small miracles.

I remember a time when craft-stores existed in my mind as the Mecca of all things fun. In a toss-up between Disneyland and Hobby Lobby, it would have taken some serious convincing to lure me away from the high I experienced every science fair season while roaming the aisles of felt and fake floral arrangements that line the HL, as I like to call it.

Over the years though, I've matured. I'm no longer consumed by the immediate necessity of a sand-art fix, nor do I require new posters of puppies to adorn my pre-Bat Mitzvah walls on a bi-monthly basis. I'm a woman now, there is no denying, and along with my developed figure has emerged a developed taste for fun and adventure, sans lanyard string. Still, the occassional lap around my neighborhood Hobby Lobby never fails to get me all hot and bothered, regardless of my mature-as-fuck carraige. Why you ask? Because if there is one tchotchki women are powerless against its a poison craft-stores know and manufacture all too well: the miniature.

I've always had a thing for small packages. Get your minds out of the gutter. Sexual references aside, I will happily swear on any midget that bittier is better.

Allow me to chart for you my love affair with minis.  

Age 4: Polly Pocket.

The tiniest bitch I've ever known, and I loved her with a passion I've yet to duplicate with a human being.  

Age 6: My Little Pony.

She was mine and she was little and she was all I could ask for in a tiny plastic horse. And that BRUSH! Miniscule! Lovingly sandwiched snugly between my pointer and thumb finger; it would have stroked that rainbow mane for hours on end.



Age 8: Tamagotchi.

You may know them from such things as Giga Pets, the rip-off version that still sees success today in spite of its stolen origins. I'm still bitter. My Tamagotchi was my figurative big-toe dip into the waters of parenthood. Even cleaning up its virtual poop was enjoyable. You know why? Because they were virtual tiny. And resembled Hershey Kisses. I was such an exemplary mother to little Tam that I was awarded "Best Tamagotchi Mom" at the final banquet for my summer swim-team. Apparently my breast-stroke fell just shy of impressive. Why am I telling you this?? 


Age 16: My miniature madness takes a turn for the racy and comes in the form of tiny booze.

It was high school, baby, and I was living young, fast and free. What? I'm GROUNDED?!  Totes sneaking out later. OMG, wait. I stole three bottles of Jim Beam from my grandparents' minibar last weekend! No, you idiot its like rum or some shit. Score! We're gonna get soooo wasted!!!!

And now, present day. 2011. I find myself tantalized by the tiny with every turn of my head.

Why spend money on food when I can buy an entire brigade of two-inch high Civil War soldiers that I can strategize the Battle of Gettysburg with? Its an entire army! From a birds eye view!!!

My latest punitive penchant comes in the form of miniature utensils.

I'm melting. And its not this dry Texas heat. A tiny fork is all it takes to unlock the key to my cold, cold heart. What are they good for? Absolutely nothing, if you have no soul. But any mini enthusiast will happily admit that there is something about those diminutive prongs that tugs at our heart-strings in a way an ordinary fork simply couldn't without puncturing an artery.

This miniature madness is a blessing and a curse, ladies. And one we must all learn to accept.
The best things truly do come in small packages, just ask these broads: