Monday, April 09, 2007
And on a lighter note
The rabbit found us, again, this year, although it is still uncertain how she gains entry. I thought I had hard cooked two dozen eggs, but it apparently doesn’t take me as long (oh God, will this never end, this lot is huge, I’ve been pushing this mower For. Ever.) as I thought it did to mow the lawn and the eggs ended up under cooked. For future reference, if I engage you in conversation this summer and try to make you feel sorry for me because I take care of my own yard because I can’t figure out how to give back yard access to the lawn care professionals when we’re not home because of the Folsom Prison perimeter installed (just shy of the broken glass shards embedded on top of the wall) by previous owners who were Seriously concerned about attractive nuisance liability theory (uncovered ceement pond), tell me to shut my trap and give me no sympathy because if two dozen eggs can’t hard cook before I’m done mowing, I’ve got no room for complaints.
So, in open defiance of the multiple weathermen the rabbit watched as she sat there into the wee hours filling egg after egg after plastic egg with teeth rotting fight inducing zealously guarded ziplock bag with names in big bold Sharpie stroke (MIMI CNDEE) filling treats, the rabbit threw caution to the wind and left the real eggs outside in the grass to be found by four finely tuned egg hunting machines on Sunday morning. The rabbit hedged her bets and hid the HUNDREDS (or maybe it's not hundreds but just felt like it, kind of like how long it feels like it takes to mow my lawn) of candy-filled plastic eggs in the house. However, in spite of the rabbit's misplaced confidence in her it won't rain if I hide them outside strategy, rain it did and all the color came off the carefully colored eggs. And I don’t use the term carefully loosely. I made them strip down to their underwear and sit on the deck on patio furniture without the decorative seat cushions to color the eggs. The rabbit hates dealing with spilled egg dye in the house. The rabbit is only slightly better equipped to handle it on the deck, but, fortunately, the rabbit’s nerves went untested this year. The rabbit discovered that the eggs were undercooked as she distributed them on the lawn, and due to her advanced years, she was too lazy, er in a hurry, to bend down closer to the ground until she heard a couple cracks that sounded like an over-ripe and unappealing melon hitting the turf. Since life is a constant quest to keep adding knowledge, to become wiser, I walked further down that road because I learned that you can throw the eggs back in the vat and cook them good again the next morning. Little bastards were sure hard to peel though.
Someday I hope to learn the secret. The rabbit's mother insists that older eggs peel more easily. Well how the hell old do they have to be? These were purchased two weeks in advance to insure easy peeling, but that didn't buy me any advantage. I had to savage the slimy things to get the shells off. So much for a symbol on new life, these things were only fit for egg salad and there's not too much life affirming about egg salad.
On the commercial side of things, the rabbit was so proud of her restraint this year. The rabbit really cut back on the amount and expense of the crap, er, lovingly selected gifts she left behind in the baskets. But then the rabbit’s mother took the girls shopping and bought them so many clothes that all of the rabbit’s restraint didn’t amount to much against the weight of all the new outfits from grandma. We are heathens, really, no religious observance of any kind, really, even though we live in Utah, really, we don’t go to church. So my kids really don’t need Easter dresses, certainly not for the customary reason kids need Easter dresses, so the outfits the kids selected ranged from June wedding guest (Ellie) to, your mom really let’s you wear that? (YuYu). You should have seen YuYu’s face: the wonderment, the happiness, the eagerness! over this polka-dotted, multi-tiered little number that makes you wonder when she’s going to transform into Mother Ginger and hordes of bonbons are going to skitter from under her swing top.
I also found out that Ellie, 10.5 years-old, is still a firm believer and that I don’t even have to be that careful about hiding the fact that the rabbit is me, she still really wants to believe in the magic. Even faced with the overwhelming evidence that no magic is involved in our Easter celebration, such as bags of crap, er, lovingly selected gifts in the back of the van, clearly visible and easily discovered, the swim suit she picked our from the Land’s End catalog in her basket and the Land’s End box still in my bedroom, my not very well disguised handwriting on the money egg in their baskets, she remains convinced that the rabbit is not me because of my stunning persuasive skills:
Ellie: Mom, are you the Easter rabbit?
Mom: Ellie, think about it. Have I ever just given you money without making you earn it?
Mom: Okay, how do you explain the $10 in that money egg? Would I ever just give you money for nothing?
Ellie: Oh, you’re right, you’re not the rabbit.
I rest my case.