Easter

In The Meantime

Experts, including ordinary people  who’ve lived through loss, insist  that any and all major decisions should be put off for at least one year.   For 12 months, don’t do anything rash.   Don’t get involved in a new relationship, don’t move, don’t buy, don’t sell…..dont, don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t.

Of course, this doesn’t apply to everyone,   Some people are more resilient.  They don’t need time after a traumatic loss and/or event.   They have that enviable, almost annoying way of only walking on the sunny side of everything,

I’m going on month four- post loss.     I won’t apologize for having the occasional bout with grief, but I’m also getting bored.   I mean no disrespect for the dead, but I’ve tried to refrain from doing all the things I’m NOT supposed to do.     For me, doing nothing only makes matters worse.   Routine has gotten too routine.

So, I bought a new house….well, it’s new to me.    I didn’t deliberate the decision for weeks.   There was no lengthy meditation, no ashram in sight.     I came to the decision very quickly and in what some might think is absolutely crazy reasoning.    I broke the same little toe on the same table in two weeks, just trying to walk through my Nabisco cracker box sized bedroom.   When it happened, I screamed at the top of my voice, letting out some choice expletives.    Stevedores would have blushed.

I was in physical pain, but also extremely frustrated with my boring, go nowhere life and the fact that I’ve outgrown my current home.   There’s simply not enough room here for me, my ego and all these ghostly memories.   It’s too damn small.

With toe  throbbing, I immediately went on a real estate website, earmarked three homes, called my realtor, toured the three dwellings over the next two days and found myself making an offer on one home 72- hours later.   Damned if the homeowners didn’t accept it.

This was my reaction to their swift response ….it was similar to my toe mishap.

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For you young ones, this is an old school dialog bubble that was placed over heads of hand drawn characters in comics….the funny pages, as some called them.   See, there used to be things called “newspapers”  and the Sunday edition included pages of cartoons, comics, funnies.    And whenever a character got angry, instead of using an F-bomb  that would have been their undoing, cartoonists implied cussing by using question marks, pound signs, at symbols, ampersands, the etcetera symbol, and so on..   Let me put it in terms you might better understand:  these were early versions of wingdings.

And this bubble with all those implied expletives stayed above my head the minute the owners accepted my offer.   In a way, I was hoping they’d laugh, mock me and go with another offer.    But they didn’t and my phobia of commitment became full blown panic.

But, what can I say??    It’s happening.   My family has been very supportive, including my mother who like Mikey in the classic Life cereal commercial, disapproves of almost everything.

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They insist this is exactly what I need—the ultimate project.   They’ve suggested in no uncertain terms, that if I DON’T make a drastic change soon,  healing won’t ever start.

So, I thought about the offer they accepted, sent up queries to the Divine, the Cosmos and even sought answers from pantheons of gods I don’t believe in and got my answer very quickly:   I have to commit to change.  I need to commit to renewal.    I realized I can handle scar tissue much better while living  in a slightly bigger home, with almost all of the amenities I’d asked for.   It isn’t that far from where I currently live, but there’s enough distance to feel the change…to actually breathe different air.

Plus, if I make room for new love in my heart and in my home, then the “if you buy it, he will come” movie mantra has to be true, right it?

So, I signed the papers and wrote a check in which I dotted the “i” with  tears caused from buyer’s remorse.    But it’s getting better.

I’ll move in July.

In the interim, I’ll throw away what needs tossing, give away what I can give, donate whatever might help others and then endeavor to perform an exorcism of sorts.    Ghosts aren’t always floating ectoplasmic globs.   Painful memories and sadness are more formidable haunts.     These things can be imprinted in the interior of a home.  You can paint, replace tile, tear down walls and construct new ones, but once the soul of a home is fractured, it’s practically a loss cause.

I have to change.   I have to be better, more emotionally intact and I’ll have to make sure it’s enough to cover the walls, the floor, the ceiling, enough to infiltrate the plumbing and the  HVAC system of my new abode.    And more importantly, I can’t move into my new home with the weightiness of woe.   I’m now too in debt to be pathetic.

