Barbie Dream House And The Chocolate Room

The little girl I used to strip with in Winchester, Indiana, -- Debbie -- recently found me on Facebook.  It was a glorious day!  We fell out of touch nearly 35 years ago, but the memories are crisp, warm and happy.  I LOVE when it's a mutual Facebook connection.

I forwarded Debbie the post I wrote about our stripping. [Read here.]  Thankfully, she liked it.

Debbie was more than a childhood stripping friend...  I loved playing with Debbie because she was smart, fun and imaginative.  She also had the nicest mother who was permissive but not in a reckless way.  As a single parent, Debbie's mother did a wonderful job providing structure, surrounding Debbie with love, encouraging her... and giving her the coolest room and stuff.

Debbie had a canopy bed in her girly-girl room and all the best girly toys.  She received a Baby Alive doll one year for Christmas along with a pack of real disposable baby diapers.  We fed and changed that doll again and again and again.  I think we may have clogged her plumbing because we didn't always provide the doll with the recommended bottle of water between spoon feedings to wash out the red and green Cream of Wheat-like food.  Debbie's mother gently warned us, always with a smile, "Girls, Baby Alive might not work properly... and she might start to smell... if you don't follow the directions."  But she allowed us the choice to gorge Baby Alive.  And gorge her, we did.

The item I coveted most of Debbie's was her Barbie Dream House. I think it was technically the Barbie Townhouse, but it was MY dream house.  It had three stories, an elevator, and cool girly decor.  If I could have twitched my nose like Samantha on Bewitched or blinked like Jeanie on I Dream of Jeanie and made myself Barbie size, I would have been prancing around that dream house in my tiny, tight, high-heel Barbie shoes, and my mini-skirt with figure flattering blouse, dusting furniture while sipping a cup of tea from a teeny-tiny cup and saucer.  Trust me, I tried.  I twitched and blinked so often as a kid, I'm sure I appeared to have a tick.

I would have twitched or blinked Debbie into the scene... as Skipper.  Sorry, Debbie.

Today my dream house would look much different than the Liberace-style house I desired in the 70s. [Although a part of me still enjoys sequins, feathers and over the top opulence.  Like a part of me would also like to live in Willy Wonka's factory, or the land of Oz.  Fantasy.]  I've learned that bigger isn't better.  It's more to maintain.

I never had my own Barbie Dream House, but I'm thankful to Debbie for graciously sharing hers.  I'm also thankful for Debbie's willingness and shared desire to explore our fantasies, stretch our imaginations and her mother's appropriate and loving support.

I was saddened to learn that Debbie's mother passed away in 1999.  I
would have liked her to know that a day with her and Debbie, was like entering the Chocolate Room.

The Reunion

I graduated from a small high school in Justin, Texas, 25 years ago. My parents moved from Arizona to Texas the summer between my sophomore and junior year. I was once again, the new girl.  It really wasn't a bad thing, the moving. 

The move prior to junior year was my third school change—not excessive in my opinion—and I'm thankful for the exposure to different states [Indiana, Arizona, Texas], the resulting close friendship I have with my brother, and the special friends and memories I've gained along the way. I feel the same about the moves I've made with Chris during the past 20 years. I've been enriched, not robbed, by the occasional move.

As a person who loves to write, I have a pile of experiences and observations to tap into and build upon. I feel grateful for the abundant material.

Because I didn't attend my high school for all four years, and I linked arms with a steady boyfriend shortly after arriving to Texas [a very good person who is happily married today], I don't have too many shared experiences outside of classroom time with my graduating class. As I made my way around my 25th high school reunion, happily hugging and greeting old friends and classmates, I wasn't surprised when a few of the kids didn't remember me. One guy, who I thought I knew fairly well because I was a lifeguard at our neighborhood pool, I knew his high school girlfriend, and my mother was friends with his mother, actually said, NICE TO MEET YOU! as he left the party Saturday night. I smiled and said, "Nice to see you again."

Another guy who dated one of my best friends, Vicki, didn't remember me at all. He was polite and conversational at the reunion. We chatted about my braces and I commented, "...it was either boobs or braces...".  He said with a grin, "I think you made a mistake.  Next time you have a choice like that, call me. You should have gone for the boobs." I enjoyed him, even though he doesn't have a clue who I am.

