Escape your life for a little while — come play in mine.

Family holiday traditions

Posted by Lissa on January 7, 2009

When I was but a wee, little lass, growing up in innocent springshine and dandelions, I looked forward to Christmas like noboby’s business.  Even after I stopped believing in Santa (sniff), I loved Christmas morning because I love to see people open presents.  (Full disclosure: I do not love so much SHOPPING for the presents.  I am drearily convinced that I will NOT get what they want, or if I do, my sister would have found something better, or at least cheaper.  She’s done all the Christmas present selection for the last, oh, two decades, and I’m okay with that except when I feel seriously guilty.)

Alas, dear readers, over the years Christmas also developed a dark and horrifying tradition. 

You see, I had a squishy Santa doll that I just loved.  It was huggable, it was squeezable, it was jolly.  It was a happy Santa.

So you can imagine my distress every year when my older sister would stride into a room and say, in a sinister voice:  “Hey Lee . . . HO HO HO!!!”

“Nooooooooooo!!!” I would wail, tearing off to find my poor Santa.  And every year I would find some version of . . .



Why, Santa? Why???

Why, Santa? Why???

 That’s right, dear readers.  In other households they have an Elf on a Shelf; in my household we had a perpetually suicidal Santa.

And, man, was that sucker creative!!

One year, I found him with his head stuck in the oven, only his poor squishy body visible.

Another Yuletide he had a bottle of Nyquil taped to his mittens with an empty bottle of pills beside him.

The next year, he had a Ginsu knife taped as if it were stabbing into his chest.

He somehow acquired a paper gun, arranging to off himself AND tape it to his head.

He even managed to hang himself from our chandelier!

Poor, poor Santa.  I suppose I will never understand his death, but I will always treasure his life.

P.S.  In case you can’t tell, this is now a much-laughed over family story.  I laughed so hard I ended up in tears while relating it to my coworkers.  I’m just waiting for next year, when no doubt I’ll find him in the bathtub with a toaster.  Poor Santa!!

P.P.S.  Even at my young age, my sister was a freakin’ diabolical genius with a wicked sense of humor.  Things haven’t changed much . . .

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