Of Mice and Me

Steve and I went to see the movie Dinner for Schmucks a few weeks ago. And it changed my life. I swear.

Steve didn’t want to go. I had to convince him. I normally wouldn’t want to go to one of those guys-being-guys movies, either. But I think somewhere in my subconscious, ESP (as we used to call it)-laden mind, I knew that this movie would be important for me. And I do kind of like Steve Carell. Who doesn’t? (Well, Steve doesn’t, but everyone else does.) The reviews suggested it was kind of touching (not that I ever agree with reviews—especially reviews of those kinds of movies) and my sister Nancy said I’d like it, too. Nancy knows me pretty well—we’re sort of like twins in that way, even though we’re 3 years apart—so that was a pretty convincing review for me.

So anyway, we went and I was prepared for it to be just okay. Which, by the way, is the best attitude to have going in to a movie. Have you ever noticed that? If you have great expectations, look out. They’re usually just too hard to live up to. But if you go in expecting a turkey (although why am I in the theatre if I think it’s going to be a turkey?), it’s like magic. You almost cannot be disappointed. It turns out to be a turkey? No disappointment, it’s what you expected. It’s just okay? There you go, now you’re already happy; it’s exceeded your expectations already! And if it’s good? Well, see how good that theory is?

So I didn’t expect much. But from the moment the movie started, I was thrilled. I mean, thrilled. Yes, the story was pretty cruel—in order to fit in with his superiors at the office, a guy with dreams of advancement agrees to play their cruel game: each guy must bring a loser to a dinner party they all attend. Whoever brings the biggest loser is, well, the winner. Of course, the losers (i.e., schmucks), don’t know that’s why they’re there. Making the whole thing even more cruel than it sounded in the first place.

So that wasn’t so nice. And the biggest loser of all—no surprise here—is Steve Carell. And he makes a lovely loser! He’s got all the requirements: funny teeth, glasses, interested in unusual things, klutzy, naïve, eager to please and, like I said, interested in unusual things. But he’s so much more than just your typical movie-loser: he’s vulnerable and sweet and manages to maintain a bit of self-confidence and self-worth, even while all around him are laughing at him behind, or even in front of, his back. I found myself really liking this odd guy. You might even want to hang around with him. I did.

So this particular loser has an unusual hobby for a grown man: he makes dioramas. (Do you know what those are? They’re like little miniature scenes, I now know.) And not just any dioramas; his dioramas use mice, that are so carefully crafted that they are, believe it or not, the cutest, sweetest things you’ve ever seen. (Don’t be distracted by the fact that he actually uses real dead mice that he’s taken to the taxidermist to be stuffed … I mean, I think we’ve established that he’s an odd duck.) He gives them hair, he dyes the hair, he makes their glasses, he dresses them in adorable little outfits. There’s a mouse Mona Lisa, a mouse Benjamin Franklin flying a kite, and even the Wright brothers mice flying their plane. He also makes scenarios re-enacting moments from his own life. There he is with his little mouse wife on the Ferris wheel, on the swings, having a picnic in the park.

These dioramas start the movie. This is all you see for the first 10 or 15 minutes. Just hands crafting the glasses, putting on the outfits, and placing the little “people” in their scenes. And there’s where it really got good for me. See, one time, my sister’s husband Bill told her he thought I was (in a complimentary way, I’m just certain) eccentric. And when I saw those little mouse scenarios, with all their little mouse details? Mice on swings! Mice in the park! Mice wearing little pink checked dresses! Well, I was transfixed. Transfixed. Yes, the rest of the movie came along but really, I think I would have preferred to just spend the entire hour and a half watching those hands making those mice and their mouse world. It was like it was the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen. And all I could think the whole time I watched was that I had to do this myself.

I’ve been searching for a hobby for years. I’ve taken a knitting class, taken piano lessons, made Christmas ornaments, tried scrapbooking, and who knows what else. But nothing stuck. I live in Arizona, what am I going to knit? And Christmas comes only once a year, and by the time I’d finish an ornament it was well into spring. So the search continued. I always feel such envy when I read people’s bios that mention some fascinating minutiae they’re an expert on, or hear people talk about what they did on their long weekend. “I spent the whole weekend painting hollow eggs like flags from countries around the world. Then I’ll shellac them and give them as gifts. Next I’m going to paint eggs with all the Scottish tartans.” Man, why can’t I want to do that? Steve always tells me he sees me as someone with lots of interests, rather than wasting myself on one specific one. (Steve is the best!) But I want a real hobby that I love to do. I love to read, but that’s not the same thing. Reading is so enjoyable, but it’s not like you have a creation after a book. Unless you wrote it, of course.

