Category Archives: funny stuff

I’m building an ark…and filling it with books and wine

I’ve been rather quiet here in the virtual world. The “real” world has become rather messy lately, and I’ve temporarily realigned my priorities. {ehem}

But don’t feel neglected. I’ve barely touched my manuscript in weeks, though post-it notes filled with chicken-scratch edit ideas cover every flat surface in my house. Wonky work hours have forbidden me from sipping wine on weekdays (my back and neck are quite pissed off about this as those areas are now absorbing all my stress).  AND reading has become an imagined bliss as far fetched as enjoying a massage on a Costa Rican beach.

Seriously. My wine shop must think I’ve died. It took me a week and a half to read the hilarious Stephanie McAffee’s Diary of a Mad Fat Girl. A week-and-a-half. I should have devoured that book in one sitting, like a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia. I have no time to review it, but if you like funny, read it. That woman is a hoot. ( I met her in person at the UCF Bookfest a few weeks ago. HOOT.)

Let the shakes commence

Between those issues, my temp job, illnesses, funerals, pre-tween meltdowns, and a car in the shop for nearly two weeks so far (and possibly not ever coming out), I have the wits of a dried-up prison bitch. And without a few layers of makeup, the rings under my eyes make me look like one, too.

Oh, and did I mention it’s been raining? I’m considering building an ark. Or at least blowing up the inflatable boat, just in case, since we sure as hell won’t be needing it in the overflowing pool for a while.

Okay. Bitchfest done. Now for some humor.

Anyone listen to the old Bill Cosby records when they were kids? I’d imagine any child of the seventies had a few of them around the house. Laying on the avocado green shag carpet, I listen to the rain patter down while Bill Cosby told me stories from my red striped record player.

Every time I feel like I’ve been dumped in the heart of monsoon season, I think of Bill and his tale of Noah and the ark…  What’s a cubit?

If I build my ark, it shall be filled with pairs of books and wine. Forget the animals. Too messy. Too stinky. If the world is ending, I don’t want to be shoveling zebra shit, I want my nose buried in a book and a glass of wine in my hand…with my loved ones by my side (preferably rubbing my back).

Namaste. Cheers. Salute. Peace out.

But, the pirates don’t eat the tourists…

While skimming my backlog of blog post this morning, I happened upon one about velociraptors and memory lane by the talented and wildly entertaining Joshilyn Jackson. {It’s hilarious. Go read it. And add her blog to your reader. For reals.} I ended up writing up an exceptionally long-winded comment, so I figured I might as well elaborate some more and share my Jurassic Park memory with y’all.

Unless you live under a non-fossilized rock, you must know Jurassic Park is back on the big screen IN  3D. As much as the original is one of my favorite movies of all time and certainly up there with best book-to-big screen adaptations, I think I’m far too lily-livered to handle it in 3D.  I need an airsick bag to sit through a 3D movie anyway, but all I can think about is:

That, and I still hear impact tremors on a regular basis. {*see below}

Flashback 1993:  It was a hell of a summer. I was a pirate by day, rebel by night. Okay, technically I was a  participant in the coveted Disney Internship Program. I worked 40 hours a week hocking plastic swords to tourists while dressed in an itchy and HOT polyester pirate costume. I was an 18-year-old minimum wage slave who knew everything and refused to appreciate the experience as much as I should have. (Please see the enlightening Hanging Mickey Mouse post.)

Don’t laugh too hard. Told you the pants were horrid.

After my shifts (which could run until well after midnight) I’d eek out a corner in my overcrowded apartment and read. I can vividly remember sitting on the smoke-crusted couch reading Jurassic Park while my five roommates were all miraculously absent (work? partying? bleeding the kegs at work dry?). I was a stranger in a world where I was brainwashed to believe in make-believe. And that book scared the crap out of me. It was riveting. It was terrifying. It was bloody brilliant.

