Me Me Me

I read a rather bizarre story this weekend about a designer who makes jewelry from bits and pieces of Barbie dolls. Like, earrings formed from Barbie hands. Or necklaces that have Barbie eyes and lips worked into the design. I have been pondering this and don’t quite know what to make of it. 

I owned the original 1959 Barbie, with a ponytail, striped swimsuit and cat-eye glasses. Lord, I wish I had that doll now; I could probably take a nice vacation from the proceeds. Sadly, I have NONE of my Barbies, and believe me, in the 60s I had every possible permutation. Barbie and Ken, Midge and Allan, Skipper and Scooter. Bubble-headed Barbies. Kens with fuzzy and vinyl “hair.” The Barbie Dream House. The Barbie Mystery Date board game, in which the loser was stuck going to the prom with Poindexter. A bevy of shiny leatherette carrying cases for Barbie’s clothing.

Oh, the clothing! None of that velcro junk my daughter had during her circa-1990 Barbie-loving period. The original Barbie clothes had snaps and hooks and didn’t look cheap. Each outfit came with a brochure that showed all the other outfits, the better to form a wish list for future acquisitions.

These days, girls are done with Barbie by first grade. (Luckily, my adorable daughter missed the age of Bratz, the hooker dolls. Barbie looks like Eleanor Roosevelt compared to those.) But back in the day, we were still playing with Barbie at age 10. I swear, it’s true! An innocent time indeed: cookies after school, a little homework, Barbie fun, and soon it was time for The Beverly Hillbillies or Bewitched. No Gossip Girl, in which we’re supposed to believe that Chuck Bass will start running the family corporation at 18 — if he can control his taste for hos and cocaine long enough to assume his birthright. (Okay, I buy it, because Chuck is played by the divine Ed Westwick.)

Alas, it’s a different era in every way, and I’m relieved not to have a 2009-era 10-year-old whining for Juicy Couture rather than Limited Too. Fortunately, my adorable daughter WILL be able to haul out her (extensive) Barbie collection to share with her little one someday. Her dolls and clothes are carefully folded away, ready for Granny Kathy to participate in planning Barbie and Ken’s wedding with the next generation.

Six short months from now, I will no longer be the parent of a teenager. My baby girl became a teen during the era of Dawson’s Creek, a show that now seems as tame as Captain Kangaroo. I progressed from Dawson and Pacey to The O.C. before my kids left for college; a girlfriend and I now savor the absolutely hilarious (and super-naughty) Gossip Girl together. Holy moly, I’m glad I don’t have a seventh grader at home anymore watching the underage G.G. crew sip colorful cocktails and lose their virginity on a weekly basis. And their wardrobes! “Mommy, I want Serena’s purse.” Honey, so do I!

The point of this particular trip down TV memory lane is that I love teenage pop culture. I can’t wait to see High School Musical 3 on the big screen this weekend. Hi Zac Efron! And my darling husband, who would surely rather listen to NPR or classical music on the Long Island Expressway, never complains about two hours of top-40 on Z100. He even gets into the spirit by asking, randomly, “Is that Britney?” (Rap, on the other hand, makes him reach for the secret station-changing button on the steering wheel.)

Is my taste for the young stuff inappropriate now that I’m the mother of two young adults? When do I have switch to Lite-FM? Truthfully, I’m slowly weaning myself from childish things — I don’t know one Jonas Brother from the other, and I can’t abide The Hills. But I’m determined to stay in the pop culture loop, even though being middle-aged gives me permission to listen to delightful singers like Michael Buble and Robin Thicke without apologizing.