Marissa Flaxbart

Barbie was her maiden name. (#thedollevolves repost edition)

I originally wrote the following post way back in 2009, on the occasion of Barbie's 50th anniversary. I'm reposting it now in...you know, I'm gong go ahead and call it celebration of the new, more realistic, way more beautiful line up of dolls Barbie just announced. My first thought on seeing photos of these new dolls was "these aren't real, are they?" And, upon realizing, to my delight, that they WERE real, my next thought was that my mom would have been flabbergasted, in the best way, to see this day. And I'm not join to hide it: I really, really want to collect them all.

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Barbie, that plastic minx, is 50, and I'm celebrating with my Official Barbie Story. It is a story of profound reverse-psychology, the only blotch on the otherwise stainless parenting record of Mr. and Mrs. Don R. Flaxbart.

My dear mother, God rest her feminist soul, hated, HATED Barbie and her stupid proposterous physique, her cheerleader-preppiness. So, as a child, I was given a rule: if I wanted a Barbie, I would have to buy it myself.  My parents both had brothers and sisters, so neither was quite prepared for their only-child daughter's doll obsession; I had one in the worst way. I was a six-year-old mother to seven cotton children, I created tiny universes with my playmobil people, and Barbie...Well, she was just so tantalizingly cheap! For a week or two of saved-up allowance, I could own a doll that was totally my own. And I would treasure it.

And so, over the course of about ten years, I built up a portfolio of Barbie dolls, complete with brushed hair and attached heads (ripping the heads off of dolls or giving them awful haircuts was apparently a common practice among my peers). As a young child, there was nothing else that I was required to buy for myself if I wanted it, making my Barbies (and some other over-the-top dolls I saved up for) the only possessions that were truly mine. So this was no mere collection; this was a soap-opera of interconnected families, the Jensens, the Ratners, the fledgling Williams family waiting for a father to join them from "out of town."

Yes, that's right. My Barbies had storyline.

It all started with a matriarch. Barbie was her name, uncreatively, and she was a rock 'n' roll Barbie by birth. I have no idea where she came from, but I couldn't have been over 4 when I got her, and to this day, she remains in my posession.  She had special hip-shaking action, which allowed/forced her to move her arms back and forth, karate-chop style, when you twisted her torso.

By the time I was 10, this twisting created a creaking noise that I jokingly referred to as "arthritis" when introducing her to others, human and doll alike. At that point, I'd already formed the basis of an extended family tree that I would have a hard time abandoning if I tried playing with my dolls today. There were the Jensens, Barbie and Ken's family, a popular but slightly trashy clan with two blonde daughters and a hunky jock son, Kevin. There were the Walshes, named for daughter Brenda, a 90210-Mattel crossover. This was my star family, with the beautiful Rosa at the helm; my favorite doll, Courtney, had shiny brown hair like her sisters, and was very serious with boyfriend Kevin Jensen. If you're surprised how well I remember it all, so am I; I suppose it's a testament to how much time I spent creating and living in this tiny world.

I do so wish that I had photos of Loren Ratner (a stylish aerobic instructor) or the look-alike eldest Walsh sisters (two identical 90210 dolls modeled after Shannen Dougherty, one of whom was missing a leg on account of my cocker spaniel puppy). I could present to you my formal list of names and connections, or my huge collection of matchless tiny plastic shoes. You would marvel at the ingenuity of my bedroom backdrops made from cardstock and pictures from bedding catalogs. Perhaps you would truly comprehend the breadth of my polyvinyl planet.

I don't have those things with me at the moment. 4 years ago, my father sold the house I grew up in, and I had to search through all of my belongings, deciding what to keep and what to throw away. It was pretty ugly.

Don't panic. My carefully manicured collection definitely made the cut, much to the confusion of the rest of my family. For now, they live in a giant RubberMaid container in a cousin's garage.  There they sit - Barbie, Ken, Skipper, Kevin, Courtney, Stacey, Janet, Shannen, Brenda, Brandon, Luke -the list goes on- waiting for the day I can bestow their storyline on children of my own.

On second thought, maybe I'll keep them too myself. I wouldn't want their heads to get ripped off.

Kids' commercials are way weirder than regular commercials.

Unlike on normal TV, where commercials for cars and beer are (thank God this is over) political campaigns are essentially waiting-room muzak keeping you from your appointment with entertainment, kids' television programming pales in comparison to the often eye-opening and bizarre commercials. I don't watch a lot of Nickelodeon these days, but if I decide to watch a few minutes of SpongeBob, even his wacky antics can't amuse me like a commercial for toy hamsters on wheels wearing ninja costumes, or the fact that kids still want a doll whose diapers they can change. (You probably shouldn't click on that link. It's pretty creepy.)