And I’m allowed to use the English slang, as one of my roommates was a Brit. Two were from France, another from Mexico, and one from Lima, Ohio, which seemed as peculiar and far away as all of the others combined. FYI: All the cast members in EPOCT’s World Showcase are actually from the countries they represent on job internship programs (at least they were back then). If you participated in the restaurant management internship program, you sold Guiness at the U.K. beer stand. You looked cute and sounded authentic while spending the year in sunny Florida. What a deal.

I devoured that book faster than a velociraptor snarfed down a cow.  I dragged my roommates to the ginormous movie theater at Downtown Disney opening weekend. The house was packed—full of tourists mostly.

 Let me tell you, fear needs no translation.

I may still have some faint scars on my forearm from Ohio roommate’s fingernails. There’s something about hundreds of people from all over the world yelping and gasping in unison. It was like a perfectly composed symphony of screams, as if we just all flocked together like those veggie-eater dinosaurs running through the plains. Remember: this was in the days when we still felt safe in a crowded movie theater, when we believed the terror was all make-believe.

I know the moment I cried out the loudest, the quote that dug it’s claws into my psyche.

Nope, not when the T. rex tried to eat the kids in the car, or when the raptors chased down spunky Laura Dern, or even during the electric “must go faster” scene.

At one point, that sexy, snarky geek Jeff Goldblum might as well have pointed his finger to me in the audience and dragged me into the film:

John Hammond:All major theme parks have delays. When they opened Disneyland in 1956, nothing worked!

Dr. Ian Malcolm: Yeah, but, John, if The Pirates of the Caribbean breaks down, the pirates don’t eat the tourists.

I couldn’t escape my indentured servitude at Pirates of the Caribbean even during my brief periods of repreive. They knew I was there, watching. And if that much of my real life was invested in the story, well maybe, just maybe dinosaurs could be real too…

No. Not possible. Beyond even the most brilliant geneticists imaginations, right?  Right?

*Twenty years later, I live just close enough to the theme parks to occasionally hear a distant rumble. It’s barely audible, and I only notice it on spring or fall nights when the windows are open and the air fluctuates to just the right density to carry the deep rolling sound. Each time, my ears perk up, my book goes down, and force myself not to say aloud, “You hear that? Impact tremors.”*

As if somewhere in the wilds of suburbia, a T. rex roams in search of dinner. (Hey, wait a minute…didn’t they do that in Jurassic Park 2 or 3?  Ugh-oh.)  At some point my deluded sense of reality kicks in and I realize it’s just distant summer thunder or the faint booms of theme park fireworks.

But no one can say I have a bland imagination.

I’d say that book and movie left a lasting impression. Thank you Michael Crichton and Steven Spielberg. Your creations will prowl the border of my suspension of disbelief forever.

Maybe Jurassic Park would be worth the nausea to watch in 3D. Should I take the kiddo? All kids need a complex, right?

Someone tell me about the BIRDS and the BEES…

The time is drawing near. 
I won’t be able to deflect the questions much longer. 
How did you approach THE TALK with your kid(s)?

Last weekend I was thrilled to meet up with an old high school/college friend when she came to town to do Disney. She met my “boys” and I met her darling son and hubby. Oh, and she was visibly pregnant with number two (yay!). Knowing I had gone through a rough patch dealing with secondary infertility a few years back, she broke her good news to me gently.  Exceptionally considerate of her, but while I am over the moon happy for her, I am beyond baby lust at this point. Way beyond. As in: that ship hasn’t just sailed, it was attacked by pirates and sunk. The thought of diapers and potty training and sleepless nights and…panic attack central.

I can’t imagine going back to the baby business because my thoughts speed towards standardized testing,  bullying, online safety, kids and cell phones, and…explaining sex to my 9-year-old.

Last night at the dinner table—immediately after my husband excused himself—my son popped the question. Technically questions.

Him:  Mama, your friend was pregnant, right?

Me: Yup.They’re so excited.

Him: (pause—fussing with napkin) So, how do women get pregnant? And how do women KEEP FROM getting pregnant?

Whoa! Panic! Panic! Sound the alarm. Call in the flying monkeys. Swoon? Am I raising a feminist or a Casanova? 

Somehow  I managed to just spear another bite of salad and play it cool. (All those years of acting paid off.)

