Playing with Dolls … Jenners-Style
by Jenners • 01/29/2010 • Confessions, Life, My Childhood • 32 Comments
To be one of my childhood dolls was to be doomed to a life of suffering. Unlike many girls, I did not coddle or baby my dolls. Instead, I used them to enact vivid and tragic scenarios, which were most likely the result of reading too many books like A Little Princess.
Center stage for my doll tragedies was this wonderful wooden dollhouse that my mother purchased and decorated for me. (I remember the roof was pieces of masking tape overlaying each other to look like shingles and painted a reddish brown.) It was your classic wooden dollhouse—open on one side and closed on the other. There were three rooms on the bottom floor, two rooms on the second floor, and a one room attic. My mother had furnished the dollhouse with detailed miniature furniture that both enchanted and delighted me. (To this day, I adore dollhouse furniture. Anything tiny done in detail and to scale is very pleasing to me.) Apparently, the dollhouse was from the “olden” days as the kitchen featured an old-fashioned black stove and an ice box. Accompanying the dollhouse was small family of dolls, which included a mother, father, a little girl and a little boy.
Kind sorta like my dollhouse but not really.This was the closest photo I could find.
Mine didn’t have stairs.
And mine was decorated.
It had wallpaper, rugs and was painted.
Most girls—when presented with such an amazing gift—would have played happily for hours. The Doll family would have lived a happy and normal life. Sure, there might be occasional mishaps or adventures, but nothing like the tragedies that befell my dolls.
At the start of any playtime, one or both of the parent dolls would die dramatically and tragically. (This “loss of parents” was a hallmark of almost all my imaginative play growing up, much to the dismay and concern of my mother.) As a result, the Doll family would be plunged into a life of poverty and hardship. They would no longer be allowed to live in the downstairs rooms—no more sleeping in fancy beds, eating at the gleaming dining room table, or sitting in the comfortable chair in the parlor.
Instead, the Dolls would be forced to work as servants in their former home—reduced to living in attic with only an old sock for a bed. The new denizens of the house were almost always those evil and heartless creatures from the Land of Mattel—Barbie and company. (Sure, Barbie and her evil cohorts were too large to actually fit into the dollhouse but that didn’t matter to me. What mattered was that the Doll family had to live in the attic and suffer. And if you feel bad for the Doll family suffering at the hands of Barbie, read on. Barbie ended up “getting hers” at my hands too.) As I played, I would move myself to tears as the poor poor Dolls would slowly wither and eventually die a lonely and pained death—never having a chance to regain their former home or achieve a happy ending. (Wasn’t I harsh? I mean, even Sara Crewe got a happy ending of sorts!)
If living a life of suffering wasn’t enough, many of my dolls were subject to mutilation as I seemed to have suffered from a God complex, which involved making my dolls as much like me as possible. (This is the part where Barbie suffers for all you Barbie Haters out there.) It might help to see what I looked like at the time I was playing with these dolls:
Does this look like the face of a psychopathic doll torturer?I don’t think so.
But looks can be deceiving.
I guess you could say that I was as different from Barbie as cows are from books. In today’s society, many girls attempt to change themselves to look more like Barbie. Not me. I was happy with who I was. I felt the dolls needed to look more like me, not the other way around. This commenced in a “reworking” of my dolls’ appearance. (“Reworking” is a kinder term than “mutilation” I think; though either term would be accurate.)
This “reworking” involved a lot of work with scissors. Long blonde hair was cut (perhaps chopped is a better word for it). At one point, I got pierced ears. Hence, my dolls were subject to having pins pushed into their ears—a practice that led to blood flow when I squeezed their heads too hard and the pins poked through. I believe I attempted to draw glasses on a doll or two as well. This practice of “doll enhancement” was quickly and violently curtailed by my mother when she discovered me cutting the hair off of an antique doll, which up until that point had been worth quite a bit of money. (Note to all mothers: Do not give expensive antique heirloom dolls to your daughters. It isn’t worth the risk.)
I also wasn’t picky about the condition of my dolls. At one point, our dog Greta got hold of my Skipper doll and chewed her leg. Many children would throw away such a doll or leave it lying neglected in the toy box. Not me. This was an wonderful opportunity for tragedy—polio victim! paralysis after a car accident! The possibilities were endless and exciting. (I remember one scenario involving a curtailed career as an Olympic gymnast after years of hard work.)
