Barbie Turns 50.

My father recently sent me a newspaper clipping celebrating the 50th anniversary of the Barbie doll. It brought back some memories.

My first Barbie doll was a gift from my father’s aunt, Mae. I was going to spend a school break at Aunt Mae’s. She lived in the city, where, unlike my small town, they had toy stores. I had decided I would get her to buy me a Barbie. I had been saving my allowance and planned to contribute it toward the purchase.

In my father’s desk drawer, he always kept a little box labelled “My Two Cents.” It contained two pennies. At the age of six, I didn’t fully understand the meaning of this, but Dad always got a chuckle out of it.

So, when the time came, instead of packing my savings, I packed two pennies. My aunt did not get my joke and was not amused. But she took me to the toy store anyway. She refused to buy me Barbie, though, insisting instead on Barbie’s cousin, Midge. She was more “wholesome,” my aunt explained.

I’m not sure why I even wanted the doll. I was really not a “doll” person. I can only think I must have felt left out when my cousins played with their Barbies--of course they had “real” ones, and Kens, too. There was a decided difference between “baby” dolls and adult dolls, though.

With adult dolls, one could make up stories and dress them in the latest fashions. We would make them zoom around in hot cars and do fun things. They could go on vacations, or to the beach, or just lie around the pool. The possibilities were endless.

With two brothers still in diapers, I found baby dolls much too close to real life. The only story lines available were “mommy” ones--and they came with a lot of work! I have since come to see baby dolls as a societal ruse to train little girls to be mothers. I could maybe forgive this if they were also used to teach little boys to be fathers. But I digress.

The small town I lived in was a rather conservative town, with a decidedly religious population. When I returned from the city with my “Barbie,” folks were wary. Might this be some evil influence in disguise? And none of my friends had one (which should have made me the object of envy, right? But, no . . . . ). And so, Midge, and later, my favorite, Skipper, only got to live in my little dream world, or when we went to the city.

This all changed when one of the teachers at my school created a series of instructional skits. One was designed to show the proper way to brush one’s teeth. It involved a huge set of choppers and an equally large toothbrush. For some reason--maybe to play the germs and bacteria?--they decided small dolls would be the perfect thing. But the only dolls anyone had were baby dolls. And then someone remembered my Barbies. The teacher called my mother, and Midge and Skipper finally got their moment in the spotlight. The ice was broken. My Barbies were no longer contraband.

In the end, my Aunt Mae gave me quite the gift. Now, forty-five years later, Midge dolls are rather rare--and that makes them worth a fairly pretty penny. Not a bad purchase--for my two cents!

The art of procrastination

For at least a week now, I have managed to put off vacuuming the kitchen floor. I’ve used legitimate excuses--appointments, writing deadlines, the piles of sorted laundry that cover it--and just plain flimsy ones--don’t want to disturb the sleeping cat, can’t put down the crossword puzzle.

I have even scrubbed the showers, sinks, and toilets to get out of doing that floor!

And yet, this morning, faced with writing this column, I vacuumed the kitchen floor--despite the piles of laundry, despite the sleeping cat, despite the crossword puzzle (in truth, there’s a fair stack of them). I’m not sure what it says about me, or about any of us, but clearly, when given choices, we have certain preferences that defy even our own logic.

To an avowed efficiency maven, like myself, it would have made more sense to do the laundry first, and I have a separate list of excuses for procrastinating on that. (I don’t like leaving wet laundry n the machine, and don’t want to dry it until I have time to fold it, and I won’t have time to fold it until I get this column off to the editor . . . .)

In terms of real life priorities, with no emergencies on the front--no illness, no flood, no fire--work, hence this column, should be pretty high on the list. So why am I stalling? Could it be a lack of inspiration? Perhaps. I didn’t really wake up with something I just had to get off my chest.

But inspiration is such a fickle thing. It comes and goes on its own whim. If I were to always await inspiration, I would write less often, and in different genres, more for myself, less for publication--not conducive to making a living.

Maybe I was inspired to vacuum the floor! No, that wasn’t it. While I do find occasionally find myself bitten by the cleaning bug--that isn’t so much inspiration as it is nesting impulse, or repulsion to mess, or a way to work out frustration.

I suppose I could be rebelling--against obligation, against the authority that demands I produce something, even when I’m not totally inspired.

Maybe I’m peeved at inspiration itself for abandoning me, leaving me to my own devices.

It’s ironic to me though that procrastination in one area breaks the procrastination in another. I suppose the best I can do is try to harvest that energy--and come up with a list of truly loathsome chores to help me buckle down to the ones I’m putting off while writing this column.