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This year was a doozy, and these last two months were the sugar rush on top of an already lopsided, over-decorated, gluten-to-the-max cake. I feel full in so many ways (most of which are good).
Before I get down to business, a big thank you. Thank you for following my wee blog to its new location, for the comments and the shares and the likes. Thank you for encouraging me and your kind words about our work or our kids. Thank you for still reading.
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It's not really a big deal. Or, at least, it shouldn't be.
Easter isn't about the dresses, and when you really think about it, pageantry is kind of the opposite of what happened on that desperate weekend so long ago.
But still, in my formative years, when I was transitioning from awkward girl to awkward teenager, I could always count on a new Easter Dress. I have many memories of flowered skirts and white shoes, of the anticipation of the new outfit that would propel me into the fashionable orbit of Easter Girls. Ironically, princess-type frills were never my thing, but on Easter I threw those ideals out the window and embraced the glory of femininity.
Read moreMy husband can attest to the amount of time it takes me to choose between different options of mild cheddar cheese in the grocery-store dairy aisle. I weigh everything, and then I second guess my first, second and third instinct until an hour later I'm paralyzed by…
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There's a place right around the third level of hell that is commonly referred to as "Party City on Halloween Eve." This scary place is home to every giant cartoon balloon, sad/smutty lady costume, and wide-brimmed straw cowboy hat known to man.
And I have seen it, with my own two eyes. I have been there, and I have lived to write about it.
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