Then there are the jingles. How does the song advertising Mermaid Barbie go again? Oh, that's right: "Barbie in a mermaid ta-a-a-ail!" (It's actually "Barbie in a Mermaid Tale," but I saw a doll wearing a mermaid's tail, so I feel strongly that it works both ways.) Sweet and to the point. And after only a couple of viewings, even I can sing along with the Pillow Pets jingle: "It's a pillow. It's a pet. It's a Pillow PET!" 

Granted, the poor parents of young children that have to see these commercials several times a day are probably dying for a nice, bone-dry Infiniti commercial with some classical music in the background, or a Michelob ad that maintains that rollerbladers only drink ultra-lite beer. But for now, I'm sticking with the kids when it's time for a word from our sponsors.

Watch at your own risk:

 

 

 

 

Mad Men Barbies. It makes so much sense.

Like most sentient television watchers, I adore Mad Men on AMC. Unlike most of them, I think I might actually like the show even if the scripts and plots weren't so great, because I am obsessed with mid-20th century advertising. It's really an extension of my love of popular culture in general; I think it's fascinating to see what people in other decades saw everytime they opened a magazine or newspaper, and even more fascinating how bizarre the ads seem in retrospect.

You know what else looks weird in retrospect? 1960s Barbie faces. People have been up in arms about how Barbie dolls look forever, but they never looked as alien as they did back in the early days. Realism was never the point – the dolls were meant to be dramatic and beautiful and plastic. It reminds me of something…could it be… the characters on Mad Men?! That's why I think it's so perfect that Mattel and AMC have teamed up to create a collectors' line of Mad Men Barbies. (Read more about my strange love of Barbies here.)

 The Barbies are gorgeous, with perfectly tailored clothing and (stroke of genius) 60s-era Barbie styling. There are four characters represented in the collection: Don Draper; Betty Draper; Roger Sterling; and "bombshell office manager Joan Holloway." Personally, I think it's a little odd that Mattel describes Joan as a bombshell, but leaves the ridiculous Barbie proportions as is rather than, you know, amping her up a bit. I'm not shocked, but just as January Jones and Christina Hendricks aren't going to swap clothes anytime soon, I don't really think the dolls should be able to, either. But that might be the bitterness talking.

The first commenter on AMC.com's post about the dolls mentioned that he wished Peggy was a part of the set. At first I was in total agreement, but after mulling it over, I think that Peggy's too sweet and honest for this plastic crowd. I know, I know, she's got her secrets too, but she's not Draper-league. Let's leave this collection as it is, with only the snakiest characters represented. Fake pretty dolls representing the fake pretty characters that sell pretty for a living? I love it.

Post Script: That Peggy-missing commenter has his own set of self-made Mad Men Barbies he photographed for Haute Doll magazine. You can check it out for yourself here. Greatness.

Simply Marshmallow Fluff

I got a KitchenAid Artisan stand mixer for Christmas from my World's Best Dad. He even got it in the Williams-Sonoma exclusive buttery yellow color I wanted. I cried when I opened it.

It's amazing how simple this one device makes the baking process. Mostly it's a time thing (also a little energy): I can start creaming the butter and then measure the sugar while the butter is creaming. I can gradually add the flour without stopping the mixing process and not get flour everywhere. It's just wonderful. (Note to home bakers: when using such a "set-it-and-forget-it" tool, it's important not to actually forget it. There is such a thing as too mixed, and it is bad news).

In packaging and advertising and such, simplicity also appeals to me. One recipe I'd been putting off since Christmas called for Marshmallow Fluff, which I don't really keep around the house. And since they don't sell it at Trader Joe's or Whole Foods (at least not the one near me) I was going to have to get some on a special trip to the "normal" grocery store. Ugh. Then, lo and behold, I spotted some at CVS last Friday. I think I might have purchased it even if I hadn't needed it, again because of the simplicity. It's not a fancy brand, it won't win any design awards, but it called to me: a white plastic (NOT glass! Yay!) container with a red lid and a blue label. Easy to get out the sticky stuff, nice to look at, reusable. Simple.

Sometimes simplicity can be bad. For example, I took this picture with the iSight on my computer because it would be simpler than using my phone or my normal camera. Oh well. You get the idea.