Things will get better.  I’m getting better and my Easter/Seder gift to my tens of readers is as follows:  I’ll no longer bore you with any more of  these sad ass sob stories that have turned me into something of poor woman’s Edna St. Vincent Millay.    Promise.

So with that, I bid you Shalom.

Peace.

Happy Easter.

Chag Sameach

And for my friend RMD, it’s Sunday.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Well, It’s Easter

It’s that time of year again.

Easter.

A day we celebrate Jesus’ death. But he rose again and because of the, the holiday has always been associated with rebirth. Plants and flora which died during the harsh winter, are renewed by Spring’s dewy kiss and usually Easter usually represents that first big pucker.

Plus in the Gospel According to St. Nonie, you can start wearing white again when the clock strikes 12:01 on Easter morning.

I have interesting childhood memories of Easter.

I remember hunting decorated eggs, though NEVER this beautiful. To have found eggs like those which you see in this basket would have been incredible. No, the eggs my sisters and I found were these very faint pastel numbers with our names crudely written across them.

Mother always decorated our eggs. Picasso she wasn’t. She got the idea that using a birthday candle to spell out our names across an un-dyed egg would work. In theory, I suppose, was that the wax was supposed to have repelled any absorption of the dye. It kind of worked, though as time went by, mother got bored and resorted to initials.

But then, as I got a little older; the Easter bunny wouldn’t make it to my house at all.

One morning I woke up, peered out to the front yard and saw nothing. There was no trace that he’d been there. I woke my parents up and tearfully informed them of his horrendous oversight and they told me through intermittent yawns that the Easter Bunny called them late the night before and told them that he broke a paw after falling down at an apres ski party in Gstaad and wouldn’t be able to make it our house that year.

He didn’t make it the next year, either. Embarrassed that they’d forgotten to “bunny up again”, mother nudged daddy that Easter morning and he sheepishly gave me some lame excuse about Mr. Bunny being audited by the IRS for the tax years 1963 and ’64 and was up to his ears in legal trouble.

I semi bought the broken paw bit, but would/could the IRS be so cruel as to audit the Easter Bunny???? I simply stopped believing after that.

In the small South Texas burg where I was raised, we celebrated Easter just like anyone else. We got up, went hunting for ugly eggs, played with a few stuffed animals, nibbled on a chocolate egg or two when the Paters weren’t looking, got dressed in our new Easter finery which included crisp crinoline petticoats, gloves and hats with elastic chin straps that hurt when they were popped or chafed because they were so tight.

We’d go to Mass, came arrive back home to a feast of baked ham, scalloped potatoes, green beans, a spring salad and invariably for dessert, a homemade yellow cake with white icing and on the icing was green tinted coconut to look like grass and Jelly Beans to represent Easter eggs.

How is Easter celebrated elsewhere?

Well in England, ham is also eaten and this special cake is made and served at tea time.

It’s called a Simnel Cake, a rich fruitcake covered with a thick layer of almond paste (or marzipan for the kitchen literate).

A layer of marzipan is also traditionally baked into the middle of the cake.

Eleven egg-shaped balls of marzipan are then placed around the top to represent the 12 true disciples (excluding Judas).

Originally the Simnel cake was a gift to mothers on something the Brits called “Mothering Sunday”, which usually fell in mid-Lent.

I do believe however, that here in the colonies, we call that, “Hallmark Scores Big”…or rather, “Mothers’ Day” which for us, occurs in the month of May.

In Mexico, Easter is celebrated with mass, family gatherings and cascarones. These are hallowed out egg shells which are then cleaned, dried and filled with confetti, glitter, tiny bits of paper or whatever one can get out of the huge three hole hole puncher found on Cranky Catherine’s desk. She’s the woman no one likes, but who’s been the receptionist at your father’s office forever.

Traditionally, these are cracked over the head of an Easter reveller. It’s tremendous fun, especially when glitter gets caught in your eye and all those tiny lacerations caused by those tiny, thin shards of sharp tinsel burn like fire. Just Heavenly!!

