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Posts Tagged ‘Abby’

My husband once remarked that I was extremely good at making my own fun. He’s right.

Why, just the other day I realised I was approaching 400 ‘likers’ on Facebook so I decided to run another ‘give away’. Some readers may remember the last ‘giveaway’ I ran which resulted in me sending one lucky person a picture of a dog! Wearing a hat! Smoking a cigar!! (see ‘Picture Perfect’).

This time, I decided to go that little bit further. Inspired by a photo I found on my internet travels of a Japanese woman wearing a ‘Hair Protector’ while she ate a bowl of noodles, I got busy making a noodle hair protector for The Pixie’s ‘sister’ Abby. This, if you think about it, was a veritable Sara Lee Danish full of irony (“layer upon layer”) because A) Abby doesn’t actually have any hair to protect from noodles – or anything else for that matter – and B) Abby can’t even eat noodles because she’s a fucking plastic doll.

The kids watched with some small amount of awe while I was carefully folding paper and cutting strips of sticky tape.

“What are you doing?” one of them asked, after a while.

“I’m making a Noodle Hair Protector for Abby.”

“Why?”

“Uh… I really don’t know,” was the honest answer. After all, it was before seven o’clock in the morning and I hadn’t even had my coffee yet.

“But mark my words,” I assured the kids. “You are witnessing Genius In Action.”

Arguably, it was more “Genius Inaction” but what the hey, I took a photo of Abby wearing it and sent it off to my giveaway winner with some small sense of satisfaction. The NDM: changing the world one strange photograph at a time.

I waited and waited for the winner’s email reply. Nothing came. I grew despondent. It was hauntingly like that dark day I sent a bunch of people a picture of a watermelon cut into the shape of the Death Star and not a single one of them thanked me. Not a single one.

In my despair, I reached out to touch somebody. I decided to write to my new friend Mark Pollard of [advertising agency] McCann Australia. My email went something like this:

Dear Mark,

I expect I haven’t heard from you for a while because you’ve been busy briefing your legal team. Whether it’s for an employment contract, legal suit or a restraining order, time will tell.

In the meantime, I wanted to reassure you that I am totally fine with being flown to Sydney and put up at the Sheraton On The Park at McCann’s expense. You know, in case you were wondering.

Incidentally, my husband stayed at the Sheraton On The Park for work a few weeks ago and he bought me back the room service breakfast menu as a present because he’d spent all his money on his room service breakfast. We subsequently enjoyed many happy hours laughing at the exorbitant prices and making owl impressions by looking through those little holes you hang the menu on the door handle with. I would have sent you a photo of me making an owl impression except my husband appears to have put the menu in the recycling. I did, however, spend *at least* five minutes searching for it which should show you how serious I am about furthering our professional relationship.

Instead, I’ve attached a picture of my daughter’s ‘sister’ wearing a home-made Noodle Hair Protector.

I look forward to hearing from your legal team,

The NDM

PS. Hope you don’t mind but I’ve decided to bring that spunky Todd from ‘The Gruen Transfer’ in on our conversation.

cc. Todd Sampson, CEO of Leo Burnett, Australia

Happily, Mark replied within the hour. He began his email with the words “I think you need your own TV show”. There were some other minor details about not being able to pay me and (perhaps) some small hint about “email harassment” but basically, I think he’s definitely about to offer me my own Reality TV series…

See? I really can make my own fun and soon I’ll be making yours, too, on a small screen near you.

________________________________

Edited to add: Rest assured, the winner of my giveaway did respond –  Facebook just decided to fuck with my head and hide it from me.  She said: “Best prize I ever won. My eyes hurt.”

Edited to also add:  Somewhat surprisingly, that Spunky Todd from ‘The Gruen Transfer‘ has yet to respond, however. I expect he’s now in meetings with his lawyers, too.

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Wherever my daughter and I go these days, we are always accompanied by a baby doll called Abby.

People love to see little girls with baby dolls. They always smile at The Pixie and say “Is that your little baby you’ve got there?”

The Pixie tends to frown when asked this question. After all, it’s a bit obvious she’s too young to have a baby of her own.

“No, she’s not my baby. She’s my little sister,” she replies solemnly.

“Which makes her my baby!” I then exclaim, perhaps a little too brightly because the people’s smiles tend to fade at this point of the conversation and, more often than not, they take a little step backwards.

Yes, I am now officially – or at least according to The Pixie – a mother of four.

Luckily, Abby sleeps a lot. Like a lot a lot. And she never cries. Not even a little bit. After having had three babies who did lots of crying and precious little sleeping, the universe owes me an easy one, even if it is a plastic doll.

The Pixie is growing suspicious about my parenting skills, however. When she gets home from school, the first thing she usually asks is “Where’s Abby?”

“Uh, Abby’s still in the pram…” I had to admit one day.

“Still? Didn’t you get her out all day?” she asked, outraged.

“No,” I replied. “She was, uh, sleeping soundly. Very very soundly. I didn’t want to disturb her.”

“Well, aren’t you going to get her up?” she demanded .

“Could you do it, sweetheart? I’m cooking dinner for my other (real) children,” I said, careful to swallow the word “real” so as not to upset her (see below).

“She’s your baby!” she replied, her finger no doubt poised over the speed dial button for the Department of Health and Services.

“She’s not a baby, she’s a doll!” Mr Justice suddenly weighed in from nowhere.

“NO! SHE’S NOT A DOLL. SHE’S MY SISTTTTTEERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!” The Pixie wailed, running from the room with her fist held dramatically to her mouth.

We have had many variations on this conversation over the past couple of months, inevitably ending in The Pixie’s tears.

For example:

PIXIE: How many people in our family?

NDM: (distracted) Five…

PIXIE: No! There’s six! You forgot Abby!

MR JUSTICE: Yes, [Pixie] there are six in our family. Five people and one stupid doll.

PIXIE: SHE’S NOT A DOLL! SHE’S MY SISSSSTTTERRRRRRRRRRR!

Or:

PIXIE: Abby’s enjoying her water soup, Mummy!

NDM: (distracted) That’s nice, dear.

MR JUSTICE: Water soup isn’t soup, it’s just water and Abby can’t even swallow it because she’s a doll.

PIXIE: SHE’S NOT A DOLL! SHE’S MY SISSSSTTTERRRRRRRRRRR!

And even:

PIXIE: Abby!

MR JUSTICE: Doll!

PIXIE: SISSSSSTTTTTTTTTTERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!

But I have to hand it to The Pixie. She’s obviously spending a lot of time wondering how she can argue against Mr Justice’s claims that Abby is “just a doll”.

“Human beings aren’t real,” she announced in the car the other day. “We are all dolls.”

Mr Justice didn’t even pause for breath with his rebuttal. “Well, [Pixie], since you are always telling us Abby is not a doll, you’re only proving that she is not One Of Us.”

“You’re a doll! YOU’RE! A! DOLL!” The Pixie screamed back at him.

Although technically correct, Mr Justice should probably be careful at this point. His sister may well end up like Joy from Psychoville or Abby is going to go all Bride of Chucky. Either way, it’s not going to end well.

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