I love Easter. Really, I do. I mean, you want to call Christmas commercial? People don't even fake it at Easter and slink into church like all us "raised-but-now-non-practicing" Catholics do for Midnight Mass. Honestly, where would an Easter Sunday service really fit into the morning o' champagne and chocolate that is Easter brunch? Let's face it. We all hail the magnificent marshmallow peep on Easter, and I damn well like it that way.
This year I liked it damn well in a purple satin headband with a bow on it and a white eyelet dress over black lace tights. Three peeps to the first to figure out who I was so proudly channeling. My mother was at once horrified and pleased, and then proceeded to trump both with piss-ass-awesome-drunk. Until the part where she talked about how I have yet to give her any grandchildren, or even a lovely white wedding on the sandy-and-salty strip of land where I spent my formative years, and then I had to wander away to slink down behind my three Easter baskets (I am. 26. Years. Old.) and pound pomegranate mimosas with my 16-year-old cousin while she regaled me with tales of her trustafarian classmates at boarding school.
Eventually my mother found me, and continued to shove baby after baby into my arms, stealing them from any young mother within arms length, while simultaneously removing the Cadbury mini eggs from my eyepath and pointing out to me that my dress would look better if I were, you know, anorexic. Can we talk for a moment about the absurdity of her demanding a grandchild and exercising fat phobia at the same time? Mom, not sure I can help you. I can basically guarantee if I get pregnant, I will also get fat.
As things were beginning to get blurry around the edges, I heard her move on to my lack of a career path and how the clock is ticking on the race to find a suitable husband who can 'keep' me and fled the scene entirely with another cousin, this one married six months and already apathetic about the whole thing, fresh of a plane from Austin and high on a bottle of wine. She stole a chocolate cake and led me outside, and, after I adamantly refused to eat any of said cake, proceeded the place the gorgeous thing under the back wheel of an old-model Jeep Cherokee (love those things) and talk its owner into backing over it.
The splat was ungodly satisfying.
Easter is so great.
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