Serving Clovis, Portales and the Surrounding Communities
Serving Clovis, Portales and the Surrounding Communities
I’ve yet to see the new “Barbie” movie that has turned the nation pink this summer, with all manner of merchandise available in that unmistakable hue, from corn tortillas (excuse me?) to lawn furniture.
This Barbie-mania has brought back memories of my own less-than-traditional encounters with those iconic 11-inch-tall fashion dolls.
Mattel’s Barbie was introduced to the world in 1959, only a couple of years before I made my own appearance, so she’s been around my whole lifetime.
I have vague memories of getting my first Barbie (blonde bouffant hair and the black and white striped swimsuit) and her best friend, the brunette Midge, early in my childhood.
From the very beginning, they were faced with steep local competition.
I had brothers and my brothers had G.I. Joe dolls (although “doll” seems like the wrong word for Hasbro’s G.I. Joe). G.I. Joe was gifted in a way that Barbie wouldn’t be for almost three decades. He was fully articulated, with wrists, elbows, knees, and hips that could be repositioned.
To make matters worse, shortly after Barbie and G.I. Joe moved in, a whole new family of interlopers began arriving in our playroom neighborhood: the West family made by the Marx toy company.
The West family outshone them all. Parents Johnny and Jane, and their adorable teen off-spring, Josie and Jamie, were not only fully articulated, but they lived up to their last name: They were “western.”
Johnny was a rugged rancher and Jane was his hard-working wife, clad in molded turquoise denim from her shirt to her boots, and fully capable of riding any horse she chose from their plastic remuda.
The whole family boasted a variety of latex accessories ranging from fringed vests to bandanas—and skirts for Jane and Josie (which never looked over right when fastened over their molded plastic—and therefore not removable—jeans and boots).
But I digress.
Once the West family had fully settled into their cardboard western town, both of the G.I. Joes were able to borrow fringed vests and cowboy hats and join in the roundups, while Barbie and Midge, with their unbending legs, were relegated to bit parts.
So, alas, my most distinct memories of my Barbie and Midge were in their recurring roles as barmaids in the “saloon” under the old red rocking horse where the base made an excellent waist-high counter.
After a hard day of herding cattle and chasing off rustlers, the Wests and their pals, Yellow-Haired G.I. Joe and Black-Haired G.I. Joe, would belly up to the bar to slake their thirst and feast on hearty pub fare like thick steaks crafted from modeling clay.
Barbie and Midge, it turned out, were decent at refilling imaginary beer mugs and slinging hash, but that was about it.
All of this is to say that I’m pretty sure I understand why nobody reached out to me to serve as a consultant on the current hit flick.
Imagine how much fun it could have been if they had.
Betty Williamson’s invitation to the Dream House must have gotten lost in the mail. Reach her at:
