The expectations during Christmas are virtually uncontrollable for children. The buildup leading to the fat red-suited guy landing on your roof and coming down the chimney, more pressure than any kid should endure. Believe it or not that fat guy sliding down your chimney, leaving presents with no trace of existence except for some cookie crumbs, is very hard to swallow. I don’t remember when that light bulb moment happened but I’m pretty sure it was sometime around 7 or 8 yrs old. The guy is a fake? Santa isn’t real? WTF! All this time my parents were the ones! I mean, what happens now? Do I still get presents? Wait, we don’t even have a chimney! Oh, now this is all starting to make sense. Reindeer can’t even fly, no sleigh marks on the roof? By the way I did go up and check. What now…Grandma, yeh, yeh grandma will come through for me. The light bulb goes out on Santa, what a bunch of crap he was. So now life without Santa begins. There was one family tradition brought to us by my grandma Kate, my dad’s mom. This was such bull shit that it makes me want to gouge my eyes out. It’s not that I am ungrateful but, like I said before expectations. I am an adolescent male with needs at this time of the year. Gimme some f’n presents. I need gifts. Shower me with all the crap you can afford, just make sure that these gifts are not clothes. I knew my one grandma would come through but Grandma Kate, she was as predictable as a trip to the bathroom 10 minutes after Chinese takeout. My dad would tell us kids when she would be coming. Would this year be different? A basketball, she knows I love basketball. Maybe a BB gun, I would love to do me some killing. Insert”A Christmas Story” joke here! The Saturday before Christmas we would wait for her to arrive. Usually later in the day, so she wouldn’t have to stay very long. She did not like being driven around after dark, especially if it were snowing. With great anticipation my sisters and I would watch out the front window to see her get our packages out of the trunk. What could it be? Nervous excitement, would gather in my stomach almost making me pee my pants! Awe Man I caught a glimpse of something, a sick feeling came over me. Much to my chagrin, I saw the yellow cellophane, the wrapping on the monumental collapse of my dreams and wishes. Strolling un-merrily along our front porch that lady was packing my now crushed dreams, like a peacock strutting. She actually thought she was going me a favor. Like her shit didn’t stink. The nerve! Anger began to grow inside me. It was like the feeling right before you throw up: Sweaty palms, lots of saliva, dizziness, the urge to go somewhere else. I knew what was next; I had to put on the happy face and make believe she was welcome in my crumbled home of anguish, at least for the 10 minutes she would stay. This was like getting a spanking and having to like it. 10 minutes of torturous hell and the following days of disappointment would make me secretly spew profanity toward my Grandma like Richard Pryor catching on fire. Our present…A FRUIT BASKET! Are you kidding me? A F’N FRUIT BASKET!! What kind of soulless, anti Santa, battle ax gives young children a fruit basket? Where’s the sack of reindeer turds, and the lump of coal, the fruit cake, the Yule log? She should have given me a pick and shovel to go out and just bury my dreams alone in my anger and grief. Besides, maybe she didn’t know that fruit gives me gas. Maybe I should eat the whole basket and deliver her a little hint of a present as I lock the door behind me when I leave her house. Let’s see how she likes that. You can’t give me a fruit basket for Christmas. Boy, if I could have spoken my mind, she would have been lectured on the fundamental principles of gift giving. But my mom always said, “If you can’t say anything nice”… yeh yeh there was a whole lot of cursing nothing coming out of my mouth. There’s a lesson to be learned here. If you are yearning to offend your children or grandchildren, sabotaging the holiday here’s the way: Show up to their house and give them a nice present for Christmas…A Fruit Basket. Keep the car running because you won’t be there long. A fricking fruit basket, I still can’t believe it. I guess there was one small consolation. My dad would use the yellow cellophane. He would hang it in front of the TV. VOILA ! Colored Television!
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