I sort of remember when I stopped believing in Santa. I was older than I probably should've been (hey, some of us LIKE believing in things) but still in early grade school. It was 4:00 AM, Christmas morning and I heard a noise in the living room. I opened my door as slowly and quietly as I could and peeked down the hallway. The Christmas tree was lit with bubble lights (because we were awesome) and I could just make out my mother putting bits o' wonderful in our stockings.
Deflated. So it's true. Well, I suppose it makes sense. "From Santa" always looked like Mom's handwriting.
Re-inflated. But I still get presents!
And went back to bed until probably around 6:00 AM. I'm sorry, parents.
the Waif and I were horrible snoopers too. Around the first week of December, we'd start to hit all the places we could conceive of hidden gifts. Once they were wrapped and placed under the tree...we lifted, molested, shook and held to the light any and everything with our names on it. What brats.
One year, I got this giant plastic piggy bank in the shape of a Coca-Cola bottle (it's like she knew it was going to run my life one day) that was about as tall as my hip. When wrapped, it proved to be my greatest guessing challenge. I did everything but unwrap it. I think I even put a few fingers in the paper opening to see what I could feel. Didn't do any good, I couldn't figure the fucking thing out. Though I doubt she'd admit it, I still feel today (not too long after that piggy bank has had to be officially retired...which is ok because it had a shitty interest rate) that she got me that bank to punish me for present snooping. Game well played, madam. Well played, indeed.
The lesson here, children, is that your snooping abilities are only as good as the parents you're up against. And she could've taught classes.
Now go find the pickle.