In Budapest, overweight women who really should know better than to wear floral print, festively decorate large eggs in the same town square where 67 years ago, Nazi troops shot innocent people, JUST because it was Thursday.

In The Philippines, street parades are held on Good Friday with people carrying large crosses to re-enact Jesus’s walk to His crucifixion.

In Australia, hot cross buns are served for Easter breakfast. These are a sweet fruit bun, which may have a cross on top. Children exchange Easter eggs, which are usually made of chocolate. Some chocolate eggs are also in the shape of cheeky looking rabbits, but in recent years Easter bilbies have also been made.

The bilby is a very ugly native animal in Australia that looks like an insipid cross between a rat, a rabbit, a possum and an aardvark. It’s as if nature found that it had all these spare parts leftover at Creation. It just said, “Well hell. Let’s just toss all these extra things in to a salad spinner, give that bad boy a whirl and see what kind of crazy shit we get”.

And voila!!! The bilby.

It’s an endangered species, from what I understand. Australian chocolate manufacturers are doing what they can to help. A few years ago, they started making Easter bilbies and they give a portion of the profits to help protect these ugly ass critters from full extinction.

And back home, in Washington, DC, the Annual Socilialist Vernal Equinox Egg Roll is a great time to be a kid with a basket in hand in search of festively decorated ova strewn all over the White House lawn.

Here, Premier Obama and Speaker of the House Pelosi, kick things off with a rousing speech about their rejetion of an international economic order sustained by private profit, alienated labor, race and gender descrimmination, environmental destruction and the brutality involved in upholding the social order and the violence used to defend the capitalistic status quo.

Yes, this photo IS proof that all things with BIG EARS can be extremely frightening.

I mean Santa is one thing, but you be a little kid and get shoved in the lap of a HUGE humanoid rabbit with large buck teeth and the most menacing expressions and try not to cry.

Big, huge rabbits are scary.

For example:

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Nothing is scarier than a malformed little thing with mange and obvious psycho/social disorders.  The Easter Bunny is kind of creepy too.

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This rabbit has methed-out eyes.

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Steroids???

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This next one is very strange.

It looks as though it’s part rabbit and part something that would be worshipped by black robe wearin’ coven members who think Satan is their pal.  Rosemary’s Bunny.


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This E-Bunny looks like Ray Liotta when he laughs.

             

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Oh Petulant Lepus, be Ye not angry and sullen….

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Or dastardly…

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Or vomit inducing…

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Happy Easter, kids………………………………………………………………………..

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Does Any of This Easter Stuff Sound Familiar???

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It’s Easter Sunday. 

I’m sure if you’re of Christian extraction or had Jewish parents who weren’t at all observant and had this need to keep up with the Jonases,  you  probably celebrated some semblance of the holiday.   I wonder though if you ever experienced any of the same things I did?   How similarly parallel could our lives have been if we grew up in the same time period, but with me in Texas and you,  say in Wilmington, Delaware??

Well, before I get it into the ways and means of all my childhood Easters, I have a confession to make.   It’s something I’ve never told a single soul.    Perhaps, I’ll be hell bound for saying this, but of ALL the holidays in the pantheon of holidays in Christendom, this is my least favorite.  

It has nothing to do with the traditional meaning of Easter; it’s just that it’s my least favorite holiday and for a lot of different reasons.   For starters, the time of year in which Easter happens to fall.    Easter was always least comfortable holidays.  It’s the only Springtime holiday and I never liked the Spring.   Plus, in South Texas, that meant it was almost always hot, humid and sticky by the time the Easter Bunny would make his annual egg bearing sojourn to the front or backyards of well-behaved children everywhere.  

It was also uncomfortable because as a Catholic, that meant a marathon Good Friday afternoon mass that droned on and on and on.  

Mother was/us a Protestant but when she and my father married, she agreed to raise the kids Catholic.  So, Dad did all the religious wrangling with his three semi-beautiful daughters.   But he had the patience of a paramecium, so that usually meant we’d stay for maybe just an hour or so at the Good Friday, four-hour God-A-Thon.

