Birthday Wishes & Wine-filled Kisses

As much as dolls are treasured by little girls everywhere, those girls never stop to think we might like to have a birthday party of our own. Sure, we’re invited to tea parties, the occasional sleep-over and if we’re really lucky, family outings. Unfortunately, we’re just as likely to be left behind at a friend’s house, or a restaurant; making us unwanted guests who sit by the front door, waiting to be claimed.  Of course, since I’m an unwanted guest in my own home, this is nothing new for me.

Today’s birthday celebration came as a surprise. The day before, the little blond girl had taken me outside to play – only because she doesn’t care if I get dirty, broken or lost. I was a little damp from my “swimming lessons”, which had taken place in a dirty rain bucket. Consequently, I had been left sitting on a table at the front entrance so I could dry out.

All day long, the mom was out shopping, while the girl, her brother and dad cleaned and tidied every possible space. I’m not sure why they bothered, because once they were done, they proceeded to tape scrap bits of pink and purple paper to the ceiling, draping it to conceal the stark white paint. To this, they added pink and purple balloons, along with carnations dyed in the same pastel hues. Strange, that they would clean, only to clutter it all up again. To be perfectly honest, it looked like a cupcake exploded on the main floor of the house, and now the rooms were dripping with pastel cherry and blueberry icing.

“Erika, would you get this ugly doll out of here?” The dad was wandering around the house, picking up this, straightening that and removing anything remotely offensive.

“I can’t. She’s wet, so mommy wanted her to stay here.” To prove her point, the girl lifted me by the hair and gave me a little shake. Drops of water leaked from my various crevices.

“Then put her outside, or something.”

“Can’t. It’s supposed to rain – then she’ll never dry out in time for the yard sale next week.” The girl plopped me back down on the table, not caring that my left arm gave a little jerk and my expression changed from happy to shocked.

As the shadows started to lengthen and the house grew darker, the man ran around the house, lighting candles and calling to the children to make themselves busy in their rooms. With all the paper hanging from the ceiling, you would think he would have been worried about burning down the house.

Before I knew it, the house was filled with strangers. Some came with squares of paper, others with colourful boxes and even more with bottles of liquid. The liquid stuff seemed to make everyone happy. No one noticed me, listing slightly to the side, at the entrance to the house.

If they were trying to surprise the Birthday Girl, they did a rather lousy job. Oh, she was surprised, just not in the way she probably expected. Instead of being welcomed by a chorus of “Surprise!” she was greeted by me.

The table was piled so high with stuff, forcing me to slowly lose my unsteady perch. Just at the moment she walked in the door, and before anything was shouted, I dropped to the floor, with a terrible grimace on my face, sprinkling dirty water all over her shoes and scaring the crap out of her.

She squealed in fright and jumped back just as the party-goers shouted their “Surprise”.  Irritated, the dad came forward, kicked me out of the way and enveloped his wife in a hug. I stared at them from under the table, trying to tamp down the anger that was slowly bubbling up inside. It wasn’t my fault Erika had taken me outside, soaked me and then left me on the table to tumble at an inopportune time.

“I hate that doll,” I heard the woman murmur in her husband’s ear, before turning a smile on the crowd behind him. She stepped into the room, receiving hugs and kisses from anyone and everyone, while I continued to stare out at them all from under the table.

The evening dragged on, with laughter, games and much consumption from those bottles that made everyone so happy. It seemed they got louder as the bottles got emptier. The kids were sent to bed while the adults continued to play, cranking the music, dancing in the living room and drinking from long-stemmed glasses.

Suddenly, I found myself being scooped up and brought into the midst of the party. A purple boa was draped around my neck, and someone plucked the tiara the birthday girl had been wearing from her hair and plopped it on my head.

“Not much of an improvement, I’m afraid,” one guest commented.

Another guest grabbed me and planted a wet kiss on my rubbery cheek. “Poor, ugly doll.”

Before I knew it, I was the centre of attention, my arm was being cranked, people were doubled over with fits of laughter and the wine continued to flow freely. I should have been flattered by so much interest, but I was furious. This wasn’t love and affection, it was ridicule and derision. If I’d had a heart, it would have shattered into a thousand pieces for their cruelty.

It was the wine that really pushed me over the edge. When the adults were finished their nasty games, I was left lying on the sofa, practically wedged between the cushions. One butt after another descended upon me, only to have the owner squeak “Oh!” before shifting to the side. During one of these episodes, when I would have screamed had I been given vocal chords, a large woman, whose butt I was about to pinch, sloshed her wine all over me as she awkwardly shifted to the side. So now, I was wet, sticky and smelled of happy-juice – just like the rest of them.