One year, I received a Barbie Country Camper. I’m pretty sure Mattel didn’t envision the kinds of things that happened to my Barbie dolls in this vehicle. Let’s just say playtime involved accidents involving long falls from cliffs (a short staircase near my room was perfect!), vehicle rollovers, hit and runs— it was a violent and painful time for my poor dolls. I discovered that ketchup makes for excellent blood … until my mother put a stop that practice as well. If I had the skills, I would love to make my own version of a Barbie Country Camper commercial; it would rival any Quentin Tarantino movie.
As I’m writing this post, I realize that if I had been observed by a psychologist, I might have ended up being institutionalized or locked in The Home for Wayward Girls Who Might Grow Up to Be Serial Killers. Luckily, nothing like that happened, and I made it through childhood to grow up to be a (relatively) sane person who has not inflicted grievous bodily harm on anyone.
Let’s all breathe a sigh of relief.
P.S. In response to your requests, I will be writing a post about my short-lived stand-up comedy career. Stay tuned.
As cows are from books, huh? lol And I see that you were a bit of a voodoo priestess with those pins for piercing ears, hehe.
You're hilarious. My Barbies were the victims of mutilation as well. All of them had their heads torn off (I don't remember if this just happened mostly or if most the time I did it on purpose) and we were so lazy my sister and I would switch their heads to different bodies instead of switching their clothes! lol
I am so glad that you were not locked up in a home for wayward girls on their way to Serial Killers. The world is a much funnier place with you in it!
My dolls never did anything but change clothes and re-arrange furniture. I think a psychologist would have said I lacked imagination.
And, that photo of you. In a crocheted jumper. I LOVE it. And those round glasses……..SO cute.
I read A Little Princess a thousand times as a kid. It really is a strange book.
And I don't think any parent should ever give your child expensive toys you don't want ruined. Defiitely asking for trouble.
Dear Jenners' Husband:
I pray for your safety, as I am concerned your wife is inevitably going to make you the sacrificial lamb in her real-life game of doll house. If you are wise, stay away from campers and/or staircases, as this may be a portent of your unheralded demise.
Sincerely,
Wild ARS Chase
P.S. Be extra nice to your wife, or she will move you to the attic.
I used to torture my dolls, as did my children. Must be genetic…
You definitely made your "doll play" interesting. I can see that your active imagination has always been brewing. I used to get my sister very mad because I would chop up her doll's hair. My mother wasn't thrilled with me in those days.
I'm laughing way too hard to type!
I had one of those Barbie Country Campers, too – while I didn't involve it in hit-and-runs or driving over a cliff, I did have G.I. Joe kidnap Barbie and she decided he was much more 'manly' than Ken and decided to stay with G.I. Joe. 
You played with your dolls the way my brother hassled me with mine…I always ignored his suggestions (although sometimes I would succumb to the pressure and then felt bad for the poor dolls.)
My hubby tells me tales of how what he and "Bunny" used to do. We still have "Bunny" in a special place – Bunny used to do all sort of things and often had to be "rescued" and given "IVs and shots". Seems Bunny was always getting into hairy situations.
I think such creativity is the sign of a highly intelligent mind so I would not worry about yourself too much.
And by the way, nice shirt you are sporting in the photo!
Hysterical! The only weird stuff my dolls did was to have sex with Ken all the time.
Well, thank the merciful Lord that you have a boy! I can't even imagine what would be going on at your house if you had a little girl! Two devilish minds….oh the horror!
But in all seriousness, I have to say that I admire your imagination completely! (even though it's sick, twisted, and sociopathic!)
<3
The similarities between us is actually disturbing. My childhood doll play revolved primarily around orphans in evil orphanages. All of my Barbies had their hair cut, permanent marker dyed, or glued into a mohawk. I also used pencils to create freckles and once tried to make Barbie black.
With the exception of a cabbage patch kid in 2-3 grade I didn't really ever play with dolls. I don't know if it's just because my mom wouldn't buy Barbies or because I didn't like them. I remember being more excited about Transformers to be honest.
Oh, so very funny. I think it is wonderful that you changed your Barbies to look like you. I never much cared for those dolls. I preferred baby dolls, myself. I always played a single mommy whose husband had died dramatically in some way. Do you still have your dollhouse?
Finally, so much has been explained:)
You write a witty post, my dear.
*sigh*
I was the kid who always wanted a dollhouse. I recall vividly that my dad spent many a late night creating a dollhouse from a kit for my younger sister's 5th birthday. When it was revealed to her she was all "meh" and I was betrayed! I was 10 at the time and I was the one who pined for that! We spent much time playing and redocorating with tiny picture frames and pictures from catalogs.
