My Vintage Barbie was far more Liz Taylor than Sandra Dee.  She could melt a man (made of plastic or not) with her seductive, heavy-lidded gaze.  You could have spotted her posed at the bar of the Ritz, a cool Singapore Sling cocktail in her manicured hand.  She would have never set a perfectly pedicured and stillettoed foot in a pastel pink soda shop or plastic McDonald’s.   Her clothes were sophisticated but sultry, far from revealing yet clearly to mature for your average teenager.  She was, in fact, a respectable 22 years old when my mother ceremoniously passed her into my small and eager hands.  A mature college graduate with a Jackie Kennedy bouffant instead of a perky, pony-tailed  and overly-endowed teenager.

My Barbara Millicent Roberts was a single girl in the city (long before we discovered sex or the television series).   Her budding career changed as frequently as her clothes–one day she was as a copywriter at a slick New York ad agency straight out of Mad Men, the next a fashion buyer at Bloomingdale’s or an editorial assistant at Vogue.  She could have been a flight attendant, but only on private charters escorting celebrities to exotic destinations (which she photographed for travel magazines).  She would never have considered mermaid, fairy, princess (except for a brief dalliance with the idea around the time of Lady Di’s wedding), or Dallas Cowboy’s Cheerleader to be acceptable career choices.  And babysitter and dog walker were certainly left for young Skipper and her friends.

My Barbie did not live in a townhouse or dream mansion.  How could a cosmopolitan girl-about-town afford a place like that, really?  She was no  Holly Golightly on the fly, nor would she ever settle for being a kept woman.  She rented a chic little loft or pied-à-terre in the city. 

 Then came the inevitable, a pre-adolescent right of passage which causes every feminist to cry out in pain. Brainwashed from years of watching Saturday morning cartoons (back when they were ONLY on Saturday mornings) and caving into peer pressure, I cast Vintage Vixen Barbie  aside for a bubbly embodiment of anorexic cheerleading princesses everywhere. I saved up all my allowance and birthday money to buy my very own fresh-faced Pretty In Pink Barbie doll complete with a ratty pink fur stole and gossamer nylon cape.   Her face was sweet and wholesome, like a mid-western homecoming queen just dropped at the gritty L.A. bus station.  Her outfit was a teen pop diva’s dream. She went to pool parties and attended Sweet Valley High.  She dated Ricky Martin (a la Menudo days…if only she had known).  She still didn’t have a Dream House or pink corvette, but she hoped her part-time modeling gig would pay off soon and hung out with carbon-copy BFFs who shared their wealth.   Her wardrobe shifted into tacky 70’s and 80’s ensembles (legwarmers!) but she still had some fabulous shoes.

Bild-Lilli 1955 vs. Barbie 1959

Lilli was a curvaceous country girl who came to the big city to work at a newspaper and used men to get exactly what she wanted.  She was sassy, showed off her hourglass figure with tight skirts and spiked heels, and was referred to by many as basically a prostitute.  Her advertising tag line proclaimed, “Whether more or less naked, Lilli is always discreet.”  So, yes, Barbie was based on  a novelty doll marketed towards *ahem* adults.
Male adults.

 

I have a confession.

I rarely set foot in real stores yet  my closets and drawers are overflowing.  I was forced to buy two packs of  hangers last week and  cleared out the guest room closet to handle the overflow.  My Kiddo has a wardrobe stocked with the next two sizes up just waiting for him to grow into.   And I would rather slit my wrists than pay retail.

I’ve been a savvy clearance shopper for years.  I bee-lined to the back of every store I set foot in and had sale rack scanning down to a science.  I memorized store mark-down schedules and regularly made the rounds. But that just wasn’t enough for me.

 I admit, I hung my head slightly as I shuffled across the parking lot, hoping no one driving by would see me and think I was there because I HAD to be.  I hugged my purse tighter and was a little afraid of who else may be lurking inside.  Despite my doubts, I was overwhelmed as rack upon rack of colored and styled clothes stretched as far as I could see.  Thousands of items, each one unique, and all begging for a new closet.  I started flipping through the rack timidly, assuming it would be worn-out discount department store rejects.  After 5 minutes my arms were overflowing with finds and I went in search of a shopping cart.   Cashmere sweaters, preshrunk designer jeans, adorable summer skirts, vintage little black dresses, chic leather jackets, unique accessories–I had died and gone to budget fashionista heaven.

A few of the tips I have learned through trial and error:

• Ignore sizes.  They vary brand to brand anyway.  Almost everything is pre-washed and preshrunk.  If it looks like it might fit, try it on.
• Know the merchandise.  A used Walmart t-shirt for $2–not such a deal.   A NWT Banana Republic cashmere sweater set for $3–a steal.   Learn how to spot quality fabrics and brands from a distance.
• Dress for success.  Some stores don’t have fitting rooms.  Some fitting rooms have a half-hour wait.  If you come prepared in a skinny tank and leggings you can find a mirror and explore your inner exhibitionist.
• Buy off-season.  If you go looking for warm jackets during a January cold snap you will be sorely out of luck.  Look in July and you may have dozens to choose from.
• Ask if the store runs sales.  Many stores discount a particular colored tag each day.   My secret store is 50% off all clothes each Wednesday.  It’s an absolute madhouse–but utterly worth it to me.
• Carefully check out the goods.  They are “recycled.”  Some stores inspect items thoroughly but others may put out items stained, ripped, or torn.  If it needs to be repaired, it had better be worth the work.
• Check back often.  You never know when some style maven may clean out her closet because she’s bored or changed sizes.
• Don’t get discouraged.  Some days I find 25 steals I simply cannot live without.  Some days I find crap.  You never know.

The only time I venture into a mall now is when I get my coupon for free Victoria’s Secret panties in the mail.  I have nearly stopped making my rounds at Ross and T.J. Maxx because I know if I am patient, persistent, and sometimes just plain lucky I can find whatever I am looking for (and usually more) for practically pennies.

Every Wednesday I am overwhelmed with the urge to be at my secret store.  I shudder imagining the steals  someone else is swiping if I am not there.  I feel the store calling me, tempting me, like a discount liquor and package store calls every alcoholic for miles.  My family now has so many clothes I often show up at the thrift store with a bag of donations.  I’m all for recycling.

Amongst my fellow thrifty SAHMs I will gladly brag about how cheap I find my clothes.  (Them: Love your shirt.   Me: Thanks!  {whispered} Salvation Army.  $1.50!)  I try to convert my friends after each compliment I receive but only if they don’t wear my size.  I don’t want the extra competition.

When complemented by other less enlightened folk I simply give a knowing smile and a modest “thanks.”

It’s vintage. It’s recycled. It’s unique.  It’s me.

Now if I only had someplace to WEAR all my little black dresses…