An occasionally updated chronicle of estate sales in the city and suburbs of Chicago.

"It's such a guilty pleasure..." Lynne Stiefel, Pioneer Press

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Mount Prospect Doll House

Nothing makes this job easier than an obsession allowed to grow unchecked. It's even better when that obsession is dolls, which are creepy enough in ones and twos. Fill a house with them, however, and these posts practically write themselves.

Here we go. This doll house was given pride of place in the living room. Everything else was arrayed around it, as if it sat in the center of some kind of shrine. I heard someone say that the dolls who used to live here missed a bunch of payments, and are now down in the basement, living in a cardboard box.

This bedroom was jam-packed with adorable preciousness from top to bottom. Let's take a closer look at that wallpaper behind the bed.

Just imagine -- a wall covered with these little imps of Hell. That zombified Pierrot in the upper-right corner, stumbling blindly among all these glassy-eyed Victorian ladies, is especially awful. If these girls ever started chattering to you in your head, I bet they'd never shut up.

Legend tells of an Amish family with no faces, who wander the backroads of Pennsylvania at night, looking for weary travelers who are charmed by their primitive cuteness, and then killing them.

There weren't just dolls, there were books about dolls.

Lots and lots of books about dolls.

So many I'm surprised I didn't find a copy of "Valley of the Dolls" somewhere with them.

This is what I call a basket full of "Woof!"

Here's a lineup of cute little cubs.

Still more. It must have been bear night at The Doll House, with 2-for-1 cans of PBR.

This library was just down the hall.

That book just above Kennedy's head should come as no surprise.

I'd make a joke about these two and erections, but this is a family blog.

Let's see what's upstairs. Watch you step!

This little attic room was tucked away on the second floor, and was just creepy enough to be the place where dolls were sent when they were naughty.

This was in the back, a reminder of a simpler and more streamlined time. One before the dolls came, and took over everything. It makes me wish I lived in a larger place and knew how to reupholster.

Here's another bedroom.

Look at all those Stepford Wife hats.

Someone with this many dolls must have a ton of Christmas stuff. I bet it's downstairs. Let's take a look and then get out of here.

Those people in the back kept turning this vacuum cleaner on and off, and every time they did this horrible chemical smell would fill up the entire basement. People were coughing and waving their hands in front of their faces and commenting to one another about the terrible smell, but those two continued to not take the hint.

This Capeheart record player still worked. It was playing some Broadway sound track, which just made the basement and the bad smell and all the people and the whole darned thing that much more surreal.

Jackpot. Christmas stuff in spades.

So much that it had to be hung from the ceiling, like so many holiday varmints who'd been stealing reindeer and shooting up the workshop and scaring the elves.

Back upstairs. I saw this sign on the way out. I love how "cleaning supplies" is underlined, as if to emphasize that this closet features something that is not dolls, and therefore unique in this house.

1 comment :

  1. My mother in law is a doll person. I have woken up in pure terror on more than one visit, surrounded by glass eyes and rosy cheeks.


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