Losing Barbie

This post was originally published on my previous blog on Nov. 13, 2010:   marthafrankel.com blog


How different would this story be if I said “Barbie died.”? Or if I said “Barbie killed herself.”? Or if I said “Barbie shot herself in the head with what she used to call her ladies gun”?

In the end, Barbie would still be dead.

Barbie. Anyone who’s read my memoir, Hats & Eyeglasses, knows exactly who she was— Keith’s sassy wife. The poker dealer. The one who stood by her man through all kinds of crazy shit— and did it while wearing high heels so extreme that her calf muscles were forever flexed.

Barbie, who thought cigarettes, chocolate cake, and a Coke covered all the food groups.

Barbie, whose name was so fitting.

Barbie, who could out-drink even the biggest guys we knew, and still not have to go to sleep.

Barbie, who could stop you dead with one of her withering looks, and then call to say that she had her church group put your neighbor on their prayer list.

Barbie, who loved her man so much that when he dropped dead 2 years ago she began unraveling in earnest.

Barbie, who looked like a hooker but wore demure little aprons to prepare dinner.


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