Here Comes Peter Cottontail
Thursday, April 13, 2006
I am a big fan of Easter, and always have been. This began when I was little, when it meant getting a new Easter dress. Every year, we would go to Bullocks and I would get to pick out a pretty frock to wear to church. For a while there, when I was like 3 and 4, I wore my Alice in Wonderland dress—it was pale blue with poofy sleeves and a white apron on top that had embroidery around the edges of teapots and “I’m late, I’m late! For a very important date!” Later on, it was all about dresses that looked like drapery. I have no idea why I gravitated towards them. When I look back at those pictures now, all I do is wonder why my mom let me wear dresses made of upholstery. Oh, and I wore a hat and white lace gloves as well. When I was a little girl, I was all about being a lady.
To that end, I even took a class (with my Brownie troop, for a patch no less) called “White Gloves and Party Manners”. It was held at another Bullocks (the one in Pasadena on Lake St., for anyone who knew that area back in the early ‘80s) and a really uptight woman with a bun would sit us all around tables with china and show us how to properly eat soup. (FYI: No slurping, tilt the bowl away from you when you get to the bottom, and move the spoon away from you as you dip at all times.) I don’t remember a whole lot from the class. We still have the book somewhere and I am periodically urged to take it out and reread portions—my father likes to tease me about my manners, though I’m still pretty good about following the rules. I never remember to push my chair in after myself, but otherwise, I’m good to go.
Annnd where was I? Oh, yeah, I love Easter! I do. But as an adult it’s not as much fun—no Easter bunny, no new dresses and fun hats, no sugar highs from chocolate and big family soirees. Every year it makes me a little sad. I’ve established a tradition here which is to brunch with my best friend and spend the day with her, walking around and doing something springy, but it’s simply not the same.
So I was settling into my yearly Easter funk when I came back from a loooong meeting this afternoon, and I had not one but TWO care packages. Lucky me! The first was from my parents, who build the best ones ever. It had camisoles, a Starbucks card, a sugar scrub, cute stationary, “mad money” (My father’s trademark, five bucks to spend frivolously—I usually put it towards beer which would make my mom roll her eyes but my dad would so totally high-five me), and See’s lollipops. Yum.
And then package number two arrived. I had no idea who it could have been from and actually thought it must be work related until I opened it up and it contained:
--One package Red Vines
--One “big bag” of Cadbury Mini-Eggs (how jealous are you, Red?)
--One eggfull of Starburst jellybeans
--Two burned cds
I spent the next ten minutes trying to decipher the handwriting on the cds, which didn’t look familiar at all. I was mildly freaked out at first—who the hell would know that I love Red Vines and they’re hard to come by here, that the Mini-Eggs are my favorites, and would go to the trouble of burning me cds and not include a note? Creepy, right?
And then I stopped being a moron and looked in the box again and found the card—from my best California girl, who has been one of my nearest and dearest since 7th grade, which is why she knows all about what candy I fancy. Mystery solved.
So I made some thank-you calls, popped open the Mini-Eggs, and kicked into work mode. Today my motto was “get shit done”, so I was basically on auto-pilot, crossing item after item off my list. Which apparently includes not registering that I was popping a Mini-Egg into my mouth every minute or so.
I came to when my phone rang and realized that I had eaten a sickening amount of chocolate. That was three hours ago and I’m still unwell. My Easter funk will henceforth be known as Chocolate Poisoning, because given how ill I feel, I think it might not be a bad idea to inquire about a stomach pumping. Gah!
And look how far I have come from my ladylike beginnings. Maybe it IS time to whip out my copy of "White Gloves and Party Manners" for a refresher.
UPDATE:
PLEASE. Someone. I beg of you. Take the mini-eggs AWAY.
To that end, I even took a class (with my Brownie troop, for a patch no less) called “White Gloves and Party Manners”. It was held at another Bullocks (the one in Pasadena on Lake St., for anyone who knew that area back in the early ‘80s) and a really uptight woman with a bun would sit us all around tables with china and show us how to properly eat soup. (FYI: No slurping, tilt the bowl away from you when you get to the bottom, and move the spoon away from you as you dip at all times.) I don’t remember a whole lot from the class. We still have the book somewhere and I am periodically urged to take it out and reread portions—my father likes to tease me about my manners, though I’m still pretty good about following the rules. I never remember to push my chair in after myself, but otherwise, I’m good to go.
Annnd where was I? Oh, yeah, I love Easter! I do. But as an adult it’s not as much fun—no Easter bunny, no new dresses and fun hats, no sugar highs from chocolate and big family soirees. Every year it makes me a little sad. I’ve established a tradition here which is to brunch with my best friend and spend the day with her, walking around and doing something springy, but it’s simply not the same.
So I was settling into my yearly Easter funk when I came back from a loooong meeting this afternoon, and I had not one but TWO care packages. Lucky me! The first was from my parents, who build the best ones ever. It had camisoles, a Starbucks card, a sugar scrub, cute stationary, “mad money” (My father’s trademark, five bucks to spend frivolously—I usually put it towards beer which would make my mom roll her eyes but my dad would so totally high-five me), and See’s lollipops. Yum.
And then package number two arrived. I had no idea who it could have been from and actually thought it must be work related until I opened it up and it contained:
--One package Red Vines
--One “big bag” of Cadbury Mini-Eggs (how jealous are you, Red?)
--One eggfull of Starburst jellybeans
--Two burned cds
I spent the next ten minutes trying to decipher the handwriting on the cds, which didn’t look familiar at all. I was mildly freaked out at first—who the hell would know that I love Red Vines and they’re hard to come by here, that the Mini-Eggs are my favorites, and would go to the trouble of burning me cds and not include a note? Creepy, right?
And then I stopped being a moron and looked in the box again and found the card—from my best California girl, who has been one of my nearest and dearest since 7th grade, which is why she knows all about what candy I fancy. Mystery solved.
So I made some thank-you calls, popped open the Mini-Eggs, and kicked into work mode. Today my motto was “get shit done”, so I was basically on auto-pilot, crossing item after item off my list. Which apparently includes not registering that I was popping a Mini-Egg into my mouth every minute or so.
I came to when my phone rang and realized that I had eaten a sickening amount of chocolate. That was three hours ago and I’m still unwell. My Easter funk will henceforth be known as Chocolate Poisoning, because given how ill I feel, I think it might not be a bad idea to inquire about a stomach pumping. Gah!
And look how far I have come from my ladylike beginnings. Maybe it IS time to whip out my copy of "White Gloves and Party Manners" for a refresher.
UPDATE:
PLEASE. Someone. I beg of you. Take the mini-eggs AWAY.
This entry was posted
on Thursday, April 13, 2006 at 6:16 PM.
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