In 2006, I'm Gonna Spin Again
When I was a kid, I had a dollhouse that I played with religiously.
Each day, I would pull out all of the furniture, spread it across the floor, and pretend that the family (the mother, usually) was appearing on an episode of The Wheel of Fortune. I would imagine that she had just won "big money" and was able to go shopping at the Wheel of Fortune "boutique" (if you are in your thirties, like me, there is a chance you may remember this old school version of Wheel of Fortune, where the contestants had to spend the funds that they won after each puzzle at a tacky, little studio store, and when they got down to a lower amount like $500, there were only two purchase options left: the statue of a Dalmation or the Tiffany gift certicate).
Anyway, I would make my dollhouse "mother" shop for all of her furniture, then decorate the house. Sometimes, "the family" would even "buy" the house, not on Wheel of Fortune, but from a "realtor" (usually a person created out of Lego blocks because I only had four cloth dollhouse dolls and two of them were children). The family would "tour" the dollhouse and comment on the rooms by saying things like: Oh, this is just the right size for our bed! or I'm not sure if I like the wall paper in this kitchen.
In between playing with the dollhouse, I also designed houses in a sketchbook. I used a ruler and would painstakingly draw floorplans to scale. Most often, my sketches were variations of the house that I was planning to build for myself in Hawaii, the one where I would reside with my cats after college (which, itself, was an abstract concept to me--for some reason, "college" was a big church made out of steel and glass. Go figure?).
I wrote about my daily activities in a journal. In small, cramped handwriting (or printing, if that's what I preferred on that particular day), I would document meals consumed, books read, sketches created, and the various exploits of the cat. Occasionally, I would construct a poem, too. I did this all with pride. If anyone interrupted my scribbling to ask what I was doing, I would look up, with obvious irritation, and sigh, "I'm working!"
When I was ten, I didn't want to get married and I didn't want to have children and I planned to subsist on Campbell's Chicken and Rice soup that I would purchase with my novel writing income.
I had a lot of time to think about those things because I lived on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere, where kid companionship was scarce. Besides, I didn't shower much and I had no interest in my appearance, so that freed up a lot of hours.
More than anything, however, I was quite sure that my plans would all play out just as I wanted.
My how the mighty have fallen . . .
In my Maryland house, with its cracks in the walls and inadequate closet space, I've beem thinking about that "ten year old me" a lot during the past few days, wondering if she would be disappointed with the person I've become. I wonder if she would grab me, the woman perched in the chair, surfing the internet or watching reality TV, and yell, "No, no, this is NOT right! What have you done with the plan?"
Then, I decided that the "ten year old me" was probably a lot wiser (and forgiving) than the 34 year old one. The "ten year old me" knew that it wasn't about the house in the Hawaii, or the single life, or the cats. It was about exploring possiblities, and noticing things, and suspending reality, even if only in the imagination.
What was important to that girl was being creative. Feeling that no matter what anyone said, she was going to create what she wanted to create and that no obstacles would get in her way. A hard, persistent confidence. A belief that "hard work" would yield results. Thinking outside of the box. The refusal to give up. Absolute pride. Not knowing the difference between what was "high art" and what was "tacky."
The "ten year old me" wasn't a snob, and she certainly didn't give a goddamn about what anyone thought.
I'd like to have the spirit that I had when I was ten. Next year, I'm going to make a definite attempt to recapture that. I'm going to use my imagination as much as I can, I'm going to write all the time, I'm going to explore whatever artistic pursuits that catch my interest, and I'm going to do it all with the unapologetic, independent attitude of a "ten year old."
Of course, I'll have less time to do that, what with the husband, the kids, and the obligatory showers, but I'm sure the cats will understand.
Each day, I would pull out all of the furniture, spread it across the floor, and pretend that the family (the mother, usually) was appearing on an episode of The Wheel of Fortune. I would imagine that she had just won "big money" and was able to go shopping at the Wheel of Fortune "boutique" (if you are in your thirties, like me, there is a chance you may remember this old school version of Wheel of Fortune, where the contestants had to spend the funds that they won after each puzzle at a tacky, little studio store, and when they got down to a lower amount like $500, there were only two purchase options left: the statue of a Dalmation or the Tiffany gift certicate).
