Hello, Dolly!

When my Grandmother was a little girl, dolls were made out of a compound called "bisque". Bisque, while very beautiful, was highly impractical. If you dropped the doll, the head shattered like a tea cup and that was the end of dolly.

She dropped the doll. She did not get another one.

That was around, oh lets say, 1908. Fast forward to 1938. Dolls now were more commonly made of a substance called "composition", which wasn't much sturdier than bisque, but that didn't matter so much because she made up for the odds of a doll being broken by providing for her only daughter lots of dolls. Beautiful dolls. Dolls dressed in silk and fine linen. Dolls with flaxen hair and silk bows. Dolls from the American factory of Madame Alexander (pronounced "Madame" like in reference to a hooker) . Dolls from Brazil, France and Scotland. Dolls! Dolls! Dolls!

Fast forward to say, 1967. Fine dolls now were made of plastic which is durable and easy to clean. My sisters and I had a slew of them: Cinderella, Scarlett O'Hara, Irish Girl, Indian Girl, The Little Women: Marmee, Joe, Beth and Amy. Recently, I unearthed them in a drawer at my parents house. The elastics that held their limbs and heads to their bodies had deteriorated with the past 30 years. There they lay, eyes closed, limbs and heads scattered like a dolly Diane Arbus image. With great sentimental fury, I boxed them all up and carried them home determined to return them to their former glory.

I called a couple of doll hospitals to find out what needed to be done to save these dear old friends from extinction. They quoted me $30-$50 per doll for restoration. In a desparate move of self determination, I decided that with some Woolite, and $1.29 worth of covered elastic, I could save the girls myself.

With a little help from the internet, I opened my own dolly clinic. In a matter of hours, the girls were themselves again. Staring at me with unblinking, and yet I am certain, unfailing gratitude, they seem to be saying, "What happened to you? Where have you been?". Now, these play things of my past will become the play things of my daughters present. She's already declared a moratorium on Barbies: "I prefer nicer dolls,"she says.

So did Grammie.

Dirt Cheap Therapy

Where we live, no one does their own yard work.

Except us.

And while doing it yourself may be annoying at times and definitely socially stigmatic, it also has tremendous therapeutic value. It feels great to go at a gnarly root with an ax, to rip the throats out of those invasive vines that are curling up the hemlock trees, to uncover smothered ground cover and let the light shine on it anew.

And you know what else? It's great to get dirty. Suburban people are so afraid of getting dirty. (Well, it really does a number on your $400 loafers, that's the thing.) There's something so grounding about dirt and muck. Here's a secret: it washes off! Soap and water really does the trick. So why not let yourself go for a Sunday morning?

My father has spent the past forty years maintaining his "back 40".
"But there are so many better things to do with your time!", you may say. Not necessarily. It's meditation. Round and round on the John Deere. Yard work gives you a sense of control, a Sisyphean-like zen as you: mow the lawn, pull the roots, plant the bulbs, mulch the bushes...you know it never ends and that's the beauty of it. It's always there whenever your life may get out of step. The yard always needs you.

Check it out. After all, the mud room implies mud, doesn't it?

Nanny 911

Here's a dirty little secret for you:
I LOVE those nanny reality shows! What could make you feel better at the end of a long day with the kids than watching completely incompetent people agree to allow a camera crew into their home for a week and for the results to be aired on national television? What could make you feel better?

Am I the only one who's noticed that these family's all live in the same house? It can be in Texas, Indiana, Ohio--it's all the same house. You know, a "big box" house that really fosters that extreme sense of suburban isolation and desperation? SUV in the driveway, redwood swingset in the back, no mature plantings. There's a TV in every room and no books on the shelves. (How come there's never a family from Cambridge or Berkeley on these shows? I want to see those parents with the Nanny struggling with the rigidity of Montessori training or worrying that their Waldorf child is behind in his knitting. Fix that problem, Nanny-O!)

So, every week, the British dialect nanny bustles buxomly into their same lives and tells them: 1) they need a schedule and 2) they need to be consistent. And every week, it's a revelation to these people! The nanny works miracles and they all cry at the end of the week because they are sure they are going to really move forward from here. Real change has occurred.

Bull#$@#! I want a hidden camera left in the house so we can see what happens a month from now. If you've never been ritualistic, organized or present to the real needs of children, Nanny 'aint gonna change a thing. I want to see little Johnny throw that "naughty chair" right out the window! Now, that's entertainment.

I don't know. It all just makes me feel so good. I'm gonna keep watching.

My Man Godfrey

I am having a major mid-life crisis. And it's not a love affair I am after. I need a gay man with skills.

Do you understand plaster, skim coating, upholstery? Can you differentiate a swag from a valance? Are you sensitive to the needs of historic preservation with an eye to contemporary life? Then come with me and be my love and help me fix this house! There's a whole lotta toille out there just waiting for our time and attention. We'll wake up in the morning in fabulous pajamas and over eggs we'll muse about today's challenge. And when the kids come home from school, you can just keep going with whatever our project of the day is: painting the porch, regrouting the bathroom, organizing toys. You see, together we can make it work. I cannot pay you, but I will cook for you. I will give you the barn and you can (with your uncanny skills and devotion) turn it into a fabulous studio/potting shed with a hottub in the back. I won't say a word about those after hours parties. In fact, I'll bring out hot hors d'oeuvres in my best Auntie Mame outfit because YOU HAVE BEEN SO GOOD TO ME.

So, come. Let's get going. This house has been waiting 130 years for us.

My husband will understand. He may even enjoy the results.