So there, sitting in a movie probably geared toward teenage boys, I found my hobby! I decided then and there to make dioramas of my own. Just thinking of it makes me excited (not something that ever happened with the piano, knitting, or even Christmas ornaments). I even thought of all kinds of scenarios I could create: My “Ideal Life Scene” (a lovely concept I learned during my very brief stint in the Spiritual Psychology program at the University of Santa Monica). Christmas morning (oh my gosh, we even have a toy train I gave to Steve a number of years ago that’s dying to be used. I can picture the little mouse engineer already!). My brother’s silver Airstream Trailer vacation home in Patagonia, AZ (although how could I make that any cuter than it already is? See here for proof.). Every house I’ve ever lived in. Man, I’ve got a million ideas!

And then I had another cool idea. Where is the most logical place to put doll-like creatures? In a dollhouse!

I actually have a tiny bit of experience in the dollhouse buying world. My sister Nancy decided a few years ago she’d like to have a dollhouse like the one she had when we were kids. Not a big fancy wooden one, but one of those metal ones from the fifties. They were made by Marx, and they had the furniture, rugs, pictures, beds, cribs, and even bushes painted on them already. It doesn’t sound too nice, but it really was very neat. They were so beautiful! Full of color, inside and out. That way, you didn’t have to get furniture if you didn’t want to. (Now I’m thinking about this. Were they supposed to be for those of us with limited funds? Who couldn’t afford furniture? Who would be thrilled to just look at pictures of furniture? Wow. But I don’t think so; I think they were part of that fifties “modern efficient life,” where we no longer needed to do everything by hand.) Anyway, Nancy shopped for her house on eBay, and I helped her search, from across the country on my computer. We had a blast. She ended up with a house we think might be exactly the one she had as a kid. Neato, for sure.

So I went on eBay, too, and found a dollhouse of my own. Mine isn’t a metal one, though, because I don’t want to copy Nancy exactly (after all, we are not twins, as I said) and I want to do all that decorating stuff. Painting and wallpapering and filling it with—mice. Not real ones, though, I swear! My dollhouse is a little wooden cottage, and I have to build it myself from a kit. Which is where it could get a little dicey. My brain is good with details, but my track record with hand detailing is not as stellar. I was the kid who always had glue blobs on everything in art class. And I suspect time has not diminished that lack of talent. But no matter. My house might well have blobs of glue. I think I can call it "character.”

I couldn’t wait to get started. And I didn’t want to have to wait until the dollhouse arrived in the mail to get going, so I decided I could get started on the people. (Okay, they’re really mice.) Nancy suggested I go to the pet store and get some stuffed toy mice they have for cats to play with. Perfect! I found some that are just right, with little arms to hold purses and other necessities in life, and big enough to dress and accessorize without needing a microscope. (And in keeping with all things miniature, if you want to see some amazing sculptures that you do need a microscope to even see, go here.) I even bought some really little mice, sans arms, for the children, should they want to multiply. I suspect they will.

And for my very first couple, my own little Adam and Eve if you will, I was inspired by our good friends Fred and Lynette. Steve and I were supposed to be in the skiing town of Telluride a few weeks ago for their secret wedding. Steve was even supposed to perform the ceremony. He got ordained online, we got him a priest’s stole, he found a few beautiful poems and readings, we had a song or two ready to sing; we were all set. But then, as you may know, I broke my ankle, and we decided at the last minute that flying around the country and then maneuvering myself all over a small, rustic town—and mountain!—would not be a wise thing for my foot. Not with my crutches and not even with Rollerboy. So we canceled. And felt awful!

The Happy Couple

So last weekend we had a private little dinner for the two of them to make up for it, and I decided to make a wedding couple for them. A mouse bride and groom! But get this: it turns out the mecca of all things crafty, Michael’s ("where creativity happens," they tell me), does NOT do doll/dollhouse stuff. Apparently that kind of creativity happens elsewhere. No houses, no clothes, no nuthin.’ So I had to make everything. Which I was not expecting, but which turned out to be a blast, so thank you, Michael, whoever you are. I used a crocheted doily I had around the house for a wedding gown, made a top hat out of felt, and even used some tips I’d seen from the movie to dress my little friends. So I’ve actually finished my first mice people!


We had the dinner in our suite at the Arizona Inn in Tucson. (Wow, if you ever want a nice play to stay in that town and be treated like royalty, that’s it! No further looking needed. But be sure to bring a fat wallet.) We sat the mice right next to the (real) wedding cake. And they made the best bride and groom ever—after Fred and Lynette, of course. Well, and after Steve and me, too. At least I think so. I think Fred and Lynette were pleased, too. Perhaps they thought it a bit eccentric? Well, they wouldn’t have been the first!

Another Happy Couple