Me: That’s an excellent question. But we don’t have time to answer that right now. Want a cookie? (crap, crap, crap, crap…where the hell is my husband…crap, crap…) How about two cookies?

Is nine (and a half)  too young? Should I keep pushing it off? Too old? Just right?

We forget sometimes how blissful it was to revel in that naivete. But this childhood innocence lasts for such a short time now. I mean, my kid’s favorite song (though I tried, so help me, I TRIED to deter it) is Gangnam Style. Yes, he and his little buddies dance around singing “Hey….SEXY lady…” at the bus stop. It’s like a runaway train. Once this this growing up business begins there’s no hand brake—we all just hold on for dear life and try to find a way to steer so we don’t crash too hard.

My kid is smart and perceptive, but he doesn’t question things too often. We watch the news together and I usually don’t get pummeled with questions when stories about gay rights or sexual abuse in the church or Zumba prostitution rings come up. Of course, I choose those moments to butt in with a question about school or Legos or the color of frog poop (as our friend says, “Look! A dirigible!”). But I actually have my answers prepped for those questions, so of course they haven’t come up. 

The sex talk is another story. I’m clueless.

So, parents…how did you break the news? Anyone have any advice? Books to buy? I could always just set him down in front of prime time TV and he’d figure it out pretty quick, but I’m thinking that’s not the right way to go…

I’ll  keep putting THE TALK off as long as possible, but I need to be prepared. The Girl Scout in me is in panic mode. Help?

 FLASHBACK: A little Salt-N-Pepa encouragement


 photo credit: oleyography via photopin cc

This Chick Still Doesn’t Get RUSH

I’ve tried. I swear to the Rock Gods, I’ve tried. It took twelve years of marriage for a guy to finally drag me to a Rush show. Every guy I’ve ever dated worshiped upon the power trio’s altar, owned all their albums, saw them in concert every time they toured. I just can’t get into their music.

Since I LOVE going to concerts—seeing musicians transform their passions into sound, feeling the music, the energy—I thought perhaps if I saw them play live I may understand the devotion they sir in their thousands millions of fans. Male fans.

Last weekend I journeyed to their show (through two hours of gridlock) with an open heart, an open mind, and a big ass beer in my hand.

After seeing them live I can officially declare I still don’t dig them.

You want proof Rush is a guy band?

This. This is AN EMPTY RESTROOM. AT A CONCERT. They do exist.
Yes, it’s the ladies room. The men’s line wrapped around the building.

I’ve waited upwards of a half hour for a chance at one of those usually nasty stalls. Dave Matthews Band, NIN, Jane’s Addiction—I’d spent enough time in line to learn the life stories of the women around me while we stood with our legs crossed trying to look cool and not do the dance.

There may have been ten girls at the show. Okay, maybe a fifty. Out of thousands of rabid fans. To the point I stopped in front of one and said, “Oh look, there IS another woman here.” She just half-smiled and looked at her watch like she was ready to go.

And if you ever need an ego boost, go to a Rush show. The other women wore old vintage holey T-shirts (like my hubby). They hadn’t updated their jeans (ripped, stonewashed, high-waisted, relaxed fit) or their hair (mullets. many of them.) since they started going to shows thirty years ago.

I saw no pairs or groups of women. They all came with their male counterparts. Yet I’ve never seen so many guys together on dates in my life. No, nothing romantic (a gay guy would NEVER be seen in public dressed so tastelessly). Bromance hung heavy in the air: male bonding at its finest. Their wives/significant others were smart enough to stay away.

So why don’t women get Rush? Since I was not “at one” with the music, I had plenty of time to reflect while I people-watched and sipped beer. Each member of the Canadian power trio does show mastery of their instruments. They wove complex harmonies—perhaps too complex? The songs (with the exception of a few hits like Tom Sawyer and Closer to the Heart) just don’t have enough melody. There’s nothing to hum or sing. Thousands of old guys playing air guitar and air drum solos—hells yeah—but the sound is just too tangled. Forget being something to dance to, there’s not even a steady enough drum beat to swing a hip to.

