When my mom died, my dad was in rough shape. Eddie and I thought he had one foot in the grave. Every time I talked to him, it was like talking to Eeyore. And suddenly, six months later, he was a different person. Chipper, even.
Her name is Katherine. She moved in, cheered him up, and whipped him into shape. She speaks in that Old South syrupy drawl and he just oozes contentment. I can’t help but like her. She’s almost perfect. Almost.
Katherine likes dolls, and lots of them. She has taken the first step, though, in admitting she has a problem. (“Hi, my name is Katherine, and I’m a doll collector.”) She and my dad talk about an eBay purging, but nothing has happened yet. So a thousand pairs of eyes greet me when I visit.
The formation taking up prime living room real estate is this Native American tableau. They are taller than my oldest son.
There's a horse in there too.
Here are some of the others:
Cupids? Rejects from "Toddlers and Tiaras?"
Runaway bride? She looks afraid of something. Maybe it's the others in the room.
The Victorian medley awaits the slumber of the guest.
Princess Di stars in "Little House on the Prairie."
This is part of a carousel of horrors.
Chucky and his (her?) pet deer. Same creepy eyes.
Katherine shows off "Rosemary's baby."
Not even the kitchen is immune.
The dolls reside in a garden of silk flowers and plants. Every cranny is a diorama of disturbing elements.
In the jungle, the mighty jungle, Eddie can't sleep tonight ...
Dad reads this blog and will show this post to Katherine. Katherine, I want you to know that our taste in interior design might be different, but I wouldn’t trade you for anything. I’m happy to have you in our lives, even if that means I put up with weird little figures (the ones who are not my children).
(On a side note, anyone in the market for some dolls?)
Observe and report 