I think I can blame said lack of a dollhouse of my own for my missed career as an interior decorator. I would have been so much happier.
For the record, I made sure my own daughter had a properly appointed 'crib' for a set of wooden dolls. Complete with climbing vine trellis. Which never gets played with but occupies a hallowed corner of her room.
As for Barbie…I was not a mutilator (how could someone in a crocheted daisy vest be so devious?) but I was fond of popping their heads off. I had the Sunshine Family. Anyone remember them? They were a bit smaller, but I liked the head better so I was always popping off their heads and switching bodies with Barbie. I had the surrey with the fringe on top bicycle for two and the Barbie department store with the 'working' escalator. But never the coveted Corvette or house.
Thankfully my own daughter never got into Barbie (although we had a gaggle of Disney Princess dolls). When she got one from a friend with a TATOO around her belly button that is when I called the whole thing off. What happened to Barbie as an astronaut, teacher or vet? But sporting a tramp stamp? Seriously flawed.
Ahhh. Sweet childhood memories.
Thanks for taking me to tiptoe down memory lane with you!
Enjoy the day!
Erin
I'm glad to see you've channeled your homicidal tendencies into blogging, humour and being..a…mom. *sigh* I hope this kid knows to hide his action figures in case you relapse.
Uhh….. Jenners? I'm a little disturbed. Not gonna lie. I kinda feel bad for your dolls!
But I'm also very glad that your serial killer tendencies have led to such wonderful blog reading.
Th is perfect on so many levels…first I love the fact that you wanted to alter the barbies to look like you…we need you to work with all of the girls of today and teach them this insight…second it is so funny but true what a psychologist would've done with you…it is sad that you may have been put in some home and we would not have the pleasure of your presence in Bloggy land…and lastly..you are an adorable child with that gleam in your eye that is still there today…What a gift..!
As a boy I could all that stuff to my action figures and no one even thought it odd.
That is classic! I had dolls and I hated them, I didn't like to play with them, I wanted to be outside playing baseball or something, and so I cut all their hair off so they would be scary and ugly so my mom wouldn't make me play with them…she then bought me bald baby dolls! haha
So… um… yeah.
I'm really glad you're not a serial killer. And I'm a lot more scared of you now. Haha!
I thought my childhood doll-time was weird because I permanently forced all of my Barbies out of their playhouse with Ninja Turtles so I could conduct super radical fight scenes (cowabunga!), but this is a little more strange, haha.
This was fantastic! <3
You had me laughing through the entire post and I think if you were one of my girls I would be a little concerned.
Personally I never had a doll house, but I wanted the Malibu Barbie town house in a bad way. Dude, it had an elevator.
I love this! My daughter doesn't even have dolls… I remember playing with Snow White and the Seven Dwarves… Mmmm. wonder what this says about me?
I'm sure glad I'm not a Jenner Doll. lol.
Okay this was so awesome to read. And I don't think I took it to that extreme, I never physically changed the dolls.. but bad things were always happening to my people too. Did you ever read about the way I used to play the game of Life?? If you want you can read it here http://emmymom2.blogspot.com/2009/07/what-i-did-as-child-life.html
Yeah.. we all did weird things
Oh, and check out my right sidebar… I'm a Lego minifigure now!!
You were adorable! So sad that you were an inchoate serial killer! Or should I say, so glad….
I love your sense of tragedy! You can still make it as a memoirist – you just have to write in the persona of one of the tortured dolls!!! That would make a great book! And you could have the cover illustrated with a decapitated Barbie doll and a bottle of ketchup! Bwaaahaahaaa!
LOVE IT! I also read A Little Princess a gazillion times growing up… great story. I remember skipping pages toward the end so I could hurry her up to the happy ending.
Awesome doll stories. So you were a tad dramatic, nothing wrong with that. And yes, you may have been institutionalized. Thank God you weren't observed, lol! I also had many a Barbie with chewed up legs. Damned dog.
My dolls lead tragic lives as well. Then they had sex. I was kind of a pervert I think.
Wow …
::taking a step back::
Please tell me you still have some of these dolls and you are going to take pictures, lol?
My Barbies always dumped Ken at the altar or had illicit affairs with him. (I only had one Ken and a ton of Barbies. Kinda like the Smurfs in reverse.)