Miss Librarian the Paper Doll

A package showed up at my door Saturday morning addressed to the “Master Librarian, Carrie Consalvi.” It was from someone in Los Angeles named Brigette B. The envelope had a big blue heart sticker for a seal. What could it be? I just went to my first American Library Association workshop a couple weeks ago, maybe it was copies of the materials? But I couldn’t really see the ALA sealing the envelope with a cutesy heart. But who is this person? What could it be?

I tore it open. Pulled out the thick paper inside. And found this staring back at me.

A naked woman of the paper sort. But not just any naked paper woman. Miss Librarian. The Miss Librarian I twittered something about a week or so ago when I was wishing I could still play with paper dolls. And here she is. Just waiting to be clothed.

She has friends, too. An owl, because owls stand for wisdom. And that’s what Librarians are full of. Among other things.

And a cat. Because Librarians must be cat people. But Miss Librarian is hopefully not a “cat lady,” because that just plays into the tight bun, polyester skirt, shush-at-all-costs librarian stereotype to which we all gravitate. And excuse me but that cat’s bum is right on the cover of the book. Right where you’d hold it in your hands. Gross.

But we all know the most wonderful part about a paper doll is the clothes. The vast assortment of a perfectly-posed, fully-tabbed wardrobe. And believe me, this librarian is entirely fashionable. For instance, check out her work attire. A splash of feminine purples and pinks in a high color blouse paired with a navy blue pencil skirt. And for a pop of color? Fluorescent pink heals, of course. Complete with a matching assortment of books.

And we mustn’t forget her mildly sexy, entirely sensual poetry outfit? Horizontal stripes to accentuate the bust and offset the dark contrast of the black, form fitting leggings. Very curvy. Very artsy.

And have you noticed the shoes? Am I allowed to be jealous of a paper doll? Stiletto heals with rosy pompoms. Nice.

Aside from the 7-year-year old Barbie loving, Little Mermaid wanna-be girl rejoicing inside me, I really want to share my enthusiasm over this artwork. Because it truly is lovely. I initially thought the doll was cute and creative and librariany and possibly looked a little bit like me minus the pencil thin waste and ginormous boobs. But up close? Fine detail. Great texture. Excellent archival quality. Better than any of the paper dolls I had as a kid. This is really exceptional work.

Brigette B.? You do very well for yourself.

And so I ask you, who? Who would have given me this thoughtful gift?

At first I thought it was my co-worker. Cheerful Vanessa. She was with me when I first discovered Miss Librarian and promptly told me she was going to buy it for me if I didn’t order it right then and there. But when I went to thank her this morning?

“Wait, why are you thanking me? Do you know who sent it to you? It wasn’t me. I was waiting to see if your husband would buy it for you.”

Hmm. Not Cheerful Vanessa? Maybe she’s right. Maybe my husband was being sneaky. He lives to be sneaky. But when I called him up?

“I didn’t buy it. I totally would have taken credit for it if I had. It’s a good gift. Maybe it was Marly.”

Hmm. Not my sweet husband? This is a mystery! But maybe he’s right. My boss—my friend, Thoughtful Marly is generous to a fault. She also shares an extreme fondness for all things Etsy. I wouldn’t be surprised if she bought it for me. But when I asked her?

“It wasn’t me. Glad somebody got it for you though. It’s so cute! It wasn’t your husband? What about your mom?”

Oh yes. My mother—of course! Why didn’t I think of her? The original person who supplied my love for paper and dolls and art. And how she loves to indulge my librarianess! It was almost too obvious. When I called her up last night, she chuckled a little to herself.

“Would your mother be the sort to buy you paper dolls when you’re 26 years old?”

“Yes. But how did you know?”

“You posted it on your Twitter.”

“I didn’t know you followed me.”

“Oh Carrie, don’t forget I’m your mother. I cherish every little word you write.”

The mystery is solved. Please excuse me. I may or may not have a half naked-librarian that needs help dressing herself up.

And if my husband is reading this, please don’t read too much into that last statement.