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Jett Superior laid this on you on || June 1, 2001 || 1:00 am

If I were to design a dollhouse (is that one word, or what??), I’d go all-out. I’d take tiny rocks and glue them to the back patio like little flagstones. I would file down a wristwatch (again with the compound word question! ~too merch waaahhhhhn~ ) or a pendant watch to hang on the kitchen wall. I’d painstakingly craft teeny books, with diligently even-scripted hand, for the study. A miniature Ysatis bottle would become a large crystal vase for the dining room. And maybe an oil painting, the size of a small envelope, in a frame rendered of fillet that was painstakingly pieced together without the slightest bit of off-centeredness.

Project like that would take me forever…..I would arrange and re-arrange and invent and modify so much that I’d be building on a new room every month, just to express all my ideas.

You know, I never had a ‘real’ dollhouse, not ever. …..Those clunky cardboard-and-plastic B(itch)arbie Townhouses don’t count, in my opinion (stupid string-pull elevator, SHIT.)….. Is that why I am afflicted with this dollhouse mock-nostalgia??

Funny side story: my sister had epilepsy as a child and was put on Phenobarbital. It was all kind of retarded, really….my sister was having the mildest of petit mal seizures. Sure, sometimes they’d last upwards of ten minutes, but I saw that as a quiet blessing. She would check out into the great blue yonder and I got a break from her little-sister ways. The skinny asthmatic kid down the street evoked more worry in me than she did. What’d I know, you know??

So, they put her on the Phenobarb, without being able to pinpoint a cause for this otherwise more-than-healthy 8-year old to be having seizures (UH, the half-dozen or so kidney surgeries she had by the age of four, perhaps??). Pretty typical of the medical establishment, as I’ve come to find out……”Uh, we don’t know WHAT it is, but it’s a virus. Don’t know which one, but that little fucker’s a virus, all right!”

The Phenobarbital made us NUTS. She’d be ravenously hungry for a bit: gnosh-gnosh, pass the sausages. She’d be tired as hell: the bottom just dropped right on out, narcoleptic-like. She’d have a frantic couple hours of energy: my Barbie Townmotherfuckinghouse would be disassembled. DAILY. And I was the one who always had to put it back together. After about a month of unheard-of-in-regards-to-me patience and bearing, I’d had ENOUGH. The cardboard house got put in a yard sale and garnered me a hefty five bucks. At that point I became a complete pagan capitalist and sold all my Barbie Dolls to the highest bidder. I bought purple roller skates and a new bit for my favorite horse with the proceeds. Wait a minute. The roller skates were for me. Not for the horse. Just in case you were stymied.

And the Barbie thing became a great liberator for me. It amazed me to see how much more free I felt by releasing many posessions and making careful choices about the few new ones. Thank you mom for being one of those parents that wasn’t (or didn’t show it if you were) flipped out by your kid selling off one-third of her toy collection.

Nobody worked it out »

Don´t be shy. Lay it on me.

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