i miss old woe is me

I am the worst type of doll collector. Recently I have been asking myself what my dolls really mean to me and if I would miss them if they were gone. So I stored them all away in a cupboard, having them out of sight and removed from their usual space where I could look at them every day. So far, nothing. Haven’t felt the urge to put them up again. However, I have been planning & looking for new dolls. Have I grown tired of my old dolls? Will I grow tired of new ones just as well? Vicious cycle.


Old Money Blues

Anna Lime was old money. She was the very definition of the term. The dame had everything she could ever want, from parties to perfume, and to top it all off, she lived in France in one of those marble mansions in castle country. She was French by blood, by name, and by trade. The only thing foreign about her were the pearls in her earrings, but even that was only a whisper among the serving girls. Well, when she had serving girls and a french mansion and parents in the booming perfume industry. That had changed with the Great War. Her parents were gone, so was her sister, and there was no way in hell the youngest daughter of a French aristocrat was going to lock herself in an empty mansion and run a business. She’d rather run away to America and have her cousin do all that jazz. So she did. America was a nice place. It wasn’t as old as France nor as arid, but the hot summers and cold winters of Chicago bustled nonstop to the beat of jazz and the clink of moonshine on bar counters. She could dance to a beat like that.

For awhile, that is. Then, she’d stumble out onto the rain-slicked city streets, start a fight, take a taxi back to her apartment on Michigan Avenue, or get into a little more trouble. Usually, she was sinning hard enough to make the devil dizzy by the time the sun rose. One time, the sinners got to her first. That night wasn’t enjoyable in the least but that was how the city rolled. She went on dancing to forget, drinking to numb the pain, and fighting to dull the anger. By her second summer in America, Anna Lime was infamous for her accent, her affluence, and her ass. All three got her to the biggest parties, the most handsome of men, and the worst case of flapper fever a girl could have.

More often than not, she wound up in a southside bar, Dally’s. The music was good and the drinks better. The men? Well, they were okay. There was always a singer or piano player she’d go home with, so she couldn’t complain most nights. The first time she met him, though, it had been a bad night. She had a lot of those. Anna would get to drinking too much without a friend to stop her, start thinking, and end up in a world of hurt. That night, the singer was jazzing up old war songs. Who else was she supposed to think of but her parents and her sister? 

Surrounded by empty glasses and laughing patrons, she lamented her story to the bartender while the musicians switched out. The man next to her glanced nervously to Anna every once and awhile and, when she was finished with her drunken tale of woe, he set a rough hand on her shoulder. “I am zorry,” he said with a thick German accent, “Let me buy you a drink, miss, and we vill toast to old friends.”

What could she say? Anna snapped. How dare this German bastard talk to her? She wanted nothing he had to say or give her! “How about you,” Anna slurred in her own heavy accent, “How ‘bout you fuck off, yah imbécile!” The woman stood from the bar, twisted back and hooked a punch into the German’s nose. He stumbled backward, clutching at his face as blood poured from between his fingers. Anna stepped on his toes with her heel and kneed him in the crotch. The German groaned and sank to his knees, but revived himself a moment later and shoved Anna to the bar. “Bitch!” He spat, slapping a large hand across her face, “I’ll teach you to treat a man like that!”