I spent a large chunk of my childhood being obsessed with the book, Need a House? Call Ms. Mouse!, by George Mendoza. I coped with stress by disappearing into each of the animals’ homes and imagining why I would or wouldn’t enjoy living there. Hours would slip by as I wrote journeys and dramas in my head around each of the houses.
My childhood copy was lost, somehow, and over the last few years, I’ve found myself checking every so often to see if I can afford to buy another copy. (I can’t; the cheapest, poorest quality, hardcover one is over $100 unless maaaaaybe the sketch no information one on e-Bay is actually decent but whatever it’s still $50 for a gamble, so no.) I wandered, eventually (and probably due to lack of this book. sure. let’s blame that), into dollhouse obsession (Bespaq anyone?? Heidi Ott dolls? Foxhall Manor Dollhouse? With working electricity? OMFG PLEASE TAKE ALL THE MONIES I DON’T EVEN HAVE augh fml) and continued to lose my tension and helplessness in the details of creating an oasis home of untouchable elegance and untainted beauty. Granted, as a quasi-grown person, I was only disappearing every so often and for smaller chunks of time, but the security I felt in knowing that world was always there was reliable enough that I continued to visit for much of my adult life.
I always told myself that ‘one day…’ I would build that dollhouse, or at least finally chuck out the hundred odd bucks for that book. I imagined a life of quiet adventure in my twilight years, staring at a home that perfectly fit whatever magic I wanted to give it. I was so confident in telling myself this, that I didn’t notice how I reaffirmed it less and less as the years went by.
I think I got happy.
I found myself thinking about the book, and my imaginary amazing dollhouse, earlier tonight, and I realized that I still loved them. I still loved their craftsmanship and the stories they enabled me to tell, and I still wanted them in my life. But, even as I realized that stalwart care, I also knew that I didn’t need them. I realized that somewhere along the way, I’d begun to believe in my ability to be the home that I wanted, for myself and my family, and my world.
So. Here to stay, here to fight, here to scream for the magical dollhouse that keeps sacred the light of potential and growth. Fuck you, cheeto dildo regime 2017, in the ear with a cactus. Forever.