My iPod's Dream House

A digression from the political arena:

The other day, while I was surfing the 'net, through Everything iPod, iPod Hacks and iPod Lounge, I saw the plethora of third-party add-ons available, everything from high-tech aluminum sleeves and sports bands to designer cases for multiple collections and customized ear plugs.

I looked down at my sleek second-generation 'pod, surrounded by its black cover, its skintight fire-engine blue cover, its two different car adapters, its selection of cables, of earplugs and headsets, not to mention the various different iterations of itself available through the playlists (am I feeling angry today? am I feeling folksy today? am I feeling spontaneous today?), and nestling in its brand-new Altec Lansing collapsible portable speakers, I recognized a feeling.

The feeling of play, of whimsy, of imagination, of accessorizing. Of projecting my personality onto an inanimate object.

Oh my god--my iPod has become my Barbie doll.

It even has its own dream house--I had to buy an external hard drive for iTunes and the music library, since my first-generation white iBook (obsolete, circa 2001) ran out of space.

Think about its impossible dimensions, the slim white casing with its good looks unattainable by any normal human, the wealth of mix 'n' match available, the bonding of creativity and self-expression. It even comes in different colors now; though maybe the minis are more like Skipper and Scooter and Midge. Or even Francie.

And love. I am in love with my iPod. It has opened up new worlds for me, takes me away from the mundane, and I can play with it at work. How great is that? Granted, it's not as personal as a Barbie--if something were to happen to this iPod I could update without feeling devastated. I don't have to worry that a different iPod's hair and face wouldn't be exactly the same, the coif pressed to the side by lying in a box or the face perhaps a slightly different color from a new batch of dye.

I've never lost my love for my childhood Barbie, the vintage Barbie with the sloe eyes, ponytail, and pouty red lips. Not the generic wide-eyed teen of current crops, but a Barbie who was never, never, never ever 16. Even as a child I knew she wasn't 16.

My much-adored Barbie with her still-perfect ponytail and well-kept clothes (for I was a careful child with my dolls) suffered an unknown fate. She just disappeared. The last time I saw her she was in the attic of the last house my parents lived in. My mother swears she never let any children play with her. Yet all that remains, once my mother moved out of the house, was the double-case in black plastic vinyl, some miscellaneous accessories and stacks of old catalogues, my second Barbie, the swivel-hipped beach babe with orange net bathing suit and bendable legs, some panels from the Fashion Shop, and my Dream House (untouched, I might add, for some 30 years until my cat chewed a corner of the roof). In some misguided generosity I had given my cousin, the closest relative I have to a sister, my beloved Francie doll and her incredible wardrobe. Neither my cousin nor my aunt have any recollection of what happened to her.

Luckily, early on I had rescued Skipper and Scooter, stuffed in their case with clothes bulging off the wardrobe and shoes and socks and tights and butterfly nets bursting out of the drawers.

But I still mourn the loss of my Barbie and her clothes. Her wonderful, stylish, well-made clothes with sewn seams, carefully proportioned patterns, and wonderful attention to detail.

A few years ago, in a period of blue funk, I fixated on Barbies, most likely trying to recapture the elusive feeling of play that people inevitably lose to social conditioning. I bought a new Barbie, some clothes, accessories, and a new case. But today's Barbie dresses in what can only be described as white-trash couture, full of too-short skirts in unattractive bright pastels made of glued-together, poorly dyed fabrics that probably never saw human hands. No one with any taste would ever want those clothes in real life, but we all wanted vintage Barbie frocks, the pouffed skirts, white gloves, oh-so-perfect high-heeled mules. Look at Charlotte's wardrobe from Sex and the City--pure Barbie doll! (I was so waiting for SATC fashion dolls! Why not, HBO, why not?)

So i'll continue accessorizing my iPod with sheaths and coats, cases and personalities. And while it plays, so will I.