For years I was in love with the idea of Santa A. Claus. He made my stomach flip with anticipation for December 25th. I felt he was flying clear across the world just for me. Until that fateful day in 1992 when he shattered my heart.
What is the gift/gifts that S.A.C failed to deliver after months of anticipation?
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Well besides the obvious Easy Bake oven 20 year delay...
I wanted a Barbie corvette-- the one you could drive-- with all of my 6-year old heart. I test drove it at my Aunt's house months before and fantasized about it every day until Christmas. I dreamt that I was wearing a tight red dress with criss cross straps in the back and 6 inch red heels. I would jump in the Corvette (Starsky and Hutch style). pump the jams (Free Willy soundtrack style) and drive to my friend Gina's place approximately two houses down. I would then proceed to step out of the car, whip my hair out of my pony tail and drop my keys in my Polly Pocket for safe keeping.
The morning of December 25th finally comes, hair up in a bun ready to be unleashed anddddd---- you guessed it.
Santa shit on my heart.
Wow.
A) That pic of Santa is so flippin' scary, I may convert to Judaism.
A-1) You said Santa and shit in the same sentence.
B) I totally forgot you were a stripper when you were 6...are you sure this isn't a more recent fantasy? Cuz I've got the shoes and the Free Willy soundtrack you can borrow.
C) Baby sister, had I know this, I would have moved Heaven and Earth to get that for you...well, maybe not the slut dress, but for sure the car. I'm also pretty sure that I would have enlisted Michael's help, though I don't know that Walgreens carried Barbie corvettes at the time(aww...remember that cute Xmas surprise?!?).
D) Parachute pants.
Got snow pants instead.
Snow pants are functional but really hot to moonwalk in.
I forgive you, Santa baby.
When I was five, I went to California on a family vacation, our only group excursion that ever required air travel. We went to Disneyland, of course, and there among the magic was a wishing well. I believed that this mystical pool of water would grant me my deepest wish because my parents freaking told me so.
I threw my coin in and wished with all my soul for a guinea pig. A few days later, I asked my parents for my new best friend, expecting an immediate trip to the pet store. They said no way, maybe when I'm older. At five "when you're older" is the same as no, because your mind can't comprehend the ripe age of eight, over half your life away. Anyway, I knew that I was going to have to go around my parents for this ultimate wish; I would have to ask the big man.
So I wrote him a letter, asking him to give me "something to love." I figured that Santa would interpret that to mean guinea pig, because really what else could that mean, rat? And I addressed it to the North Pole and gave it to my mom to mail.
Christmas morning came, and I couldn't have been more excited to dash down the stairs to check the mantle. No pig. Instead, in my stocking was my very letter and Santa had written on the bottom of the page, (uncannily in my dad's handwriting), "NICE TRY, RENEE. NO GUNIEA PIG."
Jeeze, first the well, then Santa? Instead of doing the math and concluding that wishing wells and Santa Clause were a load, I just kept wishing harder for several years, about many things. I did learn one thing that Christmas though: as good as Santa is for bringing toys to all the children of the world, he's kind of an asshole.
I've got no beef with the man in red, other than the fact that he cut me off a few years ago. I always made out extremely well on Christmas and can remember vividly some especially sweet surprises.
1990, a bike AND a skooter. 1991, around 30 Barbie dolls. (And I'm talking actual Barbie dolls. None of those rip-offs you get at the grocery store.) And the big winner: in 1993, I got a puppy. Santa for the win!
I actually believed in Santa way past the age when it's acceptable to do so. I attribute this to my dad's thoroughly convincing reasoning: "Do you think that we could actually afford all of these presents?!"
I most certainly did/do not, which means they were either holding out on me the rest of the year, or stealing.
SPOILER ALERT: IF YOU ARE UNDER THE AGE OF 10, STOP READING NOW.
When I finally figured out that Santa was not real, it was because of that bitch of a tooth-fairy and my stupid need for answers. (I came dangerously close to finding out the "truth" years earlier when I learned to flip over toys and quiz my dad on Santa's overseas manufacturing. Yes, little Lydia, Santa did make these toys in China. The workshop hasn't been in the North Pole since the 70's...)
Back to the tooth-fairy. I set up an experiment by ripping one of my teeth out, putting it under my pillow and not telling a soul. When I woke up to no extra dough, I cornered my mother, the tears welling up. She expertly convinced me to call my dad at work. It went something like this:
Lydia: Dad, the tooth fairy isn't real!!!!
Dad: Well, Lydia, now you know. There's no Tooth Fairy, Easter Bunny, or Santa Claus. And don't ever call me at work.
I really wanted a laptop when I was in the fifth grade, only I thought it was called a "labtop." So, needless to say, I didn't get either.
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