Then, by late Friday afternoon, the family started arriving and mother would get busy with Easter Sunday dinner and making sure Kathy, Karol and I had our Easter finery ready to go for the big eccliastical Easter parade in church on Sunday morning.   

We always got new clothes for Easter.  Pastels, floral prints, new  patent leather Mary Janes (white…ALWAYS white)  new socks with lace, gloves and of course, hats.   This was pre-Vatican II, so every female still covered her head before entering the House That Pope Paul built.   I hated wearing hates.  Gloves were hot, too.

This photo isn’t one of my sisters and me, but it could’ve been.  It’s a perfect depiction of what the Sisters Kendrick would have looked like on any given Easter morning prior to 1967.  And it’s fairly accurate in terms of birth order and age difference, too.  I’m the youngest.   Mother never dressed us alike (thank God) but our Easter dresses, at least in the early 60’s, would have (like with these dresses) been worn with stiff crinoline petticoats underneath.    You could hear us walk for miles.

I think Mother would come with us to Easter Sunday Mass every once in a while.  I think that was because Catholics went to church earlier and got out earlier and Mother needed to get back home in time to fix the family feed which always fell in her lap.

And this was another reason for liking the Easter holiday the least:  the food.  

 I like ham, but not the baked kind with all the pineapple and cherries that are placed on  it …like so.

The menu was fairly consistent from year to year and rarely wavered and I found that boring.  It was ham and scalloped potatoes; green beans in a liquor seasoned with salt pork and a few onions, a relish tray (olives, pickles, pickled okra and those little corn on the cobb things) and of course–the staple:  store-bought brown and serve rolls which I’ve always hated.   We begged mother to try that new Pillsbury invention called the ‘crescent roll’, but nooooooooooooooo.  

It was always nasty tasting,  mass-produced brown and serve rolls.  Why?  Tradition and ease.  Open the wrapper; throw ’em on a cookie sheet;  pop them bad boys in the oven where they would brown and you’d then serve ’em.   Easy?  Perhaps, but they tasted horrible.  I mean, nothing goes better with Easter ham than dicalcium phosphate and diammonium phosphate.  

Dessert was always a yellow cake with white frosting and on top of that, green tinted coconut to simulate grass and jelly beans nestled in “the grass”, to simulate colored Easter eggs.

The cake looked a lot like this:

As a child, I didn’t like coconut, so dessert was ruined for me and also as a kid, I wasn’t into really sweet candy and I got candy for Easter, but hardly ate any of it.

We had Peeps when I was a kid, but I only remember the classic yellow chicks.  I think I got the occasional Peep for Easter.   Hated ’em, but invariably, they’d be in my Easter morning presentation and next to a hollow, milk chocolate bunny, a variation of jelly beans (which I hated), M&Ms (which I liked),  would be these horrible, nasty tasting candy circus peanuts. 

I never understood the correlation between these obvious Soviet attempts of confectionary Cold War brain-washing and Easter, but I always got them and I always disliked them.  They always ended up in the trash, still in their cellophane wrappers.

I also remember these HORRIBLE marshmallow eggs, but they weren’t chocolate.   They had this nasty, hard uber sweet fondant-like exterior which covered an even sweeter marshmallow center.  I’ve scoured the Internet trying to find these things, but couldn’t find a photo anywhere, much less what they were actually called other than “Diabetes Starters”.   I can tell you though that in my world, these candy eggs kept the candy peanuts and Peeps company at the bottom of the trash can.

We always got a stuffed animal.   Usually a rabbit, but not always.   Bears, elephants, lambs, ducks and a stuffed St. Bernard (which I still have) complete with a rubber liquor barrel attached to his collar.  One year, Karol and I received stuffed caterpillars.

Odd.

