe ensembles. Maybe it’s not too late. I’ll call my granddaughter one day to see if we can set up a Barbie play date – without Ken.

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“Why, Barbie? Did I do something wrong?”

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Shopping In Coach

Posted on March 2, 2015 by Christine Vanderberg

Unlike most women, I hate to shop. But if I should find myself in a department store, I inevitably get lured into the pocketbook department. Pocketbooks are my kryptonite. The smell of leather fills my head and some mysterious force takes control of my body. I feel weak and can’t resist the pull between the racks and tables full of pouches, duffels, backpacks, clutches, wristlets, wallets, satchels, carryalls, shoulder bags and totes.

Once I’m there, I tell myself, “I’m just looking,” which is shopping code for I have no intention of actually buying a pocketbook. But soon I find myself with several bags draped over each shoulder, and others in my hands, as I strike poses in the mirror.

If my mother is with me, she can snap me out of this hypnotic state by simply asking, “Do you need a new pocketbook? The one you have looks fine.” With one raised eyebrow she can bring me safely back to earth.

Shopping with my mother over the years has saved me a lot of money. She is a minimalist and a pragmatist. She is in my head even when she isn’t physically there, asking me: Do you really need that? Don’t you already have one of those? I’m the person who stands on line with an arm full of clothing and when I get to the checkout I tell the cashier, “I’m only taking this one item. I’ve decided I don’t need all this other stuff.”

One day, I wandered into the Coach handbag section in Macy’s where prices ranged from $175 for the cheapest little wristlet to $1,250 for a bag that was chained to a display pole. The chain should have been my first warning to leave the area immediately, but I was curious about the $1,250 bag.

As I unzipped the Coach bag and poked through the various compartments, a saleswoman asked, “May I help you?” That should have been my second warning. No saleswoman ever asks you that question these days unless she suspects you of shoplifting or mishandling the expensive goods.

“Just looking,” I answered, and left the $1,250 bag dangling from its chain. Well, you know the old sticker shock syndrome. After inspecting a $1,250 handbag, anything under $300 seemed like a real bargain. Before I could say kryptonite, I found myself standing on line at the register, clutching a $280 Coach shoulder bag to my chest.

My heart was pumping furiously and my palms were sweaty – a sure sign, and my third and final warning: Drop the bag and walk away! But my brain wasn’t sending the signals to my feet.

Two women on line ahead of me were chatting and laughing together as their purchase was tallied. When the saleswoman said, “that will be $706.06,” I swallowed hard, but the two gals in front of me continued laughing as one nonchalantly signed the credit card receipt without even looking at it. So that’s how it’s done, I thought. When you spend that much money on a pocketbook you’re supposed to laugh about it, not have an anxiety attack.

Where was my mother when I needed her? Why wasn’t she here to lift her eyebrow and bring me back to earth? As if on cue, I heard her voice in my head…

Do you need this pocketbook?  

No.

Don’t you already have a pocketbook?  

Yes.

Are you crazy spending that much money on a pocketbook?

YES!

I was light-headed as I walked to the car on shaky legs. When I got home, I took the pocketbook out of the shopping bag, ran my hands over the smooth leather and cooed. It felt as soft as a baby’s behind. And in that moment, I was sure I would be returning it the next day.

A $280 pocketbook was not practical. It was too nice for everyday use. I worried about it being snatched off my shoulder in the subway or on the streets. Could I negotiate with a would-be mugger? Take my wallet, but leave the pocketbook!

 It occurred to me that I had become my mother – a minimalist and a pragmatist. The most I had ever paid for a pocketbook was $75, and I justified the purchase by using that purse for many years – until the straps finally fell off. I thought about all the necessary things I could buy with $280 – groceries for a week, gasoline for a month. I could pay my electric bill with $280 in the bank.

When I recounted this Coach bag story to my mother, I knew she would be proud that her sensible daughter had paid attention all those years when she was giving me life’s lessons in frugality and common sense. Instead, she said, “Fool! You should have kept it. You work hard for your money; you should spend some on yourself.”

I asked her to repeat it a few times, to be sure I heard her right, and because that was the message I wanted to hear in my head the next time I go shopping by myself.

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Do You Think I’m Fat?

Posted on February 23, 2015 by Christine Vanderberg

The day of reckoning is coming. No, I did not have a vision from God; I’m talking about spring. Soon, I’ll have to take off these bulky sweaters and walk out of the house with no coat on my back. Then there will be nothing to cover those extra ten pounds I put on this winter. I can’t even think about the first day of summer. That will be a dark day for me.

I will finally have to face up to the truth – that my plan was flawed from the start. I should have asked someone else to hide the Costco sized bag of M&M peanuts. What good is hiding the candy when you’re the only one who knows where it is?

At one point this winter, there were M&M Peanuts within reach at all times. There was a jar of M&M Peanuts on the shelf in my home office, one in the kitchen pantry and another in a secret drawer in the TV room. I call them my “power pellets,” because they have the same effect on me that spinach has on Popeye.

They give me energy to run up flights of stairs and carry multiple bags of groceries in one arm. A bowl of M&M Peanuts on my desk can keep me working through the night. And with a fistful of M&M Peanuts in my apron pocket, I can cook dinner, fold laundry and bake cookies at the same time.

