I Am Barbie


On April 29, 2002, the woman who created Barbie died. I guess I missed the news that day. A New York Times op-ed written about Ruth Handler said that “perhaps Barbie’s most significant attribute is her capacity to make people wonder what she would be like if she were really human. But to imagine Barbie as a real woman is to imagine her subject to time itself. It is to imagine her with real politics, real worries, a constant struggle with the memory of her own once ideal figure. Above all, it is to imagine her with a voice.”

I went to a play this past Friday night called “I Am Barbie,” and we no longer have to imagine Barbie with a voice. She spoke, via actress Ivy Castle-Rush in the titular role, and she had lots to say about her life & times.

photo by Gary Fountain

Notes from the playwright, Walton Beacham, say:

“Barbie celebrates her 50th birthday by reminiscing about her careers, her relationship with Ken and other characters from her life, who express their own opinions about Barbie. An important motif is Barbie’s breasts as cultural icon, symbol and statement of feminine status, power and vulnerability. Two of the characters, Midge’s mother and Barbie’s creator Ruth, develop breast cancer.”

More on that in a sec.

The play was my introduction to Ruth Handler. I must admit, I’d never given Barbie’s creator much thought. Although more than 1 billion Barbies have been sold in more than 150 countries, and although Barbie even has her own Hall of Fame, in Palo Alto, CA, I never thought much about  her. I have bought Barbie dolls, clothes, and accessories as birthday gifts for Macy’s friends, but knew nothing of Barbie’s story or that of her creator.

I do now.


Barbie  was created in 1959 for Handler’s daughter, Barbara.  (And yes, Ken is named for Handler’s son, which is kind of creepy when you think about Barbie & Ken’s relationship. Ewwww.)

the Lilli doll

Based on a German precursor named Lilli, Handler intended the Barbie doll to help girls “play out their dreams of adolescence and beyond,” hence Barbie’s trajectory from going to prom to going to college to getting married to going to the Moon. She’s embraced every fashion trend that’s come along, and she’s dabbled in nearly every career imaginable. In her 1994 autobiography Dream Doll: The Ruth Handler Story, Handler wrote: ”My whole philosophy of Barbie was that through the doll, the little girl could be anything she wanted to be. Barbie always represented the fact that a woman has choices.”

I suspect that Handler was talking about more than just Barbie’s wardrobe.

I wonder, though, if Handler had any idea of how wildly popular Barbie would become. As the co-founder of the Mattel Toy Company, Handler clearly had a head for business, and could be considered a visionary in terms of the range that Barbie ended up encompassing. Did Handler know that Barbie would become a flashpoint for debates in psychology, cultural politics, feminism, fashion, women’s rights, and body image, just to name a few? Did she consider the firestorm of controversy Barbie could ignite, for example, just by her Teen Talk version uttering the phrase “Math class is tough?” That one really got the feminists going, and reinforced the stereotype that girls aren’t so great at math.

Well, I didn’t play with Barbies much as a little girl, and thankfully escaped her attempts to sway my feminist tendencies or influence my attitude toward math. In fact, my next-door neighbor growing up is a female statistics professor who taught classes, wrote textbooks, and became the chair of the math department. She gave me a tote bag once that says “Anything boys can do, girls can do better.” When my middle-school speech class had to present a debate-style speech, mine was on the ERA, and I carried my notes in the girl-power tote bag. Take that, Teen Talk Barbie.

I missed the memo, too, on Barbie dictating body image. Like most of the world, I certainly have always thought her proportions are ridiculous — a real-world scale determined she would be 5 foot 6 with a 39-21-33 figure. Her internal organs wouldn’t even fit inside that package, for pete’s sake. Although she did undergo a makeover in 2000 to eliminate the waistline “seam” that made her poseable and reduced both her bust and her hips, she’s still a pretty unrealistic feminine ideal. However, it never occurred to me to let a doll determine how I feel about myself.

