Ugh.
Perhaps, instead, I could treat this Passover/Easter/Beltane as a New Year part II, and make summore resolutions (cause that worked out so well in January.) But I'm not going to call them resolutions, because resolutions are easily dismissed and forgotten. I'm going to call them wants; wishes seems too passive.
So while I dance around the Spring bonfire Sunday night (unless someone puts Pixies tickets in my Easter basket), roasting pink chick Peeps, burning effigies of Winter, and telling my children stories about Nice Zombie Jesus and his egg-loving rabbit sidekick, I will whisper these wants into the flames.
I want to try to tackle some of those house and yard projects that I've been putting off since Eric entranced me with his come-hither eyes and his lookit-my-manliness muscles two years ago and hypnotized me into spending my weekends playing with him instead of getting stuff done. (Hi Puddin! I'm quite fond of you.)
I want to read more. I miss books and I'm happier when I'm reading. (I went to the book store this weekend and stocked up.)
And I want to plan a vacation. A real get on an airplane and go somewhere nice but not because someone is getting married vacation. I'll figure out how to pay for it later.
And although I do not want to, I will, grudgingly, make some of those icky doctor appointments I have been putting off for way too long. I desperately need to go to the chiropractor, the dentist, the lady bits doctor and probably, if I'm honest with myself, the emotion doctor. I mean, really? How long can I go around being alternately weepy and bitchy while waving the PMS flag fifteen days out of every month? That is either not PMS or someone set my PMS switch to overdrive, and I need to get the reset button pushed. And I need to do all of this tout de suite, while I still have health insurance... and speaking of that...
I see no reason why you shouldn't be going to see Black Francis. I've spent the better part of my adult life reattaching the skin he melted from my face during the late 80s/early90s.
ReplyDeleteIt's like turning into a feral child while you pogo up and down, covered in sweat, screaming like a wounded animal trying not to lose your mind from the awesomeness of it all.
So yes, in a return to civility and what I said before. You should get Pixies tix.
The Pixies (opening for Love and Rockets) was the first real show I went to as a kid, so they will always hold a special place in my live music seeing heart. But I went to their show here a few years ago and I was underwhelmed. I'm sure it was the fault of the venue, bad seats and the person sitting next to me, as they, of course still rock at the face melting But since Sunday's show is at the same venue, the good seats are sold out and we don't have a sitter, I'm not super motivated to fork over the dough for the tix.
ReplyDeleteI know I'm being a heretic, but I hate Easter. Although, if the nuns had told us the story of Nice Zombie Jesus and his egg loving sidekick rabbit, instead of trying to make us feel like we personally pounded the nails through his wrists, I might feel different.
ReplyDeleteI wonder if Public School kids feel the same? I mean, I can remember being 9 and the nun explaining that crucifixes with the nail wounds in the hands were incorrect, as the hands would have ripped in half under the weight of his body. She then proceeded to explain anatomically how the nails had to be driven between the bones of his forearm to be able to hang him on the cross.
In retrospect, I'm surprised she didn't try to demonstrate on any of us.
Cross my heart and hope to spit, I didn't even know Easter was a religious holiday until I was 13. And I didn't see a nun in person until much later.
ReplyDeleteThese are the benefits of being the child of two former Catholics. They did their best to shelter me from all of it. Little did they know I would grow up, meet a boy, and throw myself blindly into it.
What books are you reading? I've been reading so much lately it's like i just learned how....
ReplyDeleteI just finished Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel, an historical fiction about Thomas Cromwell, and now I'm starting The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss, and I have Frenchman's Creek by Daphne Du Maurier and Salman Rushdie's Midnight's Children on deck. A coworker just lent me Water for Elephants, so I might have to read that too, just to be polite.
ReplyDelete"waving the PMS flag fifteen days out of every month"
ReplyDeleteYou're saying that's NOT normal?