I originally thought to write some long-winded and didactic essay about the "origins" of Easter. You know, Eostre, Teutonic dawn goddess of fertility, and the symbolism of eggs, wabbits, and the meaning of hot cross buns. Instead, I'll leave it to you to get your hands on a copy of The Women's Encyclopedia of Myths and Secrets. Don't get all reactionary about the title - it's really a great reference book that traces the origins and histories of mythologies and human practices governed by religion.
Got Milk? -
My roommate phoned me Sunday afternoon from Hawaii, bursting with a child's delight. Seems that morning, just over the neighbor's fence, they spied a hen sitting on a clutch of eggs. Sometime later, the yellow chicks burst out of their shells. (It is only now occurring to me that chicks are the same color as the yolk of an egg. How can I be such a dullard?) One lone egg failed to join the others (had I been there, I would have named it for myself - the one who was born a month late. I understand the reluctance to step out into the world), and RPP was concerned that the mother was not tending to it, that it might not hatch after all.
"Some eggs are sterile - maybe there's no chick inside."
"It was moving."
"Maybe it's a runt."
There was some confused conversation about how this all works, which was charming really, as it seemed RPP had completely regressed, in all her excitement. Bear in mind, his woman is smart, and she's a nurse.
"So, the chicks sit on the eggs, and then the babies are hatched, but the rooster..."
"Don't you mean the hens sit on the eggs?"
"Oh, yeah. But then do the roosters come from the hens, or how do you know if you are going to get hens or roosters..."
"You really were raised in the city, weren't you?"
"Well, so was I, but hens are females, roosters are males, chicks are babies of both genders, and which sex you get from a clutch - well, it's just a mix. But both come from the hen... (pause) ...Now, RPP, where do we get milk?"
"From cows and your breasts."
Ok, this is funny for reasons I won't tell you.
The Bleating of the Lambs, Clarice -
Last evening I had Easter dinner at Henry's house. Henry's the reason I started this blog, to get me over the sadness when we parted ways. It seems he's sad we've not been seeing each other socially, so he sent one of his emissaries to bring me back into the fold. As much as I get disgruntled by the manner in which the invitation was extended and limpdick tactics generally, I was grateful to spend an evening with people who were a regular part of my life. Still, I don't know why he's so scared to pick up the damned phone. It was warming when he told me he was glad I had come.
I ate an entire shank of lamb, and the heavenly potatoes that had been steeped in all that fatty gravy goodness. Lamb needs almost no seasoning, it's so aromatic. It's my favorite meat, though venison and beef run close behind. Of course, I violated my vegetarian creed, something I've been doing often enough to make me not quite a vegetarian at all.
I sat next to Henry, and at some point I had to cut the meat off the bone for him. You see, as part of his ancient injury, he lacks a certain dexterity, though he's a successful storyboard artist, and draws quite fast. He has a term for his cumbersome fingers and lack of legerdemain. With his dry tone and British accent (almost the same thing, I reckon), he will say, defensively yet with intentional humor, "Well, you try tying your laces with bunches of bananas."
It was a nice evening, even with Jesus running wild as usual. That's right, Jesus, our crazy gay Mexican friend. Don't ask, "what would Jesus do?" He's so hyper, it's like someone's putting a perpetual roll of quarters in him. The mouth doesn't stop. It exhausts me.
I got quite tired, mostly from the Tryptophan (it's not just for turkey anymore), and made an early departure. Henry looked discomfited. I leaned over to give him kiss goodbye, and though I aimed for the cheek, he maneuvered so the impact was on my lips. I switched cheeks for part two, and he really got me that time. He looked sorry I was leaving. I guess he was marking his old territory a bit. Perhaps he was doing that thing guys do when they know you've slipped a bit past their grasp. Just as you're falling off their radar, the inevitable phone call comes. They don't really want you back, they just test the romantic waters to see if they've still got their hooks in you. It's pure ego.
I guess I shouldn't sell myself short. If he misses me, well, he should. I'm glad to be past all that, though I could try to be friends at this point.
And someday, if you're really good, I'll tell you all about what it was like to be with a man in a wheelchair, since all my girlfriends have asked.
One Easter, four years ago, I was dating a guy. Wanting to do something celebratory for the holiday, I decided I would buy package after package of marshmallow bunnies and chicks to stick all over his front door. He, being a funny sort, would have enjoyed it. Plus, the glue would simply be the sugar, so no harm could come to the door.
Unfortunately, events transpired that made it impossible for me to make any such romantic gestures in his direction. Too bad. I always though it would look so cool. But don't steal it, I'm using the motif in my new screenplay, "Peeps on a Plane."