#addy doll

[nostalgiavoid]

ADDY IS HERE!

She arrived earlier than expected and was on the front porch waiting for me when we got back from a dentist appointment.

She's estimated by the seller to be a 1994 doll based on the dates on her clothing tags. She's definitely a 90's girl.

The seller mentioned a hint of silver eye starting, but I can't spot it so idk if our house lighting is just that poor, or if maybe they were being paranoid. Either way, she's a special addition to my collection.

[celinaxd]

Some pics of Addy after I fixed her up. I really like Addy and think she is one of the easiest dolls to restore for collectors. As a child, American Girl dolls were a bit pricy for many families. The dolls and accessories could add up, so most girls picked a doll that looked like them or one whose accessories they liked the most and stayed with her. If you didn’t have a doll that resembled you, you got one of the custom ones. JLY or Truly Me or whatever they were called back then. Samantha was always my girl as I felt she looked the most like me. I liked something about all the dolls though and it’s nice to be able to enjoy them all as an adult. They all have their own unique quirks and they are all nice to style for different reasons. On a side note, I think Addy’s books are still even a great read for adults. Her books are probably some of the best AG books. As a doll, her mold is so cute too. I was doing through a very humdrum period in my life and these dolls have reawakened a sense of joy and creativity. I used to do lots of crafts especially when I did cosplay, but this is just a little different and IMHO, more fun.

Anyway, I tried the best I could with her updo. For the clothes of all my vintage AG dolls, I have a method. If the clothes have a scent, I lightly go over them with a baking soda wipe or baby wipe. I don’t wipe them down to get them wet, just to try to remove any scent so I can avoid washing because I don’t want to fade their clothes, although sometimes if absolutely necessary then woolite and hand wash. After wiping the clothes or if they have no scent and I skip that step, I always go over them with a lint brush. After the lint brush, I steam them lightly and put the clothes back on. For the bodies, I also use wipes and a magic eraser. As a final step, I go over their vinyl with a damp paper towel followed by a dry one. For her hair, I did use baby shampoo and conditioner and only washed the bottom. I do not wash by the scalp as I am not a professional. I do not want to risk getting her eyes wet nor do I want to risk loosening her wig cap. For dolls that need something done to the top of their head, I just use a spray bottle with water and brush and spray lightly careful to avoid the face. With Addy, I bought a pick at 5below for her hair and it worked well.

[nostalgiavoid]

It's black history month, which means I need to focus on finishing up Addy's main line books.

Addy has been dressing up for the occasion.

[khadijahs-hollow-blog]

A Prison of Her Own Making

When I was nine, I would’ve given a mouthful worth of Tooth Fairy loot for an American Girl Addy doll. Yes, there was a time when I played with dolls. This doll in particular was at the top of my Christmas list. 

My mom pulled me down to reality and said that Santa may be too busy this year to get me the doll.

“But Santa isn’t real,” I said.

“Well, now you know the truth. We’re just too broke.”

But on Christmas morning, there was Addy waiting for me. However - on the card attached - instead of from Santa or my parents, it was addressed from my dad’s brother, Uncle Ray.

Uncle Ray said Santa did exist, and the Man in the North Pole asked him to hook me up this one time while he chilled with Mrs. Claus. A perpetual name-dropper, Uncle Ray also claimed he introduced Biggie to Puff (or is it P. Diddy now?). A man on the move, he always snuck out of family events early “to see a man about a horse.” A scent of reggie and blacks always floated around him.

My mother said Uncle Ray was the type of man you hugged with one eye open and a knife behind your back, but that morning, I didn’t care. He’d done the impossible.

My joy lasted only a few days. One night my dad stomped into my room and tore Addy from her prized position on my bed. I clung to his leg as he walked to the door, exiling her forever.

My mom gently loosened my grip. “Santa made a mistake, baby.”

Yet I soon learned through block gossip that it was Uncle Ray who had made the mistake. One of my double-dutch confidants explained to me bluntly, “The doll ‘fell off’ a truck and into your uncle’s hands, so he caught a case.”

That one case snowballed into an avalanche of troubles. Turned out Uncle Ray had priors and faced a long bid. My mom, despite her misgivings, asked a lawyer friend to represent him pro bono. The lawyer said it would tough to get Uncle Ray of but promised three years with time off for good behavior in a plea deal.

But Uncle Ray refused. He believed he could convince a sympathetic judge to be lenient.

“Who’d lock up a guy trying to make a shorty happy on Christmas?”

He still believed his own hype, but unfortunately, the judge was agnostic.

Instead, she worshipped in the church of cleaning the streets from thugs and menaces like my uncle. She found him guilty, sentencing him to the max: fifteen years in federal prison.

I saw him at Rikers Island before he was transferred upstate. Guards escorted him to a visiting room where we were separated by a wall of Plexiglas. He was thin and gaunt in his orange jumpsuit; all his bravado evaporated.

There was also a purple bruise swirling around one eye.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Just an accident.”

My mom and dad exchange a worried look, and they whispered hurriedly to each other. My mom pulled me away. “Let’s go check out the vending machine,” she said.

But I looked back to see my dad and uncle staring each other down. Hands splayed against the divider - they’d be touching in a perfect world. I think that’s the only time I’ve ever seen my dad cry.

Uncle Ray never made it upstate. A riot broke out between inmates and guards at Rikers, and he got caught in the middle, taking a shank to the back. No one deserves to die, but we all do eventually.  

What a twisted joke God plays with us.

Sitting in the cell in the local precinct jail, my thoughts drifted to Uncle Ray, but not for long. My cellmate, and old pro - cheap wig and tight latex - called out to me.

“Don’t worry, little sis,” she crowed. “Too early on Friday for us to go to Rikers for the weekend. With that sweet face, you’ll make bail.”

Sure enough, a guard appeared. “Khadijah ? You’re free to go.”

He unlocked the cell and walked me out. We passed the men’s side, and I saw Jay’s face pressed against his cage. I smiled weakly. Raised a hand to wave. He turned his back on me.

In Freedomland, a familiar face greeted me: my father.

I leapt into his arms and hugged me tight. His arms were limp.

“What a mess you’ve gotten us in, “ he said.d

I started to answer but noticed we weren’t alone. A strange woman, young and intruding, clutched his arms. “You must be Khadijah, “ came the sugary voice of death.

Maybe Rikers wasn’t so bad.