You know that toy you always wanted but never got? Mine is the Barbie Dream House. I wanted it desperately. It caught my eye when I was about six years old. By the time I was seven I had my heart set on it. The Barbie Dream House remained the “It Toy” for me until I was nine, maybe ten. Every year, when the Sears Christmas catalogue arrived in the mail, I frantically flipped to the Barbie section to gaze at the elusive Dream House. I consistently included it at the top of my Christmas list year after disappointing year – proof that hope truly does spring eternal.
Truth be told, I’d still jump at the chance to play with a Barbie Dream House. My unrequited Dream House desire brings to mind an episode of Seinfeld – the one where Jerry is dating the woman who has an amazing old toy collection that she refuses to let him touch. Jerry and George drug her to sleep – nothing illegal, just wine and turkey – so they can play with the toys. Elaine even joins in for some retro fun with the Easy-Bake-Oven. I think of the Dream House every time I see that episode and can’t help but admire Jerry’s devious scheme to play with the toys of his childhood dreams. Would I drug someone if it meant I could play with Barbie’s Dream House? Yes. Yes, I would.
Here is the object of my toy-lust, circa late 1970s – early 1980s. This two-story A-frame version of Barbie’s home had skylights and flower boxes. There were, as the catalogue description attests, “six picture-perfect rooms filled with stylish furniture.” Stylish furniture, indeed – check out how fabulous Barbie looks reclining on that totally groovy sofa, waving as if to perkily say “Hi everyone! My life actually is just as perfect as my super-awesome Dream House makes it look!”
This was not Barbie’s first house. According to my on-line research, Barbie’s earliest home was introduced in 1960. It was a thoroughly modern studio apartment that was made of cardboard and folded up in between play sessions. The apartment featured a twin bed, a couch and a coffee table, as well as a stereo, a makeup table and a closet. By 1974, the year I turned two, Barbie had moved up into a two-story dwelling, with a total of six rooms and an elevator so Barbie could move from one floor to the other with ease. By today's standards, the early ‘70s version of the Barbie Dream House was pretty basic. The "rooms" consisted of colored backdrops to create the different themes – kitchen, bathroom, living room and bedroom.
It looks like the Dream House has come a long way since it occupied my childhood dreams. Barbie’s house for the new millennium has all the modern amenities one could hope for. The three-story, pink plastic residence comes equipped with a state-of-the-art kitchen, and a luxurious bed and bath suite with a canopy bed, a soaking tub and a toilet that “flushes.” Barbie’s home also features a wall-mounted flat screen TV, a washing machine and dryer (no more trips to the laundry-mat for Barbie), a spiral staircase, an elevator, an actual ringing doorbell and an outdoor whirlpool. A fireplace in the living room and a working lamp create a cozy interior.
Apparently home prices in Barbie’s world have followed actual trends, because this modern Dream House runs about $488. I don’t even want to know what that is per square inch. I KNEW I should have bought into the Barbie real estate market back in the early ’80s when the price was a mere $100 or so.
Fortunately (or unfortunately depending on how you look at it), my friend Leslie Hall had the Barbie Dream House. (Apparently her parents had better real estate instincts than mine.) Having a friend with a Dream House was fortunate because I did get to play with it occasionally, but unfortunate in that it created a great deal of jealousy, self-pity and subsequent “it’s not fair” whining, which I’m sure my mom greatly appreciated. Not only did Leslie have the Dream House, she also had the Town House – the three story one with the columns and the cool little elevator on the side. How, in a fair and just world, could Leslie Hall’s Barbie have two luxurious homes – both a suburban estate and an urban dwelling – while my Barbie had none?
My Barbie was forced to live in a ramshackle ghetto house made from empty cardboard boxes, Barbie carrying cases and blocks. My Barbie’s Ken was not a sugar daddy like Leslie’s Ken. He did not provide Dream Houses or Town Houses. My Ken was a sugar-free daddy, and that was OK, because my Barbie didn’t really like Ken all that much anyway. She always suspected she could do better and frankly, got tired of his constant whining about never getting to drive the Corvette. She kept him around, mostly to drive her spiffy ‘70s motor home so she could relax and try on clothes en route to their exotic destinations.
