Misfit Island

In honor of Christmas, and those memories laced with old cartoons of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, I thought I would bring in the spirit of Christmas with a blog on misfit toys…that live in our household…

It seems that over the years we have accumulated toys from very generous people, but oft times we have been on the receiving end of gross and damaged toys. It is the latter that my kids get ecstatic over. It’s the damaged goods that have them squealing in delight. This perplexes me.

“Wouldn’t you rather have a beautiful, clean doll instead?” I try to persuade them, stressing the word ‘clean’.

(I sincerely apologize to the person who gave us this hand-me-down-doll. It was probably a family member and I don’t mean to offend….)


My kids can see past the toy’s “outward” beauty and see the pure, beautiful stuffing inside- (and even then I’m truly skeptical…where has this thing been rotting??) This is one area where I am truly prejudiced. “You really like the sticky, jam-stained doll?” I ask in a deadpan voice. No amount of oxy clean could save this thing- not even Mr. Clean’s magic eraser- But I tried anyway- hoping the magic eraser would erase the doll entirely, but to my dismay- the decrepit thing remained…still burning my eyes with it’s ugliness.

Alright…my kid loves the doll.
So I decide to make the ugly doll some clothes, paint on some hair- (I’m actually considering watching a show on male-pattern baldness to see how to install my own “hand-made” plug-ins with yarn….)
Using an enthusiastic voice I say, “Alright kiddo, let’s go make the poor homely thing some clothes!” The only problem is-- I have no idea how to sew. I do know how to sew a line…I didn’t say it would be straight….that’s on a more sophisticated scale than I have yet mastered. (Trust me- my own mother could vouch for this.)

I quickly change my mind; sewing could be disastrous--even my seamstress neighbors wouldn’t be able to save the mess I would create--or fix the damage to the sewing machine. And yes, I DO own a sewing machine.
Why my mother gave me her hand-me-down is a mystery.

So- - (no pun intended) it sits in my storage room, collecting the prettiest shades of dust. And in my defense--even if I brought the sewing machine upstairs and tried to master the on/off switch, blowing off all that dust could create a severe case of asthma. I wouldn’t want to subject myself to that--or the kids. I have to think of their health. Plus, my hair. I have to think about my hair. If I tried to tackle a job so out of my skill range, I may start pulling chunks out in frustration. (Wait a minute…maybe I could donate it to the hairless doll….oh… there’s a thought…)

Okay- back to the doll story. (So sorry. I’m so deprived of adult conversation--I just get carried away.)
Deep breath. Here I go….
I finally decide that the best possible solution for a girl of my skills (which are nil in the sewing department) is to make a homemade toga. (I know how to make those VERY well…lots of experience…) (I shutter at the thought…see prior blog on pregnancy) I gather pink material and make it a feminine toga, although I doubt that will help the doll.
Even its gender is up for interpretation….

Okay. So we now have a very feminine guy/girly doll (like a Ryan Seacrest doll- only Ryan Seacrest IS much better looking than whatever the heck it is my kid fell in love with) (Props to Ryan Seacrest for having hair)

I also decide to give it a bow--to cutesy it up--and then the naming process begins. “Sweetheart,” (‘strange child,’ is what I’m actually thinking) “what would you like to name this-- her” I instantly correct myself.

She waits a moment. “Baby botchy”

WHAT?
Like, as in “baby botulism?” I’m thinking: ‘you’re naming your baby after a food born bacteria?!’

“No,” she corrects me. She proudly pronounces the name slowly. “Baby b-u-t-t-c-h-e-y.”

Baby Buttchey. Oh, like that is SOOOOOOO much better…..
“Whatever,” I tell her. I let it slide and we now have baby botulism or baby buttchey--you take your pick--it depends on how the 5 year old pronounces it whenever she speaks to it with loving adoration.

We continue on with life. My daughter plays with it happily. If she ever wants to play doctor with her doll, I’m going to show her how to administer tetanus shots to the decrepit thing…if I thought it would do any good…
Perhaps I could show her how to amputate the head…it would make a remarkable improvement…
Ugh- I can’t do that either…she’d just be in love with a headless doll. And then in the morbidity of it all, I’d end up renaming the thing ‘Ichabod Crane’ but because of it’s ‘plumpness’ and the shade of the doll, people will think she’s carrying around a headless chicken…an ICK-abod headless chicken. Sorry gals, this is a rare toy, it’s a one-of-a-kind. Don’t be looking for them on ‘select’ toy shelves.

I eventually forget about the doll
(I use the Dr. Phil 5 step ‘amnesia trauma-be-gone’ program) I even allow “It” to ride in the car with us--but strictly under the condition that my daughter does not bring it into the store with us. (I’m still at a loss for what “it” is) however, my kids have been known to be sneaky, and on one occasion—it happened in a heavily frequented shopping center.

As we shopped, I realized she was carrying her “little treasure” (of disease) when she screamed so loudly, I nearly grabbed the mace from my purse, my mother-bear instincts coming into play.
“OH NO! BABY BUTTCHEY!!!!” she screamed, shattering the glass-paneled doors in the refrigerated isle.

I looked down.
Heaven forbid.
She had dropped the forlorn doll-- and mommy had nearly run over it with the shopping cart wheel. (Which would have done the doll an enormous favor in my opinion because she could have received a free face lift)

I looked at the expression on my daughter’s face and then stared dumfoundedly at the ugly doll. “Mommy, you almost hurt it!”
‘Oh no,’ I think to myself. ‘The island of misfit toys will be uniting on Christmas eve to plan an assault against our house.'
Baby Buttchey was probably their princess…

I stare at her. She stares at me.

I start thinking about the heap of misfit toys in my playroom. I’m thinking of that broken pink laptop sitting on the playroom floor…the misfit toys will get an email from ‘Princess BUTTchey,’ using the instant messaging features on her Fisher Price play phone…and the toys will wickedly organize a “Toy Story” type attack.

Yukon Cornelius and Charlie-in-the-box will be on the front lines...using broken nunchucks and pulled off Barbie legs for clubs.

I should be afraid--but I’m not. Instead, I pick up the hideous beast and dump her back in the cart, her head bounces off the milk and slides between the bars of the shopping cart—caged—where she rightfully should be. I narrow my eyes and dare her to try anything…

“Beware,” I whisper to the misfit toy, using my evil-eye. (It’s okay to use my evil eye on this doll, because now, I look just like her) “I’m watching you,” I tell her. “If you try anything--anything—you’ll be wishing for more than your two front teeth for Christmas this year.”

I think the doll actually smiled back.
The game is on.

Oh, yeah….
Time for me to gather my army of new, clean toys. I’m recruiting the Little Drummer Boy and his militia of G.I Joes.

It’s time to fire-up the Lego’s cannon…

Another misfit doll. Can you believe my kids actually fought for an hour over who was going to play with this thing? Come on! The head popped off!

Isn't this doll a "treasure"? It's one of those 'pee pee' dolls to help potty-train. Obviously, the doll no longer works...and it looks like it's hanging by it's lungs....

Meet Princess Buttchey's 1st commander in charge.

I don't know what the heck this is. I actually received this as a x-mas present a few years back....My kids shy away from it....as do I....but I still keep it around for a good, mean laugh.