Surprising Cross-Promotions: Greeting Cards and Queen

Cross-promtions are everywhere, and sometimes they make sense. Even though the District 9 popcorn bags were kind of odd, the thought process behind the promotion was clear. But how to explain this prominent promotion in the greeting card aisle?

It just strikes me as a little strange. There are songs by all sorts of artist in these music-playing cards; why highlight Queen's involvement in this audio endeavor? For the card company, the benefit is clear (who wouldn't want to hear the cheerful chorus of "Under Pressure" while celebrating his or her birthday?), but what's in it for Queen? 

PLEASE. DON'T.

OMG, advertising execs, STOP IT with the extraneous periods! It's not even makng sense anymore! Most of the time, a verb and an implied subject is the bare minimum needed to create a one-word sentence. If you're trying to create emphasis, CAPS LOCK IS ENOUGH! And maybe an exclamation point. ;) When I see extraneous period like the ones shown here, I can't help but try and parse what those individual sentences mean. Best I can tell, Dr. Oz and his show are either Republicans that are airing a love tv show at this very instant, or they're having a curt phone conversation with you about whether or not you're interested in watching. Or both. I'll keep you posted. On more extraneous period sightings that is. I won't be watching the show.

Two Airports, Two Ads, Two Positions

Back from California, and I'm riding the sweet, sweet El Train, which I will be very fond of for the next few weeks as I recover from all the driving I did in LA.

I had a layover in Las Vegas. 3 hours. It was plenty of time to explore my terminal, which had, In addition to slot machines with no coin slots and advertisements directed at "Canadian Gamblers," one big sign suggesting that I spend some of my free time shooting guns at a nearby shooting gallery. There was an image of a white-toothed, young, blonde woman toting a semi-automatic rifle and grinning with Second Amendment pride, along with one of those human-shaped targets and a list of guns that were available for shooting. A long list. This whole collage struck me as patently bizarre. If I had any curiousity as to why I found it so strange, it was addressed the moment I sat down on this train and looked around. It's all about the culture.

Above my head at the moment is a banner ad - the kind that plaster every vehicle in the CTA's brigade. I've seen it before. It features pictures of little children, the theoretical victims of gun violence. Turn in a gun, it says, and you will be rewarded with a prepaid MasterCard. B.B. Guns are worth $10, and (regular, bullet) guns will get you $50. Assault weapons like the ones young women seem to enjoy shooting in Nevada? $100. 

I have an opinion on guns ("they are scary"), and I'm sure Vegas has gun haters, just as the Midwest has (many) gun lovers. But that's not the point of these musings. It's just so curious what a difference a couple thousand miles makes.

Snickers. It's a double entendre. In a non-sexual way.

I'm geeking out a little about the billboard I just saw near my house.

Generally speaking, I have mixed feelings about Snickers' contention that it is some sort of hunger-stopping mini-meal (as opposed to a candy bar, which I believe it to be), but you've got to love an ad campaign as simple as this one. There are currently 10 or 20 strange, nut-, caramel-, or hunger-related slogans ("Snacklish") are floating around Chicago on taxis or peering out from train station walls, but none of them compares to this one. God bless the super-nerd ad man who came up with this one, and God bless Mr. Mars and his many candy bars.

Hell Comes to Comcast Town

Is there anything sadder or more annoying than a company that tries too hard to be cool? No, except maybe when it misses the mark so entirely that it's palpable. Comcast, trying super hard not only to seem cool, but to shed its shroud of evil (impossible!) has released a new commercial and marketing campaign called "Comcast Town." The campaign might not be so bothersome if it weren't so woefully contrived. There's a tiny town map on the site complete with a quirky cast of animals in hats. Signs instruct us to "Dream Big." Right.  Dream Big. About your cable.

The most noticeable part of this campaign is, alas, the most skin-crawlingly awkward. It's the new Comcast Town commercial. To start, it seems to be about 10 minutes long, and contains a parade of "townspeople" singing a repetitive song about their cable dreams, in a creepy deadpan voice that, taken at face value, seems to imply that the singers could not care less about whatever the hell they're rhyming about. But it's not merely a silly song. It's very clearly meant to sound like a Kimya Dawson song. And a lame one at that. She's the voice behind the very popular Juno soundtrack that was a huge iTunes hit in 2007.  Point of fact: it is now 2009. So Comcast's really cloying, exceedingly long attempt to be ultra-hip is actually two years too late. 

Maybe I'm overreacting; you can decide for yourself.