Secret Santa

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My granddaughter’s illustrated visions that dance in her head are stuck with magnets onto the stainless steel refrigerator door. 

At first, I thought it was cute and sophisticated. Turtle, check.Then, I ran into a problem: I have no idea what a Belloon Poop is. So, I asked.

“This list is not for you, Gammy. It’s only for Santa.”

“Of course. But can you give me a hint?”

“It’s only sold at WalMart. You never go there.  Santa does. Don’t worry.”

 

I do worry. All summer I stepped on body parts from her collection of ZooZoo pets. To get newborn, whirring hamsters should warrant a visit from the PETA people. What’s more, it’s like brain surgery to insert the batteries, which are NOT included. I’ve ruined more than one manicure after my eyeglass repair kit screwdriver failed to dislodge the ZooZoo’s postage-stamp size battery compartment opening. 

 

A few thoughts on the Remote-Controlled Helicopter. I’ve found chilling tales of innocents who’ve been decapitated by the Texas Chain Saw Massacre blades of these hovering weapons. I imagine chunks of my brain propelled into the hibiscus bushes, as I, still conscious, try to put them back into my skull. I don’t want to make a big deal about this, so I change the subject:

“You seriously have an iPad on this list? A real iPad? And a towel warmer?

“I don’t need iPad that can make phone calls. The towel warmer is for both of us. Mom can use it if she wants to. I promise to take care of the turtle.”

“The turtle would prefer to live at your dad’s house. These items cost more than what’s in my piggy bank. I mean, Santa’s piggy bank.”

“Gammy, you’re gorgeous. What’s on your list?”

“A lottery ticket and a manicure.”

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