I Only Want the Full-Sized Interior Design Certificate, Thank You Very Much

Sometimes I find it necessary to explain my train of thought when arriving at an odd memory. I mean, after all, the strange train of thought of one seemingly unrelated event leading to a particular memory is often more entertaining than the memory itself. Today I choose not to start out sharing that train of thought with you, only to tell you the following memory occurred to me while in an 8 am meeting (cruel, right?) while lots of data was being hurled at my mind which was much too preoccupied with the sinus pressure taking over my face.

When I was about 8 years old, my grandparents gave me a dollhouse for Christmas. In fact, there is a particularly horrible picture of me when it was brought into the room. And I'm doing my best Little House on the Prairie impression in that photo; if I had it in my possession today, I would post it. I also recall that Aunt Tammy got a rocking chair that year, because they acted like my present was about to be brought out and then hers was first and that was really confusing. So I guess that might explain the super excited-ness, "OH, it's not a rocking chair, it's a dollhouse!" But I digress.

So the outside had been painted prior to receiving it in my specified colors that my mother had helped to pry out of me with her very good super secret elf ways. It was pink, with a white roof and white trim. Doug, aren't you glad my tastes have changed? At least slightly? The inside, however, was still bare. Wanna know why? Because my grandmother decided that it would be a fabulous bonding experience for us to decorate it together. Just the two of us. It sounded pretty fun until I realized it was less about what I wanted and more what she wanted/what materials she had on hand. I thought we would paint each of the four rooms of my wooden palace -- WRONG. We f-in wallpapered a dollhouse. Just recalling the excruciating details makes me want to go crazy. Now, if you think I might have been a little more patient and that my fingers might have been a little more nimble when I was 8 -- you are WRONG. I remember thinking that I did not sign up for this, and I'm sure even my 8-year-old mental bitching involved expletives. I was a special child.

I did really enjoy that dollhouse over the years. But I cannot to this day express in words how shocked I was to discover a more awesome dollhouse in my grandmother's attic not much later. A dollhouse that had never been painted, and just sat up there, year after year, not played with. If I thought about it long enough, it might take years of therapy to get over it.

This weekend, that dollhouse came into my possession. I'm feeling a very large responsibility in making the right decision about what to do with that house.