Incidentally, our extended family didn't grow up calling it poop. We called it coo. No idea why, but this lead to some embarrassing laughter from my cousins, sisters and me in grammar school when teachers informed us of the sound that doves make.
Anyway, back to reindeer coo. One Christmas morning when I was three or four years old, I reached into my stocking, filled with breathless anticipation and the magic of the season, and what did I pull out? A gigantic plastic pile of number two. I screamed, immediately flashing back to each and every incident of disobedience from the previous year. That Santa really was a stickler. My parents laughed and laughed and thought it was hilarious, because honestly they are a pair of extremely disturbed people. They gave me my real stocking after that, but every Christmas a little part of me still was wary that I would once again receive a hot steaming message from the man in the big red suit.
That's a picture of sweet, innocent, adorable me when I was that age, just to drive in the point of how sick that little joke was, by the way. You people thought I was bad with the chicken foot, but I came by it honestly. Sadistic humor is apparently genetic.
It got worse. When I was fourteen, I started trying to pry it out of my mom in early December what I'd be getting for the big day. She looked at me with wide eyes and told me that we were low on cash that year and that she was down in the dumps about it, so our Christmas might be a little different this time around. Because I am like the reincarnated Mother Teresa, I put on a brave smile and said something about material things not really mattering. Then I started praying that the next year would be better and I'd get the Poison CD I
On December 25th, my sisters and I came downstairs and saw that Santa had come. I plastered a happy expression on my face and opened my Santa sack. Inside was a handkerchief with "Happy Anniversary" embroidered on it, a VHS copy of "La Bamba," and a plastic doll head. I held up the last gift and my mom said, cheerfully, "I think Santa wanted you to make your own doll." I exclaimed over each present like it was the best thing I had ever seen because I am a wonderful person and didn't want to upset my poor broke Mom and Dad.
Then I looked over and saw that my sisters were opening presents that were considerably better than the offerings that were spread in front of me. I heard muffled sounds from the living room couch and saw my parents crying with laughter and I realized that once again, I had been psychologically manipulated and damaged beyond all repair by these evil people who were entrusted to raise me to be a productive member of society.
Not the same year, but an example of how great I am at pretending I love a gift. Also revealing to the world that I never sleep without a nightcap.
Honestly, I am shocked that I grew up to be as normal as I am today. I think they wanted to raise a serial killer just to make life a little more interesting.
EDIT: My sister ordered me to update y'all on my diet progress. I am still trucking away but did not lose or gain and weight last week. This is pretty good considering we celebrated not only Kerry's graduation but also my best friend's birthday and had our family Christmas party. Still cooking at home and the hip is still healing so I'm hoping to get back to the gym soon.