Maybe missing that memo allowed me to cope with losing my breasts to cancer, just as Handler did in 1970. She was diagnosed and underwent a bilateral mastectomy the year after I was born. To say that diagnostic and surgical progression has been made since then might be the understatement of the year. Facing her diagnosis the same way she approached the toy business — aggressively and successfully — Handler took on cancer awareness and made it her mission to ensure that women who joined the pink ribbon club after her had an easier time with it.

See, Handler faced breast cancer at a time in which real women had fewer choices than Barbie; the Women’s Health & Cancer Act that required insurance companies to cover reconstruction wasn’t enacted until 1988. Handler faced her post-mastectomy body-image demons head-on. And, dissatisfied with the limited prostheses options available at the time, she created her own.

Handler developed the Nearly Me breast form and founded Nearly Me Technologies, Inc in the mid-1970s after she discovered that the breast forms available at the time were “not comfortable, realistic, beautiful, or easily purchased,” according to the company’s website. Handler said, “When I conceived Barbie, I believed it was important to a little girl’s self-esteem to play with a doll that has breasts. Now I find it even more important to return that self-esteem to women who have lost theirs.”

”Until now,” Handler said in 1977, ”every breast [prosthesis] that was sold was used interchangeably for the right or the left side. There has never been a shoemaker who made one shoe and forced you to put both your right and your left foot in it.” She’s right about that.

Keep in mind that Handler was operating in an era in which there was little talk about breast cancer. She was determined to change that, however, and worked tirelessly toward early detection as well as helping post-mastectomy women reclaim a sense of normalcy. Handler personally fit First Lady Betty Ford with her prosthesis after Ford’s mastectomy in 1974. In promoting Nearly Me prostheses, Handler would unbutton her shirt during interviews and publicity jaunts and challenge a reporter or photographer to feel her breasts to determine which was real. Handler said that with high-quality prostheses, “a woman could wear a regular brassiere and blouse, stick her chest out and be proud.”

In talking about her two careers–creator of both Barbie and Nearly Me–Handler was known to say, ”I’ve lived my life from breast to breast.”

She knew what she was doing when she hired retired Mattel workers to design the Nearly Me prostheses. The same people who created Barbie’s breasts went to work, using similar manufacturing processes and materials. They discovered that using a polyurethane outer skin over silicone gel provided the structure and shape to match a real breast. And, just like with Barbie, no nipples were necessary.

So how does all this fit into a play? Very carefully. A review of “I Am Barbie” said that “the trickiest aspect is Beacham’s decision to include Ruth’s struggle with breast cancer as a recurring theme. One can see why Beacham felt it important to include this part of the real Ruth Handler’s story, relevant to the play’s theme of women’s body image.”

A breast cancer diagnosis, while dreadful, is real. Good things happen to bad people, and even Barbie gets the blues. Beacham did us all a favor by including this theme in the play. Yes, it’s uncomfortable to face heavy subjects, and perhaps some audience members felt a bit squirmy as they saw Ruth’s and Midge’s struggles portrayed. With all the “pink-a-fying” and prettying up of the disease, it’s nice to see a gritty and realistic version.

So thank you, Walton Beacham for not shying away from breast cancer’s impact on women. And thank you, Ruth Handler. For inspiring a playwright to tackle the very real theme of breast cancer and body image. For proving once again that life does not end with a breast cancer diagnosis. For saying “that’s not good enough” to the options available post-mastectomy. Oh, and for creating Barbie, too.

P.S. Of course there’s a Pink Ribbon Barbie, whose marketing material says she’s “wearing a pink gown with a signature pink ribbon pinned to her shoulder, Pink Ribbon Barbie doll can help open a dialogue with those affected by breast cancer, while supporting this worthy cause!” She can be yours for the low, low price of $78.99 at amazon.com.



A culinary adventure was had by a fearless foursome from the ‘burbs. We ventured out of The Bubble down to the Montrose area of H-town, where tattoo parlors and antique shops compete with clothing resale boutiques and enough restaurants to fulfill date nights for months. Walking from our car we passed by BJ Oldies Antiques, and I was taken with the herd of colorful, metal, winged pigs. 