Anyway, I would make my dollhouse "mother" shop for all of her furniture, then decorate the house. Sometimes, "the family" would even "buy" the house, not on Wheel of Fortune, but from a "realtor" (usually a person created out of Lego blocks because I only had four cloth dollhouse dolls and two of them were children). The family would "tour" the dollhouse and comment on the rooms by saying things like: Oh, this is just the right size for our bed! or I'm not sure if I like the wall paper in this kitchen.
In between playing with the dollhouse, I also designed houses in a sketchbook. I used a ruler and would painstakingly draw floorplans to scale. Most often, my sketches were variations of the house that I was planning to build for myself in Hawaii, the one where I would reside with my cats after college (which, itself, was an abstract concept to me--for some reason, "college" was a big church made out of steel and glass. Go figure?).
I wrote about my daily activities in a journal. In small, cramped handwriting (or printing, if that's what I preferred on that particular day), I would document meals consumed, books read, sketches created, and the various exploits of the cat. Occasionally, I would construct a poem, too. I did this all with pride. If anyone interrupted my scribbling to ask what I was doing, I would look up, with obvious irritation, and sigh, "I'm working!"
When I was ten, I didn't want to get married and I didn't want to have children and I planned to subsist on Campbell's Chicken and Rice soup that I would purchase with my novel writing income.
I had a lot of time to think about those things because I lived on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere, where kid companionship was scarce. Besides, I didn't shower much and I had no interest in my appearance, so that freed up a lot of hours.
More than anything, however, I was quite sure that my plans would all play out just as I wanted.
My how the mighty have fallen . . .
In my Maryland house, with its cracks in the walls and inadequate closet space, I've beem thinking about that "ten year old me" a lot during the past few days, wondering if she would be disappointed with the person I've become. I wonder if she would grab me, the woman perched in the chair, surfing the internet or watching reality TV, and yell, "No, no, this is NOT right! What have you done with the plan?"
Then, I decided that the "ten year old me" was probably a lot wiser (and forgiving) than the 34 year old one. The "ten year old me" knew that it wasn't about the house in the Hawaii, or the single life, or the cats. It was about exploring possiblities, and noticing things, and suspending reality, even if only in the imagination.
What was important to that girl was being creative. Feeling that no matter what anyone said, she was going to create what she wanted to create and that no obstacles would get in her way. A hard, persistent confidence. A belief that "hard work" would yield results. Thinking outside of the box. The refusal to give up. Absolute pride. Not knowing the difference between what was "high art" and what was "tacky."
The "ten year old me" wasn't a snob, and she certainly didn't give a goddamn about what anyone thought.
I'd like to have the spirit that I had when I was ten. Next year, I'm going to make a definite attempt to recapture that. I'm going to use my imagination as much as I can, I'm going to write all the time, I'm going to explore whatever artistic pursuits that catch my interest, and I'm going to do it all with the unapologetic, independent attitude of a "ten year old."
Of course, I'll have less time to do that, what with the husband, the kids, and the obligatory showers, but I'm sure the cats will understand.
posted by Cate at 11:39 AM
5 Comments:
Yes! Yes to all of this. I'm inspired just reading it.
Did you ever read "Harriet the Spy" when you were a kid? You would have loved it. She was similar but instead of the house/realty angle she had a spying angle as the name would suggest. You remind me of her. And, I bet the 10 year old you would be so happy to know you still write and still have an amazing imagination. Plus, you still have the ability to look at things from an outside perspective like you did with the little dollhouse. You dismantle your doll house for us on a smaller scale and let us into that world.
The writing in this entry captures that ten year old and how creative you are! In fact, I am sure she would be impressed you rememebered as much detail as you did!
The mighty have not fallen! They are still in full force, my friend!
Can I just tell you all how much I love, love, love you?!
Those comments were wonderful!
Nance, I'm so glad you stopped by! I'm really enjoying your blog and am eager for updates! Thanks for the lovely comment.
Michelle, "Harriet the Spy" is one of my all-time favorite books. I loved the way she skulked around and took herself so seriously (though it was painful when the other kids exacted revenge in the end)! Your final line, about dismantling the dollhouse on a smaller scale, gave me chills--you have such a gift with words!
Baylor,
You are always so kind to my ego! I cannot express how grateful I am to you for your comments--the way you have of making someone feel so wonderful! I've been thinking about you and the lost letter a lot these past few days . . . I'm hoping you find it soon.
I had a feeling you were a "Harriet the Spy" kind of girl. It was my favorite book for quite a while.
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