I swore never to do this, but the specter of AI has me panickedthat the flavor of being human is going to be lost.  I’m pretty sure we should all be documentinghow it feels to be flesh and blood before the Big Forgetting. Before we losethe words to describe the imprint the sensual world makes on our individualpsyches and we’re forced to go to the Common Data Base to borrow a can ofmemory which will then pass for a soul.

So, considering all the press Barbie is getting, it’sfitting to start a blog about memory with her. 

First off, I didn’t own one, my mother thought Barbie lookedgrotesque—more on that later if and when I excavate the mother stuff. The yearI asked for Barbie, I inexplicably got an electric train set.

Presents are indicators of how people see you. Over theyears I’d gotten an atlas, a too-small fur hat, sexy dresses, a baby blueShetland sweater and matching plaid skirt all of which I would never wear in public.A guitar I would never learn to play. Half ownership—with a brother—in a boxedset of Jesus Christ Superstar, the musical. I gave him my share and the rest ishistory.

But one wondrous Christmas I opened a Smith Corona portabletypewriter. So, there’s that.

And Barbie did come into my life and changed it.  Like a lot of things I wanted, she came longafter I lost interest.  The universe alwayspays up, but she does love to play.

Like a cat playing with a mouse.

Anyway, Barbie. My ex-husband bought her. Not for me. Norfor himself.  

He was working at the Bank of Boston corporate loan department.

Mattel was a big client.

He hated his job.

When we moved to Boston after six years in Europe, we foughtover who would have to get the corporate job to keep us afloat while we pursuedour art.  He lost the coin toss whichdetermined that he would have to buy a blue suit and pound the pavement.

Interesting fact for the Common Data Bank, people could gointo a business and drop off a resume once upon a time. Sometimes, a hiringmanager would come out right then and there and interview you for a job. Sometimesthey would hire you on the spot. I know, right?

Back to The Bank of Boston, bastion of White Christiandom.They still celebrated Christmas, and ex’s department had a Secret Santa. Hepulled the name of the loan officer for Mattel out of the hat.

Ex spent a lot of time dressing Barbie. I had black fishnetgloves. He cut two fingers off and fashioned them into ripped stockings.  He used my eyeliner to both define and defileher eyes which then looked like Barbie had a VERY rough night.  He meticulously shredded a cat-o-nine-tailsout of a pair of leather gloves and glued it onto her fist.

He wasn’t fired immediately after the Mattel loan officeropened his present, but all corporations were downsizing then—Japanese businessmethods were the rage—and he was let go at the first polite opportunity.

Realistically, it wasn’t Barbie’s fault. Business waschanging, so he wouldn’t have lasted much longer anyway. Banks, which used tohire liberal arts graduates because they could think, starting hiring businessmajors exclusively because they presumably knew how to make money. 

The irony is that they didn’t.

But that, like the mother stuff, is for another day.