Merry Christmas – time to "makeup"

With children and teenagers running around with cellphones, Blackberrys and iPhones, it's a wonder they haven't learned to take over the world yet. Because, as we all know, children are smarter and more ingenious than adults - and it's proved year after year after year when it comes to the hiding/finding of Christmas presents.
Adults - me included - are twits when it comes to hiding things. All of our presents for the children have been stuffed in our closet for the past six weeks - partially out of busyness and partially out of laziness. My two-year-old son or teenaged stepchildren could have walked in, taken a survey of their treasures and known all before Christmas Day. But you have to hope that by the late teen years, some of the snooping stops. And my toddler? Well, he likes the Christmas wrapping cardboard tubes best anyway.
Sometimes though, present snooping will get you. It got me one year, back in the '90s.
My parents tried many hiding places. One year, in the late 1980s, they hid my She-Ra: Princess of Power doll (she was the sister of He-Man from Masters of the Universe, very 80s) under their bed. For a month, I'd get her out of the Zellers bag and play with her, pretending to stroke her golden hair through the protective plastic. That same year, they bought me one of those white charity teddy bears The Bay always used to sell - they had little red scarves. I played with him, too in the days leading up to Christmas because my parents hid him under their bed with She-Ra.
Love you mom and dad, but duh.
After that incident - because I confessed on Christmas I'd been playing with them forever - my parents started taking our presents to relatives' houses but that became a pain when you wanted to wrap them, or check them out to see what kind of batteries they took, so the gifts returned to our house. One year, when it was time to start snooping, I had a vision. I just instantly knew where everything was, so I went to the keys in our front hall and grabbed the one for the Volkswagon Jetta, an old car that was rusted to the ground in our garage that dad was always supposed to be doing something with, according to my mother. I popped the trunk open and there they were - the motherload. (If this was a TV show, a church choir dressed in burgundy robes would have popped out of the back seat and started to sing Hallelujah!)
And there, in the trunk, was a gift I hadn't asked for but one that was really creative and cool and useful, unlike so many other presents that parents buy teenagers.
My parents had bought me a professional-style makeup mirror, one with lights so that you could change the colour and brightness of the lights to office, or evening or daytime so that your makeup would be suited to your environment. I loved it. I was excited. I had great parents.
On Christmas morning, I opened gift after gift after gift, waiting for my makeup mirror. I got junky jewelry and bad turtlenecks and a nice hair brush set from my brother. I didn't mind these gifts because I knew the mirror was coming. But as the morning went on, there was no mirror. And then, Christmas seemed to be over. But I thought my parents were just tricking me.
"Christmas is done. Did you have a good one?" my mother asked.
I sat there looking smug, knowing they were going to pull out one last gift for my brother and me.
And then, so predictable, my dad reached behind his chair and pulled out another gift - it was the makeup mirror. I knew the shape of the box.
"Here you go," my dad said ...
... and he handed the box to my mother.

Crosbiemania wishes everyone a very merry Christmas and reminds everyone that snoopers never prosper.

There might be more(or not)

Thanks Mom, Dad. I've always wanted an S&M outfit!

There's a universal truth in the Crosbie household about Christmas presents when it comes to clothing gifts.
If the piece of clothing is from my dad, usually we keep it.
If it's from my mother? It goes back.
The tradition of returning the clothes started when I was 12 years old and in Grade 6. I remember tearing into a gift box and pulling out a sweatshirt with a Scottie dog on the front. It wasn't so bad until I saw what was printed below the dog: "I love Scotties."
This was a problem.
When I was 12, I loved a boy named Scott. He was the best dancer at my school. (Bestowing such a strange honour on a 12-year-old boy always reminds me of bad girl Cha Cha Di Gregorio in Grease saying "They call me Cha Cha because I'm the best dancer at St. Bernadette's".)
It was only a few months before Christmas that I'd made my dad drive me to Scott's house so I could drop off a Secret Admirer card at his home – except, when I got to his house, someone turned on the porch light and started to open the front door.
I chucked the card on the front window of his family's station wagon and ran for my own wagon.
"Go, go, go!" I screamed at my dad once I was in the car, hiding on the floor.
I never knew whether Scott or his family saw me – which meant, of course, that I could not wear an "I Love Scotties" shirt to school.
So, back it went.
Years and Christmases went by. There were shirts, pants, jackets and blouses that all got returned on Boxing Day.
My mom always had a line though, pleading for the clothes' safety: "But Sarah! It's a Haggar!" she'd say.
"But mom, it's frilly," I'd respond.
Or, "But it's a London Fog from the petites section!"
"But mom, it's sooooo mommy!" I'd cry. "It's for an old person, a 30-year-old – not for a teenager!"
The flip side went something like this: "Oooh, cool jacket! Thanks dad. Love it. Love you!"
"How'd you know your father picked that out?" my mom would ask.
"Because I like it," I'd respond sarcastically.
But one Christmas, everything went awry.
My brother and I had ripped open all of our small stuff and now it was time to get to the big stuff – the good stuff.
I grabbed a box, tore it open and slowly looked inside. It was a … pleather vest.
Hmm. Not great. Not bad. But not great.
My brother went next and opened something – maybe a tennis racquet? It doesn't matter. All I know is that it wasn't pleather.
I grabbed another box …
Oh no... What was she thinking?
I slowly pulled out a pair of black pleather pants.
"It goes with the vest!" my mother shrieked excitedly.
"Uh huh. I can see that," I said.
A two-piece pleather outfit? Where would I wear such a thing?
Another gift for my brother, and then it was my turn.
I slowly pulled the paper off a box. This gift had to make up for the pleather ensemble.
But ... oh ... no....
It was a black pleather jacket.
My mother bought me a three-piece black pleather suit? Maybe it would look Ok on, I thought.
I ran upstairs and put all three pieces on, and then ran back downstairs to get a a look at myself in our full-length mirror in our front hall.
I looked like a burnt marshmallow. Or a suburban Catwoman who got her gear at a department store. Or a biker. Or an S&M wannabe.
This was a million times worse than the Scottie Dog sweatshirt.
"You love it, don't you?" my mother asked, as she watched me study myself in our mirror. (I was in shock. She thought I was in awe.)
"I knew you'd love it. Your father picked it out!" she said.

And here is the rest of it.

There might be more(or not)