One thing really bugs me. Our doll club – yes, even though I am not an official member, I think of it as my doll club – which makes me wonder why the heck they don’t allow dolls into doll clubs? I mean, who do these clubs most closely concern? Look at the name! Doll club. Yeah.
Oops, but I’m off track. What bothers me is the silly rule that forbids a doll from entering a category in the doll show for three years, if they have come in first place. Three LONG years. Don’t they know what doll shows mean to a doll? They are the social events of the season! We are pampered and primped and put on display. We get to meet new people. We get to escape our display cases and have fun. You simply would not believe the parties that go on, after hours!
And, of course I win, whenever I’m allowed to go. I can’t help it, I am merely a superior doll. All there is to it.
I love, love, love the doll show. When I am allowed to go. These three year breaks are killers, though. Watching our owner go around trying to choose who to enter into what. She takes dolls off shelves and examines them appraisingly. She fluffs our hair. She says Hmmmm. She moves on.
She has a notebook in which she scrawls notes from time to time, and I crane my neck trying to see if I am listed in it. Everyone does. We are all looking our brightest, beaming and saying (if only she could hear!) Take me! Take me!
The categories change every year, featuring certain kinds on dolls and then others. French fashion dolls don’t enter into it very often. I guess not enough people are lucky enough to own us. So I occasionally slide in under a generic antique doll type category. I have so many blue ribbons. Figuratively have, not literally. To save money, everyone in the doll club (the humans) give back their ribbons after the show so they can be used again the following year. Without even asking the people responsible for winning those ribbons for them, I might add. Did I want to give back my ribbons? Oh hell no. But oh well. One of the quirks of living with a human.
Collectors seem to have this mania, they just can’t seem to stop buying new dolls. Even when the shelves are full and there are dolls stuffed everywhere a doll can possibly go, they still buy more. Sometimes they go through and pull a few lesser dolls, sometimes these are sold or given away or just boxed up somewhere. Luckily, I have never been one of those unfortunate dolls.
So when they are choosing dolls for shows, they tend to go for their newer acquisitions. There are dolls here who have never been chosen, have never gone to a show, not even once.
But, of course, I am not one of those.
I can’t find words to express how utterly depressing it is watching other dolls being plucked from the ranks and packed up for the weekend. The bleak mass ennui of those left behind, during show time. Watching our owner come home tired, exhilarated, flustered doesn’t help any. The desultory conversations that trail into nothingness. We try to take our minds off it, but it’s like a big heavy cloud, like a bad air that fills our lungs. We talk about how the chosen ones acted, or looked, what their chances of winning anything are, how unbearable they will be if they do (not everyone can handle success with my aplomb, but then I am used to it.)
We will hear all about the weekend and the failures and successes, updates about old friends, whatever the latest gossip is, next week when the chosen few straggle back onto our shelves – our owner is not so enthusiastic about unpacking and putting things away after the show as she was before. We will hear these stories over and over again, as the tellers relive their adventures. We will try to look interested and not be jealous, but oh, it is so hard!
Doll shows are very cruel, if you are not one of the ones lucky enough to be able to go.
Guess what’s coming up this weekend. Guess who isn’t going.