There are so many things to love about Easter even for a heathen such as myself. The fashion for one. Biblical law requires us all to purchase a new frock especially for the occasion and I’m fine with any excuse to buy new clothes. (I believe the Easter dress mandate can be found in the book of Parisians.) Additional Easter fun includes: searching for hard-boiled eggs that have been bathed in food coloring and vinegar, consuming copious amounts of rabbit-shaped chocolate, and enduring public humiliation at the hands of your niece.
My niece is what my great aunt Mary would have called a pistol. The kid can launch a zinger like no one else and it’s damn impressive. She is obsessed with my state of singledom and brings it up during any moments of silence. Her greatest dinner table hits of late include questions as to why Aunt Cat is not married, why Aunt Cat has no children, and what is wrong with Aunt Cat. Each is, indeed, a million dollar question. The tiny genius has both the questions and answers.
Question: Why is Aunt Cat not married?
Answer: Because she is having trouble finding a husband.
Question: Why does Aunt Cat not have any children?
Answer: Because she can’t find anyone to get married to.
Question: What’s wrong with Aunt Cat?
Answer: She is a goofball.
Her zinger-slinging aim is impeccable, and two years ago on Easter Sunday, she hit a bullseye. In addition to my marital status, she is also obsessed with underpants. As in who IS or IS NOT wearing underpants. An interesting question to be sure, but perhaps one best mused privately. And perhaps not on Easter.
Easter 2015 was the closest we’ve ever come to a full holiday win. Through the grace of whatever higher power, we managed to complete a brutal Easter morning itinerary. Easter baskets were located, eggs hunted, breakfast served, morning news shows watched, Easter attire donned, photographs snapped, everyone buckled into a vehicle and arrived at the church. EARLY. Never in history has of our family arrived punctually to a place of worship. Spirits were high.
Child in-church behavior was on point. No one had to be escorted out due to tantrum or the destruction of French hand sewn lace. At lunch, food remained on the table and nary a scream could be heard. I felt as though I was living in some kind of Hayley Mills Disney epic. As we prepared to leave the dining table I allowed the triumph to morph into arrogance. I threw hard shade to some squirming children as they smeared banana pudding all over their monogrammed lace collars. I was feeling pretty superior, really rather smug about our behavioral achievement.
But the smug they shall be smitten.
It happened so fast. The 5-year-old pistol secured a firm grip on the hem of my too-short-for-church dress, hoisted it heavenward, and squealed,
Aunt Cat’s not wearing underpants!
It took a moment for me to register the draft. Just long enough for me to solidly moon the entire Easter luncheon crowd at our country club. My bare derriere was met with gasps, snickering, and somewhere faintly in the distance, applause.
For the record, I WAS wearing underpants. I was wearing the requisite Commando thong. But that’s not underwear to 5. The Commando blew her little mind apart. “What is that?? Why doesn’t it have a bottom??” she howled as I dragged her out through the foyer. The rest of the afternoon was spent trying to ignore the barrage of questions pertaining to my chosen undergarment. I finally gave her a new Commando and she spent the rest of the afternoon in deep scientific research while I ate all the chocolate in her Easter basket.
Sunday marks the two year anniversary of my great Easter moon. My dress is a bit longer this year but not by much. However, I have been a bit savvier in undergarment planning.
Requisite Commando thong.
Roll of strategically placed duct tape.
She’s 7 now, but still a pistol…
With The Pistol