Here Comes Barbie
But also...Jennine? Read on for a throwback tale inspired by the film release. Plus, Dua Lipa, Ryan Gosling, and Mr. Bubble!
Growing up in the ’80s, the only Barbie accessory I remember having—and my mother may correct me on this—was the ice cream parlor. It may or may not have made actual ice cream, but it was, of course, pink and it played a pivotal part in Jennine and Steaven’s wedding in June of 1988.
Jennine and Steaven were Barbie and Ken, of course, but we never used those names. Each time I “played Barbie” with my little sister or my friend Dani, who lived around the corner beyond the smelly, squishy berry tree, the dolls received different names for their made-up lives in their made-up houses. On this frizzy-haired summer day, as I was imagining a love story between the blonde bombshell and her fella, it was Jennine and Steaven. (Do not ask me about the spelling, but I have physical proof this is what I went with.)
It was an outdoor affair, with nuptials held in the backyard of our suburban split-level on Long Island’s south shore from which we collected an array of items to build from and entertain ourselves. This yard of my youth always procured forms of recreation for us in the summertime. There was the giant weeping willow tree that had a tire hanging from it until Hurricane Gloria knocked it down; the mini log cabin that was covered in cicada shells, which made it nearly impossible to play in there without getting the heebie-jeebies. We had an oval-shaped, above-ground pool at one point, too, where we’d ask Mom to rate our handstands and count how long we could stay underwater. There was also the yellow paddle boat we’d hoist into the canal behind the house to catch crabs while ducking under our neighbors’ dock ramps at low tide. Oh, and the slip ’n’ slide was an essential element of my Double Dare-themed birthday party that few friends attended because many were at sleepaway camp, swimming in lakes, eating sloppy Joe’s, and sneaking from their bunks to meet boys.
There was only one boy for me in those early summers and his name was Ken, or Steaven as it were, and I was about to marry him off in a ceremony held on top of a table we otherwise used for eating Hebrew National hot dogs and canned Heinz beans. Unlike actual Barbie, who never committed, our Jennine was ready to put a ring on it and her sights were set on Steaven.
My sister and I dressed each member of the wedding party in the finest clothes we had. These were no ordinary outfits from Toys R Us. Rather, we were fortunate to have inherited my mother’s original Barbie dolls, complete with wardrobes that her nanny, Angie from Fargo, designed and hand-sewed. I’m talking satin and tulle and rayon dresses with darting and even a lace gown covered in pearls with a train that snapped on and off, not to mention a removable veil that we literally pinned onto Jennine’s head. Looking back, I am amazed my mother let us use these one-of-a-kind heirlooms. (She also let me cut up original concert T-Shirts—including Madonna’s Blond Ambition and Bruce Springsteen’s Born in the USA—so I’d say she deserves the award for Best Mother Who Likely Regrets Some Parental Decisions.)
We held a photoshoot in actual flower pots—including one in the shape of a swan—filled with red geraniums, where I spread Jennine’s dress over the dirt and leaned Steaven up against the skinny stems with fan-shaped leaves. We took turns photographing the immediate family and the wedding party, and I have a faux-leather flipbook from Rockville Camera & Video labeled “Our Wedding: Jennine & Steaven” full of printed photos to prove it. (Hence the tactile evidence of their uniquely spelled names.)
Following the glam session, we sat the guests in seats, which, come to think of it, were pink so maybe we also had the dining set, and formed an “aisle” from toilet paper. Once everyone was in place, my sister dropped the needle on the 45 of “Somewhere Out There,” the theme song from the animated movie An American Tail.
I walked Jennine and Steaven down the aisle and brought them to the provisional chuppah, holding them upright and side-by-side. Since we’re Jewish, we drew from our Hebrew School days and recited a few made-up words in Hebrew and a handful of “l’chaim’s” for the vows. The ceremony culminated with the breaking of the glass, as we Jews do, and a joyous “Mazel Tov!” ensued before I started humming Felix Mendelssohn’s classic wedding march and tossing dolls back down the aisle.
For the reception, we moved over to the top of my father’s bi-level wooden bar cart, which is where the ice cream parlor came in: It acted as the cocktail hour buffet around which guests mingled before participating in the horah and the lifting of the chairs. Jennine lost a shoe while up there because the damn things never stayed on those flointed feet, and Ken/Steaven clearly had one too many glasses of Manischewitz because his head popped off mid-Hava Nagilah. Rather than do the ’ole squeeze-and-push to get it back on for their first dance to “(I’ve Had) the Time of My Life” from Dirty Dancing, there’s a video of me holding it in place as the pair embraced. These were the days of VHS. There was no time for pauses and do-overs.
There was time, however, for imagination. For long, carefree hours of non-filtered fun using makeshift materials found around our house and yard to dream up a future for Jennine and Steaven. And, in turn, ourselves.