Because the herd was congregated so close to Westheimer, a busy main road, I didn’t get a very good shot but suffice to say the pig-loving girl in my house needs one of these. She wants a green one, so now the only question is big or small?

I may have to bring home a weenie dog for myself. I’ve always wanted a weenie dog. Instead I got a weasel dog.

Charming as they were, we didn’t leave The Bubble to shop for yard art. We had a reservation at Feast Rustic European Fare. Fans of The Travel Channel’s “Man vs Food” show would love this restaurant. Not because of the huge portions but because of the utter strangeness of it.

Feast is a crazy experience. It’s been described by foodies, critics, and restaurant writers in glowing terms. Allison Cook, food critic for The Houston Chronicle said Feast is “less like eating at a restaurant than going to the home of a friend who was an inspired cook. And who happens to live on a farm.” The New York Times said that Feast has “no real peer in New York, Chicago, Los Angeles and other major cities that pride themselves on their epicurean adventurousness.” The Food Network’s “Outrageous Food” has filmed an episode at Feast. I can certainly see why.

It’s a vegetarian’s nightmare, by the way.


I survived the meal, and enjoyed what I ate, but was afraid to peruse the menu too intently, and I needed horse blinders to avoid seeing the carnage on other diners’ plates. The chalkboard touting the evening’s specials listed Rabbit Skeleton. For real. As in, something people would willingly order and eat.


I will say this for Feast: they really care about the animals they serve up for people to devour. From the Feast website:

“We do not use ANY meat or meat product from factory farmed, intensively raised animals in our restaurant. A full list of exactly where your dinner is coming from is posted on the website and on the back of the menu.”

So on any given night at Feast, you know where everything comes from. It looks like this: Today Your Meal Came From: Sebastien Bonneau, Countryside Farms, Cedar Creek, TX Ducks, Rabbits, Guinea Fowl, Oxtail, Bones, Livers, Fat; Henry Bryan, Bryan Farms, Brenham, TX Chickens: Glen and Honi Boudreau, Jolie Vue Farms, Brenham, TXTongues, Heads, Livers, Kidneys etc; Allen Harrison, Harrison Hog Farms, Beasley, TX Pigs; Dustin Hoeinghaus, Weimar, TX Eggs; Niman Ranch Bellies, Shanks, Cheeks, Bacon, Lard. That Feast has this quote from Michael Pollan’s The Omnivore’s Dilemma says a lot about the restaurant’s attitude toward animals as food: 

“The industrialization-and brutalization–of animals in America is a relatively new phenomenon: no other country raises and slaughters its food animals quite as intensively or as brutally as we do. No other people in history has lived at quite so great a remove from the animals they eat.  Were the walls of our meat industry to become transparent we would not long continue to raise, kill and eat animals the way we do. Tail-docking and sow crates and beak-clipping would disappear overnight – for who could stand the sight? Yes, meat would get more expensive. We’d probably eat less of it too, but maybe when we did eat animals, we’d eat them with the consciousness, ceremony and respect they deserve.”
The menu changes daily, and instead of a laminated booklet it’s a piece of paper. Mine had some grease stains on it, and I soon learned why.  There is some weird stuff on that menu. And Trevor ordered two of the weirder items: Warm Fat on Toast as a starter (yes, that is for real), and Bath Chaps. More on that in a sec.
The menu changes daily, and instead of a laminated booklet it’s a piece of paper. Mine had some grease stains on it, and I soon learned why.  There is some weird stuff on that menu. And Trevor ordered two of the weirder items: Warm Fat on Toast as a starter (yes, that is for real), and Bath Chaps. More on that in a sec.
Our waitress, Jody, began her spiel about the evening specials, both of which involved rabbit, and I literally plugged my ears. Unfortunately, the man at the table next to us ordered the Rabbit Skeleton, hence the need for horse blinders. 
Clever marketers that they are, Feast does have some non-meat options, in which I gratefully found refuge. 

