How My Parents Totally Effed Me Up Yet Brought Out My Geniusness At The Same Time (AKA Christmas Is A Lie)

When I was 5, aside from carrying around the burden of being adorably big-eyed and cute, I was also  blessed/cursed with being extremely smart. Oh, and also independent. As a matter of fact I was so cute, smart, and independent that I even considered moving out to live on my own. And if it hadn't been for my fear of dogs and fireworks, my extreme mega-fear of those two fears combined, the fact that child-labor laws prevented me from getting a job and there were no cage fighting rings for 5-year-old's with which to make money off of my mad street fighting skillz, I may have actually followed through. I totally could have been the shorter, blonder, sassier Mary Tyler Moore. With more bad-assness. And a killer groin kick.

The Buster Brown haircut and big brown eyes that say "Don't make me stab you!" 

So basically, when you're this world-savvy by age 5, it's difficult for your parents to keep you down by lying to you and trying to turn you into a naive idiot by telling you things like once a year a big fat man who needs a shave and a haircut flies around the world with magic reindeer and sneaks into your house to leave you gifts. Oh, and he also watches you. Like, all the time. Probably even when you're taking a bath or a poo or getting dressed. Because he needs to know if you are naughty or nice. If you ask me, if there really was an old, hairy, creepy dude out there spying on children and committing like, a bazillion B & E's and enslaving midgets (I mean little people), then it's the grown-ups who would be idiots for not forming a vigilante group and taking this a-hole down.

Since I was probably, like, 2 when my parents told me about Santa, I really have no memory of it or what I thought about it. And it's not like I can ask my parents for their retrospective on the event, because neither one of my parents can really even remember what they ate for breakfast by lunch time. Even though I have no memory of the exact moment my parents decided to tell me that I was being stalked by a guy with a penchant for red velvet who would give me gifts and candy if I was nice and sat on his lap, I do clearly remember the moment when I realized that they were big, fat, liars. Yep. I was 5.

I was in my bunk bed trying to be good girl and get those damn sugar plum visions to dance around in my head, but was afraid to go into a deep sleep due to the fact that (a) one should always be on high-alert when you know a stranger in coming into your house, and (b) my sister, who was on the bunk above me, sometimes rolled off in her sleep. And what kind of loser wants to miss that action?

So at some point during the night I heard a ruckus and decided to crawl into the living room to check things out. If it was Santa I figured we could have a chat. Possibly about what he feeds his reindeer and whether or not his elves are the same ones that live in the trees in the summer and make those cookies that I liked, and if so why did he need all of us to give him cookies on Christmas Eve when he can get them for free because that's pretty lame. Not to mention selfish. And I figured that if it was a burglar, I'd save my sleeping family from impending doom and get to kick some ass. Either way I win. 

So I crawled down the hall and through the kitchen, at which point I heard voices. Two voices. And I was pretty sure that one was a chick and that she was kinda bossing the dude voice around. So I peeked into the living room and saw not a fat pervert with a big, red, sack, but my skinny parents in their pajamas arguing over how to put out the "Santa" gifts. AKA the pile of lies.

This was decision time for me. I--like most people-- had always wanted to have the occasion to jump out and yell "Aha!" and if there ever was such an occasion, this was it. But I also knew that my parents would be upset. And the thought of upsetting my parents made me sad. Either that or I thought that if they knew that I knew that there wasn't a Santa, I would get fewer gifts next year. It was definitely one of those. But lets not get bogged down in specifics here you guys. The point is, I was 5 and I was a genius. And also a sudden realist. Who was, frankly, pretty relieved to not have to be worried about all the being spied on and all the do-gooding that this imaginary hairy guy required. I could live life my way. Follow my own rules. Poo in private. The only thing I was pissed about was the Elves. A world without Elves is a world without Elves. I don't even think I need freakin' metaphor here, people. We're talking about tiny little dudes with pointy ears and jingly bell shoes. JINGLY BELL SHOES, YO! The fat man can suck it. These guys are what Christmas was all about.

Well, at least I still have the ones that make the cookies. Wait.....

Crap.