She picked me up, haphazardly wiped the wine away with a napkin and planted a wine-filled kiss on my forehead. I didn't need someone to crank my arm into an expression of horror. Not liking what she saw, she grabbed hold of my left arm and started to pump it up and down, trying to rearrange my sour expression into something more cheerful. Surprise! A gush of dirty rain-water poured out from under my arm, staining her cream-coloured dress muddy brown. Revenge is far sweeter than Birthday cake. 

From one box to another

If I sit quietly enough, and the air is still, I can remember the faint scent of stale cardboard, combined with a less pleasant, tangy odour reminiscent of burnt rubber.  As long as I wasn’t jostled around too much, I didn’t mind my box. It was dark and cozy inside. Occasionally, little bits of light would creep into my sanctuary; like shadows, they would flicker across the cardboard walls, dance into my line of vision and then escape as quickly as they’d come. 

Life in a box might seem lonely, but if you don’t know any different, the solitude is comforting, in its own way. I learned how to be content with my own company long before I learned how to find solace with others. Inside the box, everything is shadowed in newness. New shoes, new dress, new hair, new mechanical devices – that last one is a big deal to those in the outside world. It was 1972 and I was the latest and greatest in new-fangled toys for girls.

Muffled cries breach the quiet of my box, but I can’t distinguish between happy and distraught. The high pitched noise offends the blanketing silence of my closed-off world and I wish it would fade away, along with the piercing light and periodic vibrations. For a brief moment, my world is still once again. Quiet. Waiting, without even realizing I’m waiting, I sink into the comforting lull of nothingness.

The screeching of metal hinges jars my senses. I awaken from my reverie to see the girl’s smiling face bending over her old toy trunk. Her hands reach in, soft and sticky. Bits of cloth and plastic are shuffled around the trunk, spilling over me, catching in my hair. She grabs hold of my leg, gives a sharp tug and I find myself dangling upside down in front of light blue eyes. The expression on her face looks like a smile from this angle, but I know from experience, it’s a grimace. Disappointed, she drops me back into the trunk and slams the lid. Obviously, I wasn’t what she was looking for.

From the day I entered her world, she hated me.

“Oooooh,” the high-pitched, excited squeal of a child filled the air, while my forehead repeatedly whacked against the wall of my manufacturer’s box. “It’s the one I wanted! The one that makes all those funny faces! Thank-you-thank-you-thank-you!”

I heard the sound of paper tearing as the top of my box was ripped open. Light poured in, sweeping the darkness away. Eager hands reached inside, pulled me out by my hair, and forced me into a much bigger world than I had known.  Blue eyes stared into mine while the sticky fingers twisted my head back and forth, allowing the rest of my body to swing freely. It’s a strange sensation.

The nose wrinkled, making the freckles on her cheeks dance and I think I might like this little person, who was handling me so roughly.

“It’s kind of ugly.” She presented me to a larger version of herself. “Her dress is ok, but her hair is weird.”

The larger version took hold of me; her hands were gentler as she grasped my arms instead of my hair. “Let’s see what she can do.”

Do? I can do things?  Yes, let’s see.

The woman spins me around to face the child and starts cranking my left arm up and down, up and down, like a lever. I feel my face twitching, as gears slide into motion and my features contort into a smile, then a frown, then my eyes shift back and forth before falling closed.

I hear the child laughing. “Lemme try!”

Her rough little hands take hold of me once more. Furiously, she pumps my arm up and down, forcing my features to quickly reshape themselves. The girl’s lips pull down, in an echo of my grimace and she tosses me aside. I land face-down on the orange shag carpet.

“She’s really ugly. I don’t like her.”

A boy’s feet come into view. He nudges me with his toe, flipping me me onto my back. “It looks like something out of a horror movie.”

As my left arm slides down towards the ground, my gears pop, and my face settles into a calm expression. The woman picks me up, straightens out my dress and hands me back to the girl. “She’s not so bad. Grandma was so excited to send her to you. Please don’t tell her you hate the doll. Keep it for a bit, and in the summer we can put her in the yard sale.”

The girl sticks her little pink tongue out and roles her pretty blue eyes.

“Take her up to your room and put her away.”

Still holding me by the hair, as though she can’t stand to touch the rest of me, the girl drags me behind her. She is so small, the backs of my legs bump against each carpeted step, leaving a dusky brown mark, like a bruise, on my pink plastic calves. Once in her room, she lifts the lid to a pink wooden box, tosses me inside and slams down the lid. I hear the pitter-patter of her feet skipping from the room and then everything is once again blanketed in dark silence.

This box is much larger than my original, filled with strange shapes and textures. Something slips beneath me and my weight settles deeper into the trunk.