The Feta Parcel was amazing: a rectangle of salty, briny feta doused in herbs and a mysterious yet delicious liquid, wrapped in foil then baked to almost-creamy proportion, served on ultra-crispy thick toast. That, along with the champagne cocktail and house bread, could make a mighty fine meal for me. However, there was more to come, as we shared each other’s starters. Well, I shared the ones that were safe for a non-meat-eater, which meant Jill’s Mulligatawny Soup. One word: yum. I gave Keith’s Black Pudding, Peas, Mint and a Fried Egg a miss, along with Trevor’s Warm Fat on Toast. Luckily, no one at our table ordered the Deviled Chicken Bones. While repulsed, I am curious about whether people actually eat the bones. I have a vision of a dog getting into the trash and horking up a shard of chicken bone that’s lodged in his throat.


I expected the Warm Fat on Toast to be like butter or lard, but it was cubed and slightly chunky. I neither tasted nor smelled it. One glance was enough for me. Trevor, however, was much more fond of this dish than I.

We were all intrigued by the Anchovies with Clotted Cream on Toast (lots of toast being served at Feast). After Jody hyped this dish, we capitulated and were rewarded with a crostini of sorts with a thick layer of clotted cream and a single, whole anchovy atop its lush bed. Perfect combination of salty, crunchy, and creamy.

On to the entrees! Mine was the Panade of Mushrooms, Fennel and Leeks. I read a lot about food, and yet was unfamiliar with the term “panade.” Always glad to learn something new, and dangerously close to not finding an entree because of my fear of looking too closely at the menu, I was happy that Jody recommended this dish. It’s a big bowl of mushrooms, fennel, and leeks, as promised, bathed in a thin yet substantial sauce with melted and broiled cheese on top. The whole bowl goes in the oven and it was super hot. Yummy, but heavy. I’m used to my vegetarian fare being a little lighter. Most of the panade remained in the bowl.

Jill shared a bite of her whole Amberjack cooked in paper, which was delicious. I’m glad she gave me a tidy bite and I didn’t have to deal with the bones. Enough with the skeletons.

And then there was the Bath Chaps with Garlic Rutabaga and Swiss Chard. Trevor and Keith both chose this entree, and neither one finished. In fact, they could have easily shared one and still been thrown into a Fat Coma. 

I’ve lived all of my almost-42 years without ever coming across bath chaps. It’s basically the lower cheeks and jowl of a long-jawed pig that is cured like bacon. This dish also had something to do with the pig’s tongue as well, although I tried to avoid taking in those details. Of the pork cheeks, it’s been said that “It’s as if the best carnitas and the best pork belly got married and had a baby,” and as much as I like babies, I avoided this one like the plague.

The amount of animal fat in this dish must have been staggering, because Trevor and Keith are both consummate carnivores, and both left copious amounts of cheek, jowl, and tongue in their bowls. While apparently very flavorful, it’s also very filling, and I shuddered to think at the effect on one’s digestive system. In fact, I predicted that such a meal would make one *%$# one’s brains out. Trevor was so stuffed he couldn’t even fit in an after-dinner drink at Anvil, the hipster bar we stopped into and had to seek refreshment from a bottle of Pelligrino. Even then, he woke up feeling hung over, but not from booze. The Fat Coma has lingering effects.

No one needed a single thing beyond the dregs of the French red blend we were drinking, but we ordered a Sticky Toffee Pudding with Clotted Cream and 4 forks, because we figured a visit to Feast wouldn’t be complete without a thorough stuffing of one’s gut. The few bites I had were swoon-inducing: buttery, brown-sugary, moist, and magical.


Feast was not only a feast but also an adventure. The fearless foursome all agreed it was worth leaving The Bubble to experience this crazy place.



Pedey, aka Weasel Dog

It’s been brought to my attention that I have written about Harry and Cinco the leopard gecko, but not Pedey, the other canine member of our household. Well, excuuuuuuse me.

Pedey, oh Pedey. I don’t even know where to start.