Yes, my Barbie clearly had to take her real estate dreams into her own hands, and she didn’t mind doing that. Unfortunately, she kept smacking her perfectly coiffed blond head into the proverbial glass ceiling and never did get a Dream House of her own. (Now that I’m an adult, this situation seems strikingly familiar.) In my Barbie’s case, the glass ceiling involved the reality of having her world exist within a small mobile home that had no room for a Dream House. (At least that’s what my parents said – I had plenty of great ideas, but I guess the kitchen table wasn’t an acceptable location in my mom’s mind. And you know what they say about real estate . . . location, location, location.)
Ah, consumerism - nothing like getting a child emotionally committed to completely unattainable real estate goals before their age reaches double digits. I belong to the generation of girls who grew up in the decadent and “go girl” 1970s and ‘80s. We were told we could do and be and have anything. But just like my Barbie, most of us have run into glass ceilings of one kind or another.
There has been much rumination over the years, since Barbie’s creation in 1959, about whether her impossibly perfect physical characteristics are a bad influence on young girls. We’ve all heard about how Barbie’s proportions defy the laws of physics – it would be impossible for her to stand up with that tiny waist, those huge boobs and her itty-bitty feet. Scholars and pop culture junkies alike have posited that Barbie has single-plastic-handedly damaged the self-esteem of generations of young women – causing them to spend their lives striving to achieve a level of physical perfection that is, in reality, unattainable.
Honestly, I never cared that much about looking like Barbie. Barbie’s far more insidious influence on me had to do with her luxurious belongings. I’ve spent my life yearning for her clothes, her extensive shoe collection, her Corvette and yes, that fantastic Dream House. I’m still striving for the Dream House, and not the plastic Barbie one. I’ve set my sights ever-higher, as I tend to do. Now I want a real Dream House. And why shouldn’t I have one? I was always told I could, if I just worked hard. So far that strategy isn’t as effective as I thought it would be. This Dream House acquisition business is far more difficult than other people’s Barbies made it look. My “go-girl” generation is up against a number of stumbling blocks – lingering gender equality issues, career/life balance quandaries and the recent blow of the recession. And let’s not forget the cruel little joke of being the first generation that doesn’t seem to “have it better” than our parents, even though we were always led to believe we would.
The Dream House I want these days doesn’t need to have a flat screen TV or an elevator or an outdoor whirlpool. I am firm, however, on the working lamp and flushing toilet. Really I just want my Dream House to have plumbing with slightly fewer issues, floors that were refinished during my mother’s lifetime, maybe a little extra room for a guest and two sinks in the bathroom, because I don’t like to share any more than Barbie does. A state-of-the-art kitchen isn’t necessary, although one that looks a bit better than a bad 70s experience would be good. I don’t need three floors or a spiral staircase, but I definitely require a walk-in closet for clothes and shoes. Lack of closet space is a deal-breaker.
I don’t know what happened to my Barbie. She and I were a good team – styling amazing outfits, testing cutting-edge hairstyles and cruising the remote-control Corvette. We finally gave up on the Dream House somewhere around 1982. Barbie hung in there with her makeshift cardboard and building block house, and didn’t complain too much – after all, she did have the glamorous clothes, a to-die-for shoe collection and a fast sports car. Life was pretty good. Eventually, she took up residence in the toy box. After living there for a while, she decided to downsize and simplify. She off-loaded many of her possessions and moved to a small apartment on the upper shelves of a storage closet. That was a nice change of pace, but she ultimately decided the simple life wasn’t for her. She headed off for life-in-the-fast-lane adventures with a new little girl, about the same time I made my way to college. I like to think my Barbie landed somewhere with a Dream House. If not, I certainly hope she hasn’t given up on it. I know I haven’t.
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