 The lyrics are intelligent tirades, some nearly poems (seriously: they quote literature, even Shakespeare) but they are utterly lacking in emotion. Yes, I’m generalizing, but most girls don’t dig songs about robots.

Okay, and for some women it may be a question of sex appeal:

I don’t know if this album cover is supposed to make them look sexy and brooding, like porn stars or Jedis.  But there are plenty of bands where the singers are not the slightest bit attractive (have you seen Marilyn Manson?) but they just exude . . . something. Rush’s music is utterly asexual. Once again: robots over romance.

To be fair, I skipped a hunk of the show. Some drunk-assed baby boomer MAN knocked my FULL 24-ounce beer all over me. Yes, he was apologetic. Yes, he bought me a new one then found another patch of grass to pollute. But I was still soaked. And pissed. Though the bathroom WAS empty, I still couldn’t shower the stink off, so I wandered and tweeted.

I returned home smelling like a frat house couch: an eau d’ stale beer, various smokes, and testosterone. At least Hubby had a EPIC time. ::sigh:: The things we do for love.

Have you ever been dragged to a concert you didn’t like?

mullet photo credit: SeymourSolo via photopin cc

concert photo credit: wvs via photopin cc

Review: There’s a Puma in the Kitchen and Other Unexpected Tales of Motherhood

It is with great pleasure I introduce a debut author to you, Heather J. Kelly. Well, new to you — I’ve known about her brilliance for over twenty years. . .

My collection of essays, There’s a Puma in the Kitchen and Other Unexpected Tales of Motherhood,” Provides a glimpse into all of the things I expected about pregnancy and motherhood… and all the things I actually found awaiting me. You will read about my broken boobies, my inability to let my youngest daughter sleep through the night and, oh yeah, that time I dented my oldest daughter’s forehead. ~H.J.K.

Personal bias aside, I loved this collection. Kelley’s transparent writing and irreverent voice made me feel  as if I was sitting around having a drink with an old friend, sharing war parenting stories. Likeable, relatable, and real.  Sometimes I wanted to be laughing beside her, sometimes I wanted to drag her out for a much needed drink, and sometimes I just wanted to reach out and hug her as she endured the struggles of parenthood.

The book is a collection of twenty-three essays capturing the bright, bemused tone of a blog post even when tackling ticklish topics. Yet they’re far from frivolous: the longer essays venture further into the all-access zone than most bloggers would dare tread. I was amazed how much deeply personal stuff Kelley actually put out there. It’s one thing to relate the story of how you picked out baby names, but another to describe your breast reduction and breakdowns (which we all have endured, but don’t necessarily have the balls to talk about).  She bravely lets it all hang out as she takes us on her journey to find sanity amidst two toddlers, a husband, a full-time job, and a puma dwelling in her kitchen.
Many women will appreciate the “Crazy In My Head” essay about the author’s struggles with postpartum depression.  The last few paragraphs of the essay were some of the strongest in the entire collection — every mom will read it and think, “Yes, yes, that’s IT. . . “

Honestly, I wish I had read a collection like this BC (before child).  It’s helpful, it’s fun, it’s entertaining — it’s the warning that none of us received— yet it also speaks of the joys outweighing the chaos. Well. . .usually. . .

Recommendation: BUY IT.  It’s only $2.99 on Amazon, and it would make a fabulous read whenever you don’t want to feel alone as your kids are giving you one of those days.

You can find Heather at her writing blog: 

Stray Cat Sucker Punch

Saturday afternoon, after my Hubby finished mowing the lawn, we heard cries from the bushes, like a kitten mewling in distress. We edged against the house into the bushes to find a grown cat, clearly terrified, far too skinny, and far too friendly.

He hasn’t left our yard since.

I couldn’t help it. I set food and water bowls by the front door while I waited for him to dart home. Nope. Kiddo named him Charlie,  picked him up, and carried him around the yard. He loved it. I sat out on the front bench reading; he jumped in my lap and purred, let me scratch his belly. I melted, fearing he’d be scared by the fierce storms we’d suffered lately and creaked open the ancient dog door to our porch. He found his way in and made himself at home.

