POOR LITTLE MUSEUM
"Read a Book, Save the Museum."
Imagine along with me.
Imagine that you own a dollhouse museum.
Imagine.
Imagine that for over a quarter of a century, you patiently collect . . . and collect . . . and collect, so that you can honor your parents by creating a “ma ‘n’ pa” museum, a legacy to the imagination and sense of wonder that they instilled in you as a child. It is also a way of remembering your dearest friend, killed by a drunk driver on Christmas Day. She happened to love dollhouses.
And by the way, you are willing to make each and every sacrifice imaginable to make this miniature museum a reality. (For those of you who got here curious about the trash museum, that dream lives a parallel existence, springing up first in 1994.)
Imagine that during the aforementioned quarter of a century, you purchase exactly three lattes; two of them because mom wants to meet you in a coffee shop, and, well, that’s what you do. Lattes ain’t cheap. A couple of Starbucks lattes a week adds up to four or five hundred bucks a year; that is a charming dollhouse off of Craig’s List–for four or five hundred bucks, you can even get a charming one custom made off Etsy.
Also, you never purchase fast food. Because if we were like the average American, the two partners in this enterprise would spend $2400 a year on fast food. (The average person spends $1200 a year.) And that is several dollhouses off of Craig’s list. Or, a single magnificent once. (Actually, we do buy fast food a couple of times a year–on long road trips, after we’ve finished the baggies of carrots and bologna.)
Imagine you do not ever buy a new car. You are saving up for your dollhouse museum. Instead, you buy a used car using a lump sum of your “mattress money”–let’s say, the pennies you were saving for a fancy vacation that becomes a staycation–and you save yourself a few hundred a month in car payments. And buy . . . dollhouses!
Imagine you do not take vacations (very few, maybe once every three or for years), because vacations cost money, and you could take that money and buy dollhouses.
Imagine you never buy new clothes, only cheap ones from thrift stores. For the price of a new outfit, you can furnish one of your dollhouses.
Imagine you never go into a mall again (except Christmas, to buy gifts), because malls are all about seducing you into spending money that you could spend on . . . dollhouses!
Imagine you never go to the movies. Because frankly, theater goers are rude (these kids today, dammit…), and you’d rather watch Netflix on your huge TV at home. This saves you about $650 dollars per person a year. For all entertainment, according to the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics, it’s about $2500 annually per person, and that’s $5000 spent on annual entertainment for two people. For us, lots of that instead goes to the museum.
Imagine that in that time, your poor museum, which appears to be cursed, experiences two fires, El Derecho, a flood, and three weather events that are so harsh, the roof of your rental storage roof leaks. Damage everywhere!
Now imagine that you put all fifty dollhouses in storage as you anxiously prepare the last grand step: flipping your house for a building to house the museum.
Now imagine that you leave Virginia for Florida and stay there several months, seeing to the welfare of an 88 year old senior citizen, aka “mom”, with advance dementia. Now imagine you come back to your dollhouses and find a large hole in the wall of the storage. The person with the business next door tore the hole in the wall, and has his crap in half of your storage space. More importantly, thousands of dollars worth of your museum contents is missing. You call the police, and they will do nothing. But you can prove everything you say! The police still will do nothing. The police report is so nonsensical that no sane insurance agent would take it seriously. When you try to take action, the large windows in front of storage where you display the dollhouse are broken, to the tune of thousands of dollars.
Imagine that after this, after ALL. OF. THIS., one of the two partners trying desperately to make this museum happen has his leg cut off. (Oh, on purpose. Yes–to halt the spread of a life threatening bone infection.) And he still doesn’t have anything to put on his stump. COVID–supply chains, waiting lists, and all that. . .
Imagine you are really, really, really ready to pack it all in, and give up on everything. But you just can’t. The bad guys can’t win.
This is a true story.
You can’t make this sh*t up.
The dollhouse museum has been decimated.
Would you help tell this story? Will you help our poor museum?
–Meg Langford and Mike Pickwick.
Post Script: Our commitment is complete. We are giving up our home, a sweet three bedroom that butts up against the Blue Ridge forests, in exchange for a building to house our museum. We will live, and live happily, dammit, in a small room in the back of the building. THAT is our level of commitment.
