… The tragedy of my youth. I never had a dollhouse. I couldn’t understand it. It’s not like I was asking for a pony; just a dollhouse. Not even a fancy dollhouse with all the ornate miniature antique furniture and real porcelain tea sets. Just a simple wooden dollhouse that I could decorate myself. And my mom never got me one. Not even the ugly hot pink plastic Barbie dream-house.
What horrible mother denies their little girl a dollhouse?! I’ll tell you who. Feminists mommies who reached puberty in the swinging sixties, that’s who. A dollhouse was an evil toy used to indoctrinate gender stereotypes on poor young girls.
As a result my youth was spent seeking out girls who had dollhouses and making excuses to play with them. I’d bring my Han Solo action figure over to play the husband and whiny Luke was always the little boy we stuck in the corner. I remember every Christmas visiting the toy collection at the Abby Aldrich Folk Art Museum in Colonial Williamsburg. They had an entire room of dollhouses… and I seethed with envy.
I had almost forgotten this childhood neglect and trauma until I beheld the wonder of the Southern Christmas Show in Charlotte this past weekend. There was an entire exhibit of dollhouses. Dollhouses made out of hat boxes, teacups, even laundry detergent boxes. I felt like that longing little buck toothed girl again and excitedly realized if I want a dollhouse I can finally have a dollhouse, damn it!
However, I like the more unconventional dollhouses where the designer makes everything themselves with odd bits and ends, similar to the Bloggess’s Haunted Dollhouse. Except mine would be the Crazy Catholic Lady dollhouse, with tiny pictures of the Pope on the wall, miniature rosaries and statues, tiny little holy water fonts and itty bitty chalices. Oooo. Maybe a mini dollhouse convent stocked with thimble sized nuns! Maybe even throw in a priest performing an exorcism in the attic. I mean, why not. It’s my dollhouse after all.
I think I have a new hobby.