Dammit. I don’t want or need another cat.

Our current pet, another rescued kitten we were suckered into, is rather a bitch. She will not be happy.

I rode around the neighborhood yesterday afternoon on my grandfather’s retro bike, pulling Lost Cat fliers from the basket and taping them to stop signs. This guy (and his cahones prove he is definitely a male) is a lover, and someone, somewhere must miss him, right? He’s so sweet we are fighting the urge to rip the fliers down.

He only leaves our porch to use nature’s litter box. He’s tried to sneak into the house even with mean kitty glaring at him from the other side of the glass door. He sleeps curled up against the kitchen window, as close as he can get to indoors, our home. I have no doubt he’d curl up with us in bed if we let him.

Dammit, we’re going to end up with another cat, aren’t we.

***How long do you wait for a possible outdoor cat to return home?  A week? A month?
How long until you decide he’s yours and take him to the vet and let him into your heart? Anyone?


Pinterest Hit or Miss Monday – Zucchini Tot FAIL

They looked so good: wholesome, family friendly, healthy, fun. . .

They were a royal PITA.

Zucchini Tots. They were called zucchini bites, but I like “zucchini tots” better.
 They are the healthy version of tater tots. 
The recipe for these couldn’t be any easier. 
~ Pinterest caption
Zucchini Bites
Recipe adapted: The Naptime Chef
yields: 12 mini muffins

1 cups zucchini, grated
1 egg
1/4 yellow onion, diced
1/4 cup cheese (cheddar or Parmesan work the best)
1/4 cup bread crumbs – I used Italian style
Salt and Pepper

1. Preheat oven to 400F. Spray a mini-muffin tin with non-stick spray, set aside.
2. Grate the zucchini and then place in a dish towel to squeeze out the excess water- like when using frozen spinach; if you skip this part, the middle of the zucchini tots will be really soggy while the outside gets crispy and no one wants that.
3. In a bowl combine, the egg, onion, cheese, bread crumbs, zucchini, salt and pepper.
4. Using a spoon or a cookie scoop, fill the muffin cups to the top. Bake for 15-18 minutes, or until the top is browned and set.


They looked so good I made a double batch.

I used my handy-dandy mini food processor to grate my zucchini early in the day — so simple. I headed the warning about the *really soggy* mess and drained the zucchini pulp on paper towels for hours in the fridge then squeezed the living tar out of it before mixing.

Apparently not nearly enough.

I used cheddar cheese (you can never have too much cheddar) and followed the recipe exactly.

They smelled divine cooking. My tummy rumbled.

I got this:

 They suck to the pan, the insides were complete mush, and there was not a hint of *totness* anywhere in my kitchen even after I baked them ten minutes longer than called for.

I can only assume I didn’t squeeze hard enough or I had some really damn juicy ‘chinnis.

They DID taste divine, and I piled the mess onto our plates. Even the kid said it was yummy. It tasted just like squash casserole to me — pretty much the same thing, so next time I’ll just make the much less time consuming casserole.

Oh, and the pan. . . it took two days of soaking to get that darn non-stick pan clean.

I’d have to vote this as a MISS.

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Win Confessions of a Scary Mommy for Mother’s Day!

Unless you live under a cyber rock (or you have yet to endure the pleasure of childbirth, adoption, or raising a child in any way), you know that Jill Smokler (a.k.a. Scary Mommy) wrote a book — a  snort-coffee-out-your-nose funny book Confessions of a Scary Mommy.

Jill buzzed through MY town last weekend (okay, she took some time out from schmoozing at the Social Media Moms Conference and blitzing through Disney) and held a book signing at my local Barnes and Noble. Of course, I was there.

And I must tell you, she was as witty, candid, and utterly delightful in person as she is on her blog and in her book…and much thinner.  (No, I’m not saying that to kiss ass, but because she writes about her body image issues, but she could totally qualify as MILF material. Just saying.)

Yes, that’s the copy YOU can win right there in my hand.

