iStockPhoto/esemelweAh, Easter in Las Vegas, a time to rise before dawn and tool down to the religious indoctrination center of your family’s choice. The intellectual discussions about early Christianity still ring in my ears like the recorded chimes of St. Ronald’s by the Freeway.
I start with my patented whine. “Why do we have to be there so early?”
My brother, more assertive, is inclined to skip the entire religious aspect of the holiday. “Wake me when you get home.”
“Noooo!” This wail from “the pest,” the tail end of our family parade. “The Easter Bunny won’t leave us eggs and candy if we’re home.”
Tempted beyond mortal sufferance to crush her bunny fantasy, I still manage to hold my tongue. Not because I have an iota of compassion, but because I understand that “the Easter Bunny,” in the incarnation of parents, can get testy about being outed and I could end up candy-less and egg-less. The pest revels in her role of innocent, using her big blue eyes and blonde tresses to manipulate unwary adults, parents in particular.
After three church services – my parents being huge choir junkies who could no more pass up a chance to sing than a drunk could pass up a free bottle of Ripple – we finally cram into the family van and drive home, where a woman, who in the interests of anonymity shall be referred to only as “Mom,” corrals us in the living room and forces us to remain in situ, while my father waltzes around the yard hiding colored eggs and chocolate bunnies.
iStockPhoto/Stacey GamezThe pest always gets to go first, because, as my parents never tire of explaining, she is younger. Younger, true, but she has been born with X-ray vision and an ability to find hidden objects that borders on the paranormal. While the rest of us wait at the backdoor exhibiting the patience of baying hounds, the pest lollygags around the backyard stooping now and then to harvest some plastic ovoid filled with treasure. Once the door has been thoroughly slimed with drool, “Mom” releases us from confinement and we charge into the hunt, elbowing and shoving our way to the loot: foil-wrapped chocolates, jelly beans in colors so vivid the dye would eventually be declared illegal, and hard-boiled eggs that are quickly snatched away so they can be divested of their colored shells and put into potato salad.
There is always some sort of special gift that my father – aka the Big Bunny – hides in some diabolically impossible spot. Occasionally it will be so well hidden that we have to appeal to the pest to use her superpowers to find them. This costs in terms of chocolate and jelly beans.
When the yard has been scoured of Easter paraphernalia, we troop inside to feast on ham, potato salad and tons of other delicacies.
Fast forward 30 years. I’m on the phone with the pest, who owns more cars, a bigger house and a much better wardrobe than I do. “What are you doing for Easter?” I ask.
“I might go to a friend’s house. They throw a big annual bash for the neighborhood.”
That sounds appealing. “Can I come?”
There is a long pause, during which I think of all the times I had to include her in my social schedule. I may have to resort to calling the woman known as “Mom.”
“They’re French,” she finally answers.
What does that mean?
“Should I bring wine?” Now I’m negotiating. I’ve learned over the years that this technique works better than whining.
“Look,” she says, sounding exasperated. “Last year I went to their party and they prepared a traditional Easter meal just for us Americans.”
“Sounds good. Ham? Roast beef? Chicken?”
“No, Lapin à la Cocotte.” She even manages a European accent. Pest!
“Sounds yummy. So about that wine … red or white?”
“Do you even know what lapin is?”
No, but I hate it when she gets all snooty and smart sounding, so I take a stab. “Lamb?”
“Close. Rabbit.”
“Rabbit! For Easter?”
“Yes, because of all the Easter Bunny promotions. They thought that’s what we ate. Pretty funny, huh?”
Funny! A fluffy bunny hacked up and cooked?
“That’s awful,” I manage to choke out.
“No, it’s delicious.”
“I couldn’t eat a rabbit.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” the pest snaps. “A chardonnay would be perfect.”
Perfect! She’s just destroyed my fantasy, where Easter Bunnies only come in chocolate and are served with cabernet.
I may be a little partial to the author, but I LOVE this story!
Most of us who have younger siblings can relate to the reality of the “little pest” and this column had me laughing out loud…. Enjoy your Easter!
Love your humour Holly!
I say, come July 14, throw a Bastille Day party and serve frog legs!
(I understand frog is now a protected species in France)
Holly’s humor is light, incisive, biting but not bitter. I enjoyed it very much. May we see more of her work.
I will await your invitation to your Easter party. Maybe you could hide beer and