The Puddinette is an angel made manifest in my life. There is not a single question in my mind about how poor the quality of life would be around here were she to make the sensible decision and run off with some rich, attractive, younger guy to start a new life of pampering in a latitude where the thermometer only drops below 70 degrees in case of hockey games in the Abyss.
I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right; it isn’t Mother’s Day or her birthday, and no, I haven’t done anything wrong. As far as you know. I’m not committing words of adoration and appreciation to my better half because I am screw up (although I often am), or because there’s a mom/wife centric holiday in the works. It is because of Easter, though; a holiday whose trappings chill me to the very core.
I don’t honestly mean that in a negative, blasphemous kind of way. Perish the thought that I could even suggest something blasphemous or negative. Surely you all know I’m the Earthly model for good attitude and behavior. Indeed, I do appreciate Easter for, you know, the whole holy part of it, and all that business. But the intricately designed eggs. And the pastels. And the baskets with the omnipresent, uncontrollable grass. A curse! Seriously, about the grass: how does it multiple and spread? There has to be a reasonable explanation for the fact that once released, and no matter how tightly monitored, the stuff will somehow escape its woven -basket confines and appear, from nowhere, right in the middle of the family floor as late in the year as Columbus Day.
Anyway, I have the big appreciation for my wonderful wife tonight because she handles the eggs every year, and did so again today. I believe there was probably a time when I enjoyed the coloring of the eggs, but I can only imagine it had more to do with the magic of using a white crayon to make my name appear in purple dye; either that, or I really enjoyed the smell of vinegar when I was a kid. Personally, I’m betting it was the crayon.
Nowadays, though, I am not a fan the decorating of the eggs. I’m sure you’re all contemplating how terrible a person must be to not enjoy coloring hard-cooked eggs, but consider this: I am not crafty. I have not an iota of craft skill in my whole person. I am anti-craft, personified. Were I a super-villain, I suspect Anti-Craft would be my villainous identity, and I would bring the city to its knees by ruining all manner of lovely, well-crafted things merely by gazing upon them with my Anti-Craft Vision.
Really, though, for those of you who know me, and know me well, you know that I cannot even color inside the lines. How can I be expected to demonstrate the making of wonderful, beautiful Easter eggs when I can’t even control a crayon as well as my four year-old? The practice is inherently designed to make me feel insufficient, and God bless my wife for not putting me through it. I think I’ll stick to carving the pumpkins. At least they’re supposed to be hideous.