The reunion was good. There are a few people I didn't get to talk with enough. I assume others feel the same. It was impossible to touch everyone in one or two short evenings and feel satiated. We need a reunion week. Then again...maybe we don't.

I drove past my family's old house and places that held powerful memories. I was stirred, but not shaken.

I was able to spend time with a friend I used to lifeguard with—Lynn P. Carlson [the P. stands for pretty].  The day I arrived in Texas it rained. We were at a bar on that warm, muggy evening and Lynn was trying to remember the last name of a guy we both knew. She said, "Remember? He had frizzy hair." Then she looked at me and said, "No offense, Chrisy." I love Lynn P. Carlson. And again, not enough time.

[LPC is one of the few people who make me forget I have braces. She makes me THAT happy. Frizzy hair and all.]

It was great simply being with my girlfriends. Looking at clothes, giving each other honest feedback about appearances, thoughts, feelings, and life's problems. I talk on the phone frequently with these girls, but to feel them physically and share laughs was long overdue.

I sobbed as I sat in the airport waiting for my plane. I called Chris and told him how I felt. He was compassionate.

I arrived home after the kids were in bed Sunday evening. I went in their rooms and kissed them, even waking up my 4-year-old after Chris rolled his eyes and asked me not to—he'd been ornery earlier in the evening.

There's no place like home, and it's true that you can't go back...but I will return to the next reunion. Maybe with boobs... not braces.

The Jacket

[I wrote this post for my other blog "See Chrisy Run", but thought I'd post it here too.]

Supermodel and I each became proud owners of the Triple Trail Challenge "trophy" jacket on Saturday. The jacket was awarded to participants who successfully completed the three required events. We ran our third race, Mid Mountain Marathon, Saturday morning. It was much more difficult than we expected.

I won't give a blow-by-blow, but 25 miles of the 26.2 were on singletrack. Rocky, root-ey, hilly, singletrack.  When I crossed the finish line I searched for and found the few friends who had run the race prior...the friends who had said, "Your legs will feel GREAT after running a marathon on trails! Yes it's at 8,000' elevation, but the trail's relatively level, just a few climbs, and it's all downhill after mile 20! The scenery's beautiful!"

When I found those friends, I said, "You lied. About everything."

But, Supermodel and I each conquered the course. I suppose the views were pretty if you wanted to prolong the time on the mountain to stop running and...look. My eyes had to remain on the trail or I tripped, plus the views gave me vertigo. I was running with a guy for several miles; he stopped around mile 12 and said, "Let's just take a moment to enjoy this beautiful view!" I said, "Pretty. Now let's GO."

I fell. Three times. It hurt.

I've never fallen while running on the road. I fell three times during the Jupiter Peak Steeplechase in August, and was determined not to fall during Mid Mountain Marathon. I can't tell you how painful it is, physically and emotionally, to hit the ground in one of these races. The physical pain is obvious. But it's the emotional pain and mojo loss that drains me. It's a huge withdrawal from an energy account that has limited funds.

I finished though. I finished with sore knees and a dirty body, but I finished strong.

[Looking for Chris and the boys.]

[I see the boys.]

 

Supermodel fell once and also finished strong.

 

We hugged and cried and were happy that the event, the whole Triple Trail Challenge, was over.

I called Supermodel today...

ME:  How ya feelin'?

SUPERMODEL:  Better than I thought I would. My shoulder and hip hurt. I think it's from my fall. How about you?

ME:  My quads and calves are sore, and my knees are hammered, but I'm functioning.

We talked about what we'd eaten, how we craved salty foods, how our plumbing had taken 24 hours to return to normal. Then I asked her if she'd pop over so Chris could take some pictures of us in our jackets.  The jackets I convinced her would be SO cool to have. We'd be like the Navy SEALS [sort-of] of trail running!

Here we are in the jackets we ran for, fell for, argued about, and spent $140 in entry fees for!

[Click on all photos to enlarge.]

 

 

I wanted to do some fun poses, maybe build a pyramid or do the splits, but Supermodel wanted no part of it. Chris photographed one of our famous disagreements.

I begged and pleaded, but I couldn't get Supermodel to do a Cirque du Soleil trick with me in our jackets.  She finally just walked away.

 

Maybe after we complete the Triple Trail Challenge next year she'll do it. C'mon, Supermodel. It'll be fun!