EASTER WEEKEND, a retrospective

Oh, boy. Did I have a weekend?

I got to ice about six dozen egg-shaped cookies in varying sizes.

I got to eat Chinese take-out from my favorite place and also the best pork tenderloin I’ve ever had.

I got to see my family members I only really get to see on major holidays.

I got to show off my shiny, new, finished copy of I’D TELL YOU I LOVE YOU BUT THEN I’D HAVE TO KILL YOU and convince my Aunt Nadine to start calling bookstores, asking for copies, while disguising her voice to make it seem like the book is more in-demand than it actually is.

I got to hear that my cousin Arden’s husband really loved Cheating at Solitaire, and that he has recommended it to his entire construction crew. . . you know—my target audience.

(NOTE: if you are a friend of my cousin Arden’s you can believe her now. She is my cousin. She’s not making it up because, first, why would anyone make that up? And second, if Arden is going to make something up, it’s going to be way better than this. Trust me. I know her pretty well and trust her creative powers.)

I got to hide 213 Easter eggs. Yes, 213 exactly because anyone who is anyone knows you have to count the Easter eggs—especially the real ones. (Really, people, this totally isn’t my first hunt.)

I got to see a guy in a big bunny suit, at which time I turned to my sister and said, "Quick, what am I thinking about right now?" and she, correctly, said, "Steel Magnolias."

But by far the highlight of my weekend had to be standing in my sister’s darkened dining room at eleven o’clock Friday night, watching her next door neighbor’s house getting toilet papered. That’s right, the art of toilet papering has not died.

We were pretty sure the culprits were eighth grade boys who are classmates of the eighth grade girl who lives in the house next door. What was decidedly less certain was what the two of us were supposed to do about it.

Clearly everyone next door was asleep, and even if they weren’t, would calling them and sending her dad into the yard with a baseball bat ruin this girl’s life forever? Would she have to escape to a boarding school in Vermont like Logan’s girlfriend on Veronica Mars? Would we eventually have to try pick the culprits out of a lineup?

Really, people, there’s a great deal of responsibility associated with being the sole witnesses of a TPing.

As it turns out, it didn’t matter much because the act was pretty much done by the time we saw what was going on.

Personally, I wanted to take pictures, but it was too dark, so they probably wouldn’t have been admissible in court anyway. Even though it would have been nice to send them to the young woman who is translating Love You Kill You into Japanese. There is a TPing reference in the book and, needless to say, that particular piece of American culture doesn’t necessarily translate.

Shame, huh?