He’s a cutie, for sure. We weren’t planning on getting a puppy, not really. Not that day, anyway. IMHO, any day is a good day to bring home a new puppy, but not everyone subscribes to that point of view, so you gotta tread lightly.

Flashback to May 3, 2008. It was Payton’s 9th birthday. I went to Petsmart to pick up something for Harry and the Houston Humane Society was there with the mobile adoptions. I figured I’d scritch a few pups, get a dose of puppy breath, tickle a few fat bellies, and move on. Then I saw this: 

Oh. My. Gosh. I was smitten. That face! Those floppy ears! The speckled feet! The fat belly! The little white blaze down his nose! 

Did I mention that it was Payton’s actual birthday? 

And that I now really, really, really wanted a puppy?

And that I really, really, really wanted this puppy?

Long story short, Payton fell in love with Pedey (his mama taught him well), and we had to have him. Trevor, being the good sport that he always is, gave in, even though we already had one dog too many for him. Payton and I reasoned that Harry needed a dog, and since it was almost summer, the kids could help take care of this puppy.

Welcome to the family, little guy.

I think you’re going to like it here. We have a mentor for you named Harry. He’ll show you the ropes. He makes the mean face sometimes, especially when he has a chewie, but just ignore him.

We’ve got a best friend lined up already (Snoopy), a pool should you become a water dog, lots of toys & treats, and unlimited belly rubs.

It took us a while to come up with the right name for the new guy.

Since he was officially Payton’s dog, Payton got to have the final say. And he decided on Pedey, after his favorite Red Sox player, Dustin Pedroia. The dog is nothing like his namesake: he’s cowardly, lazy, and clumsy with a ball. But the name stuck.

He settled right into our life and weaseled his way into my heart. Let me state for the record that I’ve never had a small dog, and I’ll admit, I’ve never quite understood the appeal. Now before you carry-dog lovers out there go ballistic and send me death threats, let me be clear: I don’t dislike carry dogs or their owners. I’ve just never understood the benefits. 

Now I get it.

He was of course the cutest puppy ever. (I can say that because Maddy, the best dog in the universe, has gone on to her Great Reward, and because we adopted Harry at age 2 and never knew him as a puppy.)

He likes to snuggle more than rough-house. He would rather sleep than do just about anything else (preferably in my lap). 

We call him The King of Comfort, because he always manages to find the most comfy spot available. 

If he’s not fast asleep in a prime spot, he’s camped out under my desk chair. 

Sometimes his legs or tail peek out from underneath the chair, and sometimes he’s completely hidden and I forget he’s there until I scooch the chair back and accidentally scare him half to death.

Sometimes he gets in the chair, right behind me. When he was tiny, it worked out just fine. But now he’s a little too big for that, but he still tries it sometimes. 

He still manages to fit. Mostly.

He likes to make a nest when he finds a comfy spot for sleeping. He will either wedge himself tight in between pillows & cushions, or get himself wrapped up in blankets & comforters. He will also stay in bed until he’s good and ready to get up, instead of leaping up the instant my feet hit the floor, like Harry does.

We don’t know what kind of dog he is, besides lazy & shiftless. Beagle, maybe? He has short, coarse hair; very different from the labs’ hair I’m used to. He has a very wrinkly brow and often looks quite contemplative. It’s mostly for show, though, because he sure doesn’t seem very smart. 

He’s not all that well-trained, either, because he was so cute we were always holding him instead of schooling him to sit and stay. 

He never did learn to love to swim, like the other dogs do. He doesn’t really even like for his feet to get wet, hence the need to be in my lap as often as possible.

Dana Jennings, a wonderful writer for the New York Times said, “Good dogs – and most dogs are good dogs – are canine candles that briefly blaze and shine, illuminating our lives.” I’ve had 4 dogs in my adult life: Maddy, the best dog ever in the history of all dogs. So good, I still get teary when I think of her, several years after her death (and y’all know I’m not much of a crier). So good that the urn of her ashes is on a side table in my bedroom, her name engraved in a simple, beautiful script, the urn way too small to contain all the love and memories she provided. Then there was Lucy, who we got to keep Maddy company. Her canine candle was pretty dim, and there is no urn for her. Then came Harry, and now Pedey. A short but very full doggie history.

