Or, if you prefer, HAPPY DUCKLINGS!
I’ve finally convinced My Fella not to call it “fake Easter,” which is quite a feat given that he tends to believe he’s right about everything all the time. Now, I don’t take offense, per se, since I don’t really have any personal stake in this debate*, but I am aware that plenty of people get really, really upset when you call one of their high holy days “fake.” This is pretty universal — except maybe for the offspring of interfaith unions (like me) who are like, “Yeah, so’s wrestling and reality TV, but that doesn’t mean they’re not fun to watch.”
Anyway, I suggested Western Easter (Wester? Waster?), versus…um, Eastern Easter (Yester? Aster?), in consideration of the following: a.) although My Fella was raised Greek Orthodox**, b.) the Franquiz nation (his mother’s family) is very Catholic***, BUT c.) he’s an atheist, so what does he care, anyway?
Meanwhile, we’re at My Fella’s brother’s house, where My Fella is cooking us all dinner while the two of them divvy up the mandatory phone calls to their various kin, who are legion.**** We sort of invited ourselves over, since our gracious host has messed up his ankle and would, without our leg-of-lamb intervention, spend the day alone and mildly stoned on Percocet while watching Direct TV…which is pretty grim.
And I am relaxing on the sofa, writing this post. Soon, I shall eat a food that someone else cooked for the SECOND TIME today (breakfast was crepes) and later do a bit of gardening — all of which is proof that my life is officially AMAZE.
*EXCEPT, if my undergraduate major in Classics has taught me anything, it’s that you should never insult anybody’s deities or rituals, no matter how ridiculous they may seem. That’s exactly how you end up morphing into a vampiric goat-headed serpentfish that belches flies, or similar.