I carry a small plastic bag of M&M Peanuts in my purse – my “emergency food.” In the car’s console, buried under the maps, is another bag of “emergency food backup M&Ms.” Buried in the seam of my coat pocket, I often find a few stray M&M Peanuts covered with lint – little surprises to brighten my day– like finding hidden treasure.

I discovered my favorite movie snack when, by accident, I dropped an M&M peanut into a bowl of salty popcorn. Eureka!

Then there is “the slow melt,” an inimitable teatime treat that I created to pass the time during a February snowstorm. It is a blend of meditation and lovemaking. You start by placing one M&M Peanut in your mouth. As you sip your tea, concentrate on rolling the M&M Peanut gently around your tongue to slowly dissolve the hard outside shell without cracking it into little pieces. Close your eyes (you can meditate at this point) as your tongue penetrates to the next layer. Taste the smooth milk chocolate melting, filling your mouth, as endorphins are released in your brain and sensual pleasure sensors are awakened. Finally, the naked peanut is revealed and it is a wonder to behold!

Besides protein, the naked peanut contains niacin, magnesium, phosphorus, manganese and dietary fiber. Why, with all those dietary benefits, you would be remiss not to eat M&M Peanuts.

Sadly, my love affair with M&M Peanuts is now over. Today, I made a clean break and vowed to avoid the grocery store’s candy aisle altogether. I threw the empty bag away last night and whispered sadly, regrettably – It’s not you; it’s me. I just can’t control myself when I’m around you. We’ll have to make a clean break. I’m sorry.

This morning, after I weighed myself, I realized the damage was worse than I had anticipated. Feeling ashamed for my gluttonous consumption of M&M Peanuts all winter, I pulled out my i-phone and asked Siri, “Do you think I’m fat?”

To my sheer delight, he answered, To me, My Queen, you are perfect!

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Defending February

Posted on February 16, 2015 by Christine Vanderberg

No Thank You! We don’t want any more visitors, well-wishers or distant relations!                                     Bilbo Baggins, The Fellowship of The Ring

All I hear these days is a lot of grumbling about the grey cold days and the snows of February. Take heart; if you’re reading this post, you’ve already made it halfway through the month. Though most of you will be happy about that, I, for one, will miss the passing of February.

Sure, February has a lot of miserable weather days, but that’s what I like about it. I like being told by my town supervisor: Stay off the roads. Do not leave your homes unless it is an emergency. He doesn’t have to tell me twice. In fact, I’ll even stay in my pajamas all day and won’t put a stitch of makeup on either. Because I know no one will ring my doorbell in the middle of a snowstorm.

You can’t say that for other months in the year. The balmy spring weather hatches more than insects. Trolling the streets of my neighborhood during the spring, summer and fall months are  politicians campaigning for my vote, environmental groups asking for donations and fundraising kids selling countless overpriced items from wrapping paper to candy.

Worst of all are those religious proselytizers trying to convert me. They always pick the most bucolic day in June, when they know your front door will be wide open. You can’t even hide behind the door and pretend no one is home because they are peering at you through the screen.

Hello, how are you today? Can we talk about sin? Do you know where you are going after this life?

Why can’t they leave me alone in June? Come back when the snow is piled up against the door and I haven’t been outdoors for a week. I’ll make hot chocolate and we can talk all day about doomsday and the end of the world. But, to my relief, they never show up in February.

And who doesn’t have relatives who bolted out of New York to retire in sunny Florida? They always seem to call in the middle of February to offer their sympathetic ear.

Did you really get another ten inches of snow? I was down at the pool, listening to the radio when I heard you’re expecting another Nor’easter. That’s too bad. Gotta go! We’re having a bar-be-que at the clubhouse tonight.

At least they won’t be showing up for another five or six months. You can have February all to yourself.

Then there are the European relatives who show up every few years with in-laws and generations in tow from third cousins removed. They stay for the entire month of August because their country shuts down for the summer. They expect you to take off from work to tour around New York City and picnic in the Hamptons.

They want to play all day and party all night and expect you to pick up the tab. After all, aren’t we all rich Americans?

But, fear not, they will never show up on your snowy stoop in February when you might welcome those extra hands to help you shovel the cars out of the driveway.

In February, I don’t even make restaurant or movie dates with friends because most of the time they will have to be canceled due to inclement weather. Good; I save money that way.

With the frenetic holidays over, I welcome a cold, snowy, housebound February and don’t feel pressured to be productive. It’s too early to start Spring-cleaning, can’t wash the windows or clean out the porch yet. I can relax and do what I want – which might be nothing more than staring out the window at the redheaded woodpecker poking holes in the tree trunk – until I fade off into a blissful nap.

With no lawn mowers or noisy leaf blowers buzzing around the properties, no blown out boat engines being tuned up, no neighbors blasting music from June’s graduation parties, February in suburbia is the most peaceful month of the year. Add to that the fact that there are no unwanted “visitors, well-wishers or distant relations” knocking at the door and I would say that February is one of my favorite months.

That’s my defense and I’m sticking to it.

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