With the all important Christmas steadily steaming its way into our lives for another year, good and bad children from across the globe await in eager anticipation for their seasonal goodies. I say good and bad, because its said that Santa has some kind of regulatory system of monitoring the behavior of children. This my friend I have learned from experience, is untrue. More importantly, children from across the globe who share their home with a sibling, as I do, await in anticipation to see which child will get the most presents from their marsa and farsha.
This prompted an intriguing question in my mind.. Just who do they love more, me or Ella?
Yes yes, I know. Your thinking ”every parent loves their children equally”. I’m here to tell you, you thought wrong. Assumptions make an ASS out of U and ME. In case you didn’t notice, that spells ASSUME.
In the final quarter of the 2008/2009 financial year, research had shown that I was, as usual, retaining my position as favorite child with the parentals. This was due to a variety of external factors, such as my scholarship and also my general friendly, pleasant demeanor. School successes both in primary and secondary education had sealed my popularity long enough for me to assume the position as ‘favorite’. Being the older child by 3 years, it would be generally accepted of me to cast a domineering shadow over my younger, smaller and inferior sister Ella.
It wasn’t until the first quarter of the 09/10 financial that trends began to emerge of my sudden demise in popularity in the Murphy household, and this was due to the prominence of previous historical popularity factors. Lyrically speaking, the respective milkshakes bought to the yard by Ella were significantly higher than milkshakes bought to the yard by myself. Warm it up.
Several factors induced this shift in popularity, the latest being Ella’s new fringe which hands down, cannot compete with mine. Similarly, the Sea-Lion attack of 2008 had devastating effects on my popularity, as the whole family geared themselves into loving and showing compassion to Ella instead of showing love and compassion to me, as the standard protocol would apply. This was concreted with Ella’s appearance on the front pages of The Sunday Times, socially catapulting her into a level of fame unattainable by the remnant crumbs of my own television success in the winter of 2005 in The Sleepover Club.
A trip to QLD in 2008 to film Ella’s documentary with the Discovery Channel who flew especially from Canada for the exclusive only further edged me into the shadows. “I was in a TV show once” I said to one one of the producers. “You can stand over there” he said to me, pointing to the shadows of the set where a pile of camera cords lay coiled, lifeless, desolate, and no longer needed.
Physically speaking, Ella’s appearance was concerning. Where I previously received the occasional comment, Ella was being bombarded with continual comments on her effortless model-looks and hilarious personality. My obscene obsession with vanity was useless against her combination of attractive favorable genetics. It had appeared that although I was first in the womb, I had failed to select the right genes from each of my parents, such as taking the plain albino skin over the flawless olive kind. Furthermore, the continual good academic results from Ella only cemented this idea of my inferior brain capacity. Socially, my friends, especially the male kind, began to talk to Ella more than they spoke to me. I was sliding down a proverbial slide of failure. Epic Failure.
With Ella’s 16th Birthday only days away now, discrete negotiations have been made regarding her presents, one of which includes an all expenses paid trip to Bali with her best friend. I assure you, this is not the most expensive of her gifts for this birthday. I would tell you, but that could ruin her long awaited surprise.
Speaking of surprises, nobody sung me happy birthday this year. I didn’t even get a goddam cake. I’m tempted just to go out and get myself mauled by a pack of sea animals just to show her up. The response would be “Oh my god – Ella, are you OK?”
A pivotal moment in my youth was the time Ella and I, who usually get along just fine, were having a childish heated argument. At the tender age of 5, I had told Ella that If she cut her Barbie Dolls hair off, it would grow back just like a real humans did right before her eyes. After realizing she had just ‘done a Britney’ to her favorite doll, and in her 3 year old rage decapitated the doll, she screamed at me:
“Well Mum told me she loved me more than you anyway!”
This was the first revelation of this kind in our household. Intriguingly, I sat down with Ella and we had a heart to heart. With a soft whisper I said:
“No way. Mum told me that she loves me more than you, too”
This was a bonding moment. Together, we had both realized we had been the fool of a two timing mother. Finding this a little bit funny, we approached Mum with our concerns. Mum got the “I just have to get something out of my car” look on her face and found that she had no escape, cornered by her two offspring, one holding a headless Barbie. SHE HADbeen telling us she loved each other more than the other. Maybe that is the origin of my insecurities.
So as Christmas approaches, I will rightfully expect nothing from my parents as a gift for my existence in their lives. In light of the events of the past 2 years and the volcanic explosion of Ella’s popularity over mine, I expect this Christmas will be spent watching Ella unwrap her marvel of presents in front of an adoring crowd of her fans, most of which are my friends.
I will be standing in the background with my feet shackled to the walls, tattered brown rags drooping from my body and holding a plate of drinks.
Egg Nog anyone?