But the one thing I never got, but always wanted was one of those beautiful sugar eggs.   Like so:

These always fascinated me with their fairy tale-like panorama views inside.  How were they made?  It boggled my mind.   I desperately wanted one of these eggs each April , but I never got one.    Consequently, Easter always ended with me feeling completely unfulfilled and wanting.   It has, in some ways, bugged me ever since childhood

Even today there are times when I feel out of sorts; as if I’ve forgotten something.  I’ll check my car keys; make sure my wallet is in my purse and that I still have my ATM and credit cards, but something is still missing.

Then it hits me–I never received a sugar egg for Easter.

Oh well,  if I think about life and the Biggest Picture of all, I come to terms with the fact that I’ve never had one of these eggs, fertilized then grown to majority, either.

But somehow, I think I’ll be OK.

Happy Easter.

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Your Easter “Git Down”

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It’s that time of year again.  

Easter.  

 A day we celebrate Jesus’ death.  But he rose again and because of the, the holiday has always been associated with rebirth.   Plants and flora which died during the harsh winter, are renewed by Spring’s dewy kiss and usually Easter usually represents that first big pucker.

Plus in the Gospel According to St. Nonie, you can start wearing white again when the clock strikes 12:01 on Easter morning.

I have interesting childhood memories of Easter.  

I remember hunting decorated eggs,  though NEVER this beautiful.  To have found eggs like those which you see in this basket would have been incredible.  No, the eggs my sisters and I found were these very faint pastel numbers with our names crudely written across them.  

Mother always decorated our eggs.  Picasso she wasn’t.  She got the idea that using a birthday candle to spell out our names across an un-dyed egg would work.  In theory, I suppose, was that the wax was supposed to have repelled any absorption of the  dye.    It kind of worked, though as time went by, mother got bored and resorted to initials.  

But then, as I got a little older; the Easter bunny wouldn’t make it to my house at all. 

One morning I woke up, peered out to the front yard and saw nothing.  There was no trace that he’d been there.    I woke my parents up and tearfully informed them of his horrendous oversight and they told me through intermittent yawns that the Easter  Bunny called them late the night before and told them that he broke a paw after falling down at an apres ski party in Gstaad and wouldn’t be able to make it our house that year. 

 He didn’t make it the next year, either.   Embarrassed that they’d forgotten to “bunny up again”, mother nudged daddy that Easter morning and he sheepishly gave me some lame excuse about Mr. Bunny being audited by the IRS for the tax years 1963 and ’64 and was up to his ears in legal trouble.  

I semi bought the broken paw bit,  but would/could the IRS be so cruel as to audit the Easter Bunny????  I simply stopped believing after that.   

In the small South Texas burg where I was raised, we celebrated Easter just like anyone else.  We got up, went hunting for ugly eggs, played with a few stuffed animals, nibbled on a chocolate egg or two when the Paters weren’t looking,  got dressed in our new Easter finery which included crisp crinoline petticoats, gloves and hats with elastic chin straps that hurt when they were popped or chafed because they were so tight.

We’d go to Mass, came arrive back home to a feast of baked ham, scalloped potatoes, green beans, a spring salad and invariably for dessert, a homemade yellow cake with white icing and on the icing was green tinted coconut to look like grass and Jelly Beans to represent Easter eggs.

How is Easter celebrated elsewhere?

Well in England, ham is also eaten and this special cake is made and served at tea time.

 

 It’s called a Simnel Cake, a rich fruitcake covered with a thick layer of almond paste (or marzipan for the kitchen literate). 

A layer of marzipan is also traditionally baked into the middle of the cake.

Eleven egg-shaped balls of marzipan are then placed around the top to represent the 12 true disciples (excluding Judas).

 Originally the Simnel cake was a gift to mothers on something the Brits called “Mothering Sunday”, which usually fell in mid-Lent.

 I do believe however, that here in the colonies, we call that, “Hallmark Scores Big“…or rather, “Mothers’ Day” which for us, occurs in the month of May.

In Mexico, Easter is celebrated with mass, family gatherings and cascarones.  These are hallowed out egg shells which are then cleaned, dried and filled with confetti, glitter, tiny bits of paper or whatever one can get out of the huge three hole hole puncher found on Cranky Catherine’s  desk.  She’s the woman no one likes,  but who’s been the receptionist at your father’s office forever.   

