When I was a kid, I had a lot of hand-me-downs from my older sister. She was born in 1980, so it meant I had a lot of cool, older toys. I had Barbies with fun, eighties styles that hung out with my newer, nineties dolls. I had a Soda Shoppe playset that I used to pretend served the concessions for ‘drive-in’ movies in my parents’ den.
Those tiny hot dogs and buns were frustrating to work with. The stools doubled as cups for human consumption of the soda.
My dolls didn’t live in the classic, pink Dream House. They lived in my sister’s version, from the 80s. It was yellow for some reason, but it was still eleganza.
Many a cat also lived in that house. Most probably not by choice.
One ‘new’ thing my Barbies had was a Porsche Boxter with a working convertible roof.
Whenever Barbie or Ariel or Megara (I had a lot of Disney dolls) wanted to go to the drive-in, she’d roll up in that beauty.
The Barbie movie made me wistful.
America Ferrera’s monologue was the only part that made me cry, though it doesn’t have as much to do with Barbie as it has to do with society’s treatment/expectations of women.
I really liked it. I also liked Oppenheimer, but not as much.
Sara Mazariegos 