"Read a Book, Save the Museum."
Imagine along with me.
Imagine that you own a dollhouse museum.
Imagine.
Imagine that for over a quarter of a century, you patiently collect . . . and collect . . . and collect, so that you can honor your parents by creating a “ma ‘n’ pa” museum, a legacy to the imagination and sense of wonder that they instilled in you as a child. It is also a way of remembering your dearest friend, killed by a drunk driver on Christmas Day. She happened to love dollhouses.
And by the way, you are willing to make each and every sacrifice imaginable to make this miniature museum a reality. (For those of you who got here curious about the trash museum, that dream lives a parallel existence, springing up first in 1994.)
Imagine that during the aforementioned quarter of a century, you purchase exactly three lattes; two of them because mom wants to meet you in a coffee shop, and, well, that’s what you do. Lattes ain’t cheap. A couple of Starbucks lattes a week adds up to four or five hundred bucks a year; that is a charming dollhouse off of Craig’s List–for four or five hundred bucks, you can even get a charming one custom made off Etsy.
Also, you never purchase fast food. Because if we were like the average American, the two partners in this enterprise would spend $2400 a year on fast food. (The average person spends $1200 a year.) And that is several dollhouses off of Craig’s list. Or, a single magnificent once. (Actually, we do buy fast food a couple of times a year–on long road trips, after we’ve finished the baggies of carrots and bologna.)
Imagine you do not ever buy a new car. You are saving up for your dollhouse museum. Instead, you buy a used car using a lump sum of your “mattress money”–let’s say, the pennies you were saving for a fancy vacation that becomes a staycation–and you save yourself a few hundred a month in car payments. And buy . . . dollhouses!
Imagine you do not take vacations (very few, maybe once every three or for years), because vacations cost money, and you could take that money and buy dollhouses.
Imagine you never buy new clothes, only cheap ones from thrift stores. For the price of a new outfit, you can furnish one of your dollhouses.
Imagine you never go into a mall again (except Christmas, to buy gifts), because malls are all about seducing you into spending money that you could spend on . . . dollhouses!
Imagine you never go to the movies. Because frankly, theater goers are rude (these kids today, dammit…), and you’d rather watch Netflix on your huge TV at home. This saves you about $650 dollars per person a year. For all entertainment, according to the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics, it’s about $2500 annually per person, and that’s $5000 spent on annual entertainment for two people. For us, lots of that instead goes to the museum.
Imagine that in that time, your poor museum, which appears to be cursed, experiences two fires, El Derecho, a flood, and three weather events that are so harsh, the roof of your rental storage roof leaks. Damage everywhere!
Now imagine that you put all fifty dollhouses in storage as you anxiously prepare the last grand step: flipping your house for a building to house the museum.
Now imagine that you leave Virginia for Florida and stay there several months, seeing to the welfare of an 88 year old senior citizen, aka “mom”, with advance dementia. Now imagine you come back to your dollhouses and find a large hole in the wall of the storage. The person with the business next door tore the hole in the wall, and has his crap in half of your storage space. More importantly, thousands of dollars worth of your museum contents is missing. You call the police, and they will do nothing. But you can prove everything you say! The police still will do nothing. The police report is so nonsensical that no sane insurance agent would take it seriously. When you try to take action, the large windows in front of storage where you display the dollhouse are broken, to the tune of thousands of dollars.
Imagine that after this, after ALL. OF. THIS., one of the two partners trying desperately to make this museum happen has his leg cut off. (Oh, on purpose. Yes–to halt the spread of a life threatening bone infection.) And he still doesn’t have anything to put on his stump. COVID–supply chains, waiting lists, and all that. . .
Imagine you are really, really, really ready to pack it all in, and give up on everything. But you just can’t. The bad guys can’t win.
This is a true story.
You can’t make this sh*t up.
The dollhouse museum has been decimated.
Would you help tell this story? Will you help our poor museum?
–Meg Langford and Mike Pickwick.
Post Script: Our commitment is complete. We are giving up our home, a sweet three bedroom that butts up against the Blue Ridge forests, in exchange for a building to house our museum. We will live, and live happily, dammit, in a small room in the back of the building. THAT is our level of commitment.