Traditionally, these are cracked over the head of an Easter reveller.  It’s tremendous fun, especially when glitter gets caught in your eye and all those tiny lacerations caused by those tiny, thin shards of sharp tinsel burn like fire.  Just Heavenly!!

In Budapest, overweight women who really should know better than to wear floral print, festively decorate large eggs in the same town square where 67 years ago, Nazi  troops shot innocent people, JUST because it was Thursday.

In The Philippines, street parades are held on Good Friday with people carrying large crosses to re-enact Jesus’s walk to His crucifixion.

In Australia,  hot cross buns are served for  Easter breakfast. These are a sweet fruit bun, which may have a cross on top. Children exchange Easter eggs, which are  usually made of chocolate.  Some chocolate eggs are also in the shape of cheeky looking rabbits, but in recent years Easter bilbies have also been made.

The bilby is a  very ugly native animal in Australia that looks like an insipid cross between a rat, a rabbit, a possum and an aardvark.   It’s as if nature found that it had all these spare parts leftover at Creation.    It just said, “Well hell.  Let’s just toss all these extra things in to a salad spinner, give that bad boy a whirl and see what kind of crazy shit we get”.  

And voila!!!    The bilby.

It’s an endangered species, from what I understand.  Australian chocolate manufacturers are doing what they can to help.  A few years ago, they started making Easter bilbies and they give a portion of the profits to help protect these ugly ass critters from full extinction.

And back home, in Washington, DC, the Annual Socilialist Vernal Equinox Egg Roll is a great time to be a kid with a basket in hand in search of festively decorated ova strewn all over the White House lawn. 

Here, Premier Obama and Speaker of the House Pelosi, kick things off with a rousing speech about their rejetion of an international economic order sustained by private profit, alienated labor, race and gender descrimmination, environmental destruction and the brutality involved in upholding the social order and the violence used to defend the capitalistic status quo. 

Yes, this photo IS proof that all things with BIG EARS can be extremely frightening.

I mean Santa is one thing, but you be a little kid and get shoved in the lap of a HUGE humanoid rabbit with large buck teeth and the most menacing expressions and try not to cry.   

Big, huge rabbits are scary.

For example:

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.

.

Steroids???

.

This next one is very strange.

It looks as though it’s part rabbit and part something that would be worshipped by black robe wearin’ coven members who think Satan is their pal.

 
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.

Oh Petulant Lepus, be not angry and sullen…. 

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Or dastardly…

.

Or vomit inducing…

.

Happy Easter, kids.……………………………………………………………………….

…………….  

..

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The REAL Issue of Black and White

There’s something very specific that happens the day after Labor Day.

Now, you probably read the title of this post and thought, “Ah yes, big after Labor Day sales at the big, fabulous retail chains”.

If so, you’d be wrong.

The title is more about my mother and her fashion backward thinking, than anything else. You see, my sainted mater was/is a stickler for that old, “No wearing anything white after Labor Day/no wearing black after Easter” routine. It was so driven into my head that if I see someone clad in white later today, I’ll have a visceral reaction. I try to fight it, but it’s ingrained. It’s part of my core being.

I have learned to be far more forgiving of this, but my mother needless to say, is older than old school. She will not negotiate on her opinion of this formidable fashion faux pas, despite the fact that Cosmo, Glamor and a cadre of designers, along with tragically hip and chic gay men have deemed it to be no longer applicable in the world of modern haute couture.

“They’re wrong”, says Mother.

CHAPTER ONE

What happens on the day after Labor Day in my mother’s house, is as predictable as the phases of the moon; as predictable as knowing Brad and Angelina adopt in years ending in odd numbers and as predictable as knowing emphatically that pudgy Hollywood galoot and shit stirrer, Michael Moore never skips a meal.

If it is the day after Labor Day, then my mother will be doing what she always does. She’ll spend five to six hours of the 24 that Father Time gives us, by rearranging her closet. She’ll remove all things white, light and summery and replaced them with all things heavy, dark and wintry.