Jill read from her book (the chapter on family vacations — how apropos), dished the dirt on a few topics she can’t write about online, and discussed the ever-changing worlds of blogging and publishing. It was enlightening and depressing and through-provoking all at the same time. And laced with some trademark language that would make a sailor blush, as well.

I met few bloggers I knew online, and it’s always a wonderful experience to have a moment to talk with someone who “gets” you (because you know all those non-bloggers just think we’re weird).

I had to buy a book while I was there, support blog-to-book writers and all that jazz, but since I already owned a signed advance review copy, I decided to buy a copy for you. Someone out there can win a signed copy of Confessions of a Scary Mommy just in time for Mother’s Day.  How’s that for a rocking present?

So…do you want to win?


 My fabulous book review is over at Bookshelf Bombshells today. 

To enter, you MUST head over there first AND:

Choose one or more of the entry methods: Must leave a separate commentfor each thing that you do!
Mandatory entry:
* Leave a comment (including your email address) on the Bombshells website telling us why you or someone you love is a Scary Mommy.
Optional Entries:
*Follow @BookShelfBmshlson twitter and leave your twitter name on your comment.
*Follow Bookshelf Bombshells on Facebook and leave a comment that you are a follower.

On this site:
You can get some additional entries by:
* Liking me on Facebook and/or
*Twitter and leaving separate comments here also.  
And if you tweet about the contest, maybe we’ll give you another entry, too.

The giveaway will close on Friday, May 11th at 9pm ET. Winner will be chosen from the comments at random by and will be contacted via email.

I’m A Working Girl Now

Once again, my adaptation and juggling skills are being put to the test. For the first time in eight years, I am officially a working girl. (Because, as you all know, I spent those last eight years on the couch watching talk shows and eating Oreo truffles. Blogger, SAHM, and {unpublished} novelist don’t really count as “real” jobs, right?)

I’m forbidden to reveal anything about my job, pure torture for a blogger. I’ve signed a strict confidentiality agreement; if I tell you, I’d have to kill you…or just get fired.  It may or may not  have something to do with poles, pistols, or the Pythagorean theorem.

Honestly, I’m just thrilled to be able to spend a few hours with other adults wearing something besides yoga pants. If I planned it our properly, I’d wager a hefty sum (in other words, more than I’m making) that I could wear a different outfit each day. And I’m talking no repeats on tops, bottoms, or dresses. The clothes horse in me is biting at the bit to finally dust off some of my thrift store fashion finds.

I CAN tell you it’s an evening job. Considering my shift lasts a solid hour past my usual 9:30ish bedtime, I’d almost consider it a night job. It’s a stretch for our family; we normally eat dinner together every night, and I’m always the one who cooks (I like cooking).  Now I’m eating dinner at five, alone. I’m missing reading and snuggling time with my kiddo, the most cherished parts of my day. No evenings spent reading beside my hubby.  And  no wine during the week. Unbelievable, I know. I’m considering setting up a caffeine I.V. drip instead. Not nearly as much fun, but necessary.

Since I’m writing about jobs, I thought I’d link up with the lovely Nicole @Moments That Define for Listable Life.

5 Jobs I’ve had

1. Pirate Yes, I was the fresh-eyed, all-American girl in the polyester pirate costume standing outside Pirates of the Caribbean at Disney World. Never. Again. Enough said. (Or to read why I Hung Mickey Mouse click here)

2. Ear Piercer Back in high school, I wielded the ear piercing gun at our mega-Claire’s Boutique. Back then, earrings were “in” for guys, so I had a wonderful time making tough football players cry. Priceless. But the babies — oh, the babies — they’d be fine, just a little squirmy, as I did my best to draw even target dots on their tiny ears.  They’d smile as I lined the gun up, then POP…they’d pause for a second, then stare at me as if I was evil incarnate just before they screwed their face up and howled. That second hole was always tough.  I hated the babies, but I loved the boys.

