Worst. Easter. Ever.

I have a pretty solid memory of being about 7 or 8 and waking up with excitement on Easter, expecting to find a way awesome basket full of peeps, chocolate bunnies and magnificently dyed eggs. However, when no such holiday display greeted me, I questioned the adults with as much chagrin as a second grader can muster. I didn’t realize at the time that the caught-with-our-pants-down looks which passed amongst the elders were the remnants of a confused hangover haze but I began to suspect something was amiss when they ushered me out of the room to get ready for the special Easter egg hunt. A half hour later, I was led to the backyard where I was given a small wicker basket (like the one my mother kept her cosmetics in) and let loose to discover a half-dozen barely-hidden plastic eggs – four L’eggs hosiery & two Silly Putty containers – full of things like Tic Tacs, a half pack of Wrigley’s and whatever else they grownups had found at the bottom of purses and pockets. When done, I declared with equal parts umbrage and defeat that “Easter sucks!” and stomped off to my room where I drew a bunch of really, rather creative pictures of me doing some pretty horrendous things to the Easter Bunny.

I don’t think I celebrated the holiday much after that.

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