That which is taken away is carefully wrapped in white tissue paper and put in cardboard boxes or in plastic multi-drawer compartments, then placed in a shelf in her closet, never to appear again until Peter Cottontail emerges from his springtime sabbatical to hide brightly colored ova in deserving front yards.

PROLOGUE

My sisters and I were raised as proper Texas young ladies. Karnes City, Texas to be exact. Our hair was shampooed and our skin was scrubbed clean until our skin glowed (and considering the vast amounts of uranium that found in subterranean South Texas in the late 50’s and early 60’s, I mean that both figuratively AND literally). We were impeccably dressed. Shirts that were flawlessly pressed and pants with creases so sharp, you could use them to slice with deli-like precision, anything canned by Hormel.

Our dresses were designed and sewn to perfection and then there was the full compliment of couture accoutrement por le petite femmes–I’m talking gloves, lace socks, crinoline petticoats, patent-leather Mary Janes with matching bags and of course, hats in church. You see, we were Catholic and this was South Texas and pre-Vatican II.

We took tap and ballet and piano lessons and voice lessons and we each learned to play an instrument and were all cheerleaders and the list of parental requirements and mandates that we HAD to achieve and/or accomplish before we reached the age of majority, reads like a scroll.

My mother poked and prodded and made me read and write and think and create. By the 7th grade, I knew things most college Sophomores didn’t. That’s the way it was. I was considered to be high brow and rather haughty.

My mother’s fiendish plot to isolate me socially was working.

In fact, my senior year in High School, I was voted, “Most Likely To Wear A Monocle”.

EPILOGUE

You know that “black after Labor Day/white after Easter” stuff I mentioned in the prologue? Well, it carried over in our lives; not just with what we wore. It was about how we lived; it was about the way we lived.

Again, I will reiterate- my mother was a stickler.

At summer picnics, I was forbidden to eat a sandwich that was made on Rye or Pumpernickel and I was ONLY allowed to date Black guys from September through mid April.

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A Post About All Things….

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But if hunting for eggs is definitely on your “to do” list this coming Easter morning, here are a few decorating suggestions for Monsiuer Lapin should he ever free the top of his head and ears from the jaws of certain Black Lab death.

Our first offering is Bender from “Futurama”.

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There’s the always festive binary Easter egg…perfect for the basket-clutching, ovum-hunting, aspiring arithmetician of your progeny

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And of course, what holiday honoring the crucifixion, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ would be complete without a KISS four pack.

Nothing says Easter like a hard-boiled tribute to four aging, Jewish rock stars with prostates the size of Ace Frehley’s base drum.

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EVIL BUNNIES

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A rabid rabbit

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The anthropomorphic bunny that’s jaundiced due to extreme liver maladies. How humanesque..

Did anyone else read Watership Down?

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The Easter Bunny or freakin’ Grendel?

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Oh, petulant rabbit….

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Happy Halloween!!

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Happily medicated bunny

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OK..it is just me or does this Easter Bunny look a lot like wider-eyed version of  former child star, Haley Joel Osment during his “The Sixth Sense” days???

Before acne and teenaged angst set in?

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And Josef Stalin, Yuri Turischeva and Peter Rabbit gather as the first edition of the “Communist Bunnyfesto” goes to print.

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OTHER THINGS “EASTER”

As a child, I never fully appreciated finding a gallon jug of vinegar in my Easter basket. As an adult however, I completely get it. These days, when my Easter Vinegar arrives, I feel so special…all Easter Sunday long, I’m like this happy, little Massengirl.

Keeps me feeling Easter fresh…

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Other Easter specialties for you include the famed Moais of Easter Island

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Massive rainfall from a Nor’Easter inundates Hoboken, N.J.

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And from “The Wizard of Oz”, the Wicked Witch of the East(er)

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And finally, Happy Easter everyone, but if you’re Jewish, Muslim, Buddhist, B’Hai, Sikh, Rastafarian, Hindu, Pagan, Wiccan, Native American, an Atheist, a Satanist or from Scranton, you just have yourself a nice weekend!!