Photo courtesy of ABC News

3. Bridal Boutique Manager I could tell you it was a magical job, filled with touching moments of teary-eyed and blissfully grateful brides-to-be embracing me after we found “the dress.” It would be a boldfaced lie. I don’t need to watch Bridezillas. I’ve lived it. On the bright side, I did get to try on all the sample gowns after hours. That was fun.

4. Japanese Hair product tester I can’t reveal much, except that my DNA is on file in some Japanese laboratory. This makes me more than a bit nervous. At least I’ve never come across any weird pictures of my bad hair days on the internet. Yet.

5. Bra Fitter  Technically, I was the Men’s Collections and Ladies Lingerie department manager at a major department store, but I measured women for bras as often as my sales girls did.  I’ve seen as many boobs as Hugh Heffner, except most were most certainly not Playboy worthy. I learned far too much about what happens when well-endowed women age (considering I was in my mid-20s and still small and perky, it was quite an eye-opener).  Guys’ eyes always lit up when I mentioned that aspect of my job — until I described how cleavage can hang well-past a waistline.

Have you had any unique jobs?

Our Easter Bunny should be fired

 First a confession: I have apparently turned into my mother. I used to tease her about the chocolate Easter bunny who lived in our freezer, only to be resurrected each year for a one-day appearance in my basket.  Well, it seems I have outdone her, because I have THREE bunnies in my freezer.  Someone, come and eat them, please.  I’m afraid if I leave them together much longer they will multiply (you know how those bunnies can be).

And the sad thing is, Kiddo had no idea these bunnies were making a repeat performance.
 Bad Easter Bunny.

Saturday morning I woke up at 6:45 in a total panic.  Oh Crap! The Easter bunny forgot to stop by our house!  I woke my husband, flew to the bunny’s secret lair and snatched the loot, and was about to grab all the empty eggs for stuffing when my Hubby woke up enough to think. Someone had to.  “Uh, honey,” he said. “It’s Saturday. Easter is Sunday. Today’s our anniversary.”   

Oops. I knew there was something special about the day.   Not sure which is worse: forgetting Easter or forgetting it was my twelfth anniversary. Bad Mommy. Bad Wife.

I considered resigning as Easter Bunny. If only I could fire myself.

The REAL Easter morning went well, at least. That tricky bunny decided to make Kiddo hunt for some of his presents this year, and stuffed a few eggs with clues.  I was absolutely thrilled when he dug into his new Titanic books and legos and left the wii toy to sit alone by the television.

He’s my kid after all.

For the last…six years (geesh, time flies) we’ve spent Easter afternoon at our friends’ parents farm. They throw a big old fashioned  potluck and egg hunt, and we look forward to it each year.

Half a dozen folding tables hold mugs filled with dye, stickers, and crayons for drawing.  A few years ago, someone decided that garbage bags saved the kids from dying themselves, and they all get decked out in this trashy fashion statement. Outfits saved.

While the eggs dry, it’s time to feast.  The buffet fills the farmhouse’s wrap-around porch, and folks line up on both sides to load their plates with everything from home-grown beans to turkey and ham. 

 You have to clean your plate before you are allowed to hit the dessert buffet. Yes, dessert buffet. I crammed down two slices of cake (luckily there was no banana pudding this year or I would have popped). My friend totally stole my idea and made this adorable Peeps sunflower cake. (Okay, she had no idea I saw the pin on Pinterest and I was too lazy to make it myself.)

The kids run wild for a little bit while the adults digest. 

Then the kids are corralled  inside while most of the adults hide the eggs.  Hundreds of eggs: each child dyed a dozen, then there are huge storage bins filled with stuffed plastic eggs. We spread them over a couple of acres, in citrus trees, on tractor wheels, in plant pots, and tucked in Spanish moss gracefully drooping from oak trees.  Big kids go to one side of the house, little ones on the other. It’s still hard to believe my Kiddo is one of the bigger children now. He was just 2 1/2 the year of his first hunt.

My baby’s grown a little bit.
Funny how he has dirty knees in both pictures. Some things never change.

Funny how other things can change in the blink of an eye.

On the way home, we passed by another group of Trayvon Martin supporters marching through downtown Sanford.  Back to life, back to reality.