“Barbie has been the platonic ideal of what a young woman could and should be,” wrote the New York Times in a recent article plugging the hyped-up, over-marketed Barbie movie out this week.
Funnily enough, the film’s release date lands a mere month after Jennine and Steaven's 35th wedding anniversary. As a result, whenever I see Margot Robbie’s face plastered on the side of a bus station or Ryan Gosling’s mug on a bistro table here in Paris, I find myself recalling their big day. I pine for the simplicity of it, and also the senseless knowing that surrounded it. For fear of sounding cliché, I am wistful for the screenless days when I could make up names and professions and love stories and dream houses and wedding venues without any sort of worry or thought about what it really meant; about it being even remotely close to real despite believing in my heart of hearts it one day would be.
The truth of it is, life ended up being so much more interesting and surprising than that make-believe reverie. The trajectory I followed, or created rather, wasn’t something I, or most girls my age, envisioned at the time. After college, and over the course of 20 years, I went from single staff editor in New York to single freelance writer in Paris who sends postcards from far-flung places to kids that aren’t her own. I guess you could say I became Nomadic Barbie after years of being Carrie Bradshaw Barbie—complete with a whole slew of “couldn’t help but wonders” posted on Friendster, then Facebook, then a blog and, now, via this biweekly Substack. (I’m still working on landing that column in the “New York Star” and finding my Mr. Big/Ken/Steaven.)
I’d be lying if I didn’t admit part of me still kinda wants to be Jennine Barbie, too. The one who got married in her parent’s backyard. Who, after that, likely created a stable home full of rooms adorned with collectibles and fresh flowers and an outdoor shower overlooking the bay. (Naturally, if we’re talking Dreamhouses, this home would be on Fire Island where outdoor showers overlooking the bay are commonplace.) Who has a steady, reliable income instead of occasionally having to Airbnb her one-bedroom apartment to pay bills, and a Ken/Steaven who shares dessert with her and thinks it’s cute when she inevitably falls asleep 15 minutes into a movie.
And yet, I’m proud to have always been so playful and inventive with what I do have. Just like when I used toilet paper to create the aisle for a doll’s wedding and arranged the photo shoot in a flower garden, I’ve taken doors off hinges to fashion a headboard for my real-life bed and hung plants from curtain rods to serve as real-life decor, both of which make my 35-square-metered home uniquely mine—Dreamhouse or not.
We will always want more for ourselves. We will always envision bigger, brighter, pinker. But as I strive to make peace with Enoughness, I’ve also come to believe that sometimes we get what we don’t even know we want or need for a reason. We love it and play with it—or him or her or them—for a time. Sometimes it lasts. And sometimes we find something else. Or something else finds us. We invent new names and jobs and addresses and love stories; wiping the slate clean and starting fresh. And that is what makes real life the best kind of fantasy.
Happy Barbie Week, mes amies. Thanks for always supporting my imagination. Bon week-end. xx — Sara
Clickable
Your guide to Paris by way of street art from Invader. | (Me for) Thrillist
Connecting on the massage table. | Off Assignment
Honoring Barbie and all she stands for (and doesn’t). | WaPo
Barbie has chutzpah (aka Jewish roots). | Hadassah Magazine
Bidding adieu to The Dead again…and again. | The NY Times
What about the “pleasure agnostic approach” to alcohol? | The Atlantic
The “Hondos” of SF make a killing off of selling drugs. | SF Chronicle
Is there a healthy case for delaying menopause? | WSJ
Bridget Jones: “depressingly funny then, just depressing now.” | The NY Times
Watchable
Since I’m sure you’ve now heard this song a gazillion times, why not see the fun video that goes with it? Dua Lipa has total Rockstar Barbie vibes, amIright? She appears in the movie, too!
I love puns and I love Ryan Gosling. Put them together and I’d say yes to that damn dress and shove Eva Mendes out the way! Whoever wrote the script for this video at GQ deserves a standing O, but it’s Gosling’s delivery that really makes it pop. And don’t forget: He’s not Surf Ken. He’s Beach Ken. He only does Beach. Oh, I love him so!
Currently Overthinking…
…whether to splurge on a pricier Airbnb for my birthday trip in Colorado…the song to use for my #TBT Instagram reel promoting this newsletter…
Souvenir: Mr. Bubble
Not Barbie related, but I’m keeping things pink by throwing it back to everyone’s favorite bubble-maker, Mr. Bubble! I thought of him last month during bathtime for Calvin who, understandably, is super into bubbles. They’ve come a long way since this powdered soap, which debuted in 1961. Did you use Mr. Bubble?
Sara,
LOVED this piece!!! And the pics are precious! Your work is amazing. 💖
oh my word is this beautiful writing 💖