Pedey was so happy this past summer, when I was convalescing from surgery and multiple hospitalizations. I don’t usually lay around much, but I had to then. And he loved it. He was always right by my side or in my lap, sleeping away. We joked that we should have snuck him into the hospital, so he could have slept on my bed with me there.

Well, Pedey, rest up; in a few days, I’ll have some more down-time. Are you ready?

Front-page news

An article on the front page of the Houston Chronicle today says that big changes are in store for the breast surgery required for cancer treatment. A new study from our own local attraction, M.D. Anderson, found that women with early stage breast cancer don’t need to have their lymph nodes removed, even if the nodes are cancerous.

This is big news. Breast surgeons are calling it “practice-changing” and proof of the old adage that “less is more.” Dr Kelly Hunt, surgery professor at Anderson, says, “The study shows that we don’t have to take out huge swaths of tissue, that we can avoid aggressive surgery without any effect on outcome.” Personally, I’m a fan of anything that avoids removing huge swaths of tissue. Ick. Ugh. Yuck. Been there, done that. More than once.

This new study pokes holes in the century-old belief that a surgeon’s job was to cut out every bit of the cancer, and found that removing the lymph nodes didn’t give women any benefit over radiation and drug therapy alone. The prevailing science has been that removing lymph nodes helps prevent the cancer from spreading and/or recurring.

Removing the lymph nodes from the armpit area is a hot mess waiting to happen. You’ve got the cosmetic issue of ending up with a concaved surface. You’ve got the potential for infection (ahem). You’ve got the risk of lymphedema, which is painful swelling in the arm that cannot be cured. Anyone who has ever seen a photo of a limb swollen to multiple times its normal size because of lymphedema knows to fear this condition. I’ve met several breast cancer survivors on the tennis court since I returned to the game post-mastectomy and post-infection, and more than one of them played with a compression sleeve (a form-fitting garment that goes from wrist to shoulder) to stave off lymphedema. Tammy, my dear lymphedema specialist, made me take one of those bloody things home to keep in my drawer, “just in case,” because the really stinky thing about lymphedema — aside from the fact that there’s no cure — is that it can come on at any time. Women have gotten it years after a mastectomy, with no prior symptoms.

If you want all the nitty-gritty details of the study, you can read the New York Times article, which goes into a little more detail than the Chronicle’s story. The Chronicle does get credit for providing more info about Anderson’s role in the study. We like to root for the local team. Seems 100 of the 891 patients in this study were from Anderson, and the researchers originally planned to expand the study to include 1,900 women, but shut down the study before that happened because the results were so overwhelmingly conclusive.

I like overwhelmingly conclusive results. You don’t find a lot of them in medicine. I’ve learned that the hard way in my “cancer journey.” I’m a black & white, just-the-facts-ma’am kind of girl, and I found myself smacking my head against a wall more than once in pursuit of a concrete, yes-or-no type answer. In medicine, precious few of those exist. I suspect that’s why it’s referred to as “practicing” medicine.

In fact, Dr Grimes, my infectious disease doctor, has spoken of practicing the art of medicine as much as the science of medicine. I really like the way that sounds, as if it’s so very civilized and full of aesthetic value. In reality, it’s a balancing act of drug therapy vs side effects; of benefit vs cost; of how far can we push the body yet still maintain the integral strength necessary to fight the disease.

In other words, there is no overwhelmingly conclusive answer. And sometimes the doctors don’t know themselves what the right answer is. That’s why it’s so nice when a study comes along that says, yes, for sure this is the right thing to do.

I’m super happy about this big news. I hope it lives up to its potential to make life easier for the 200,000 women a year diagnosed with this breast cancer. And I really hope that it’s just a teaser of what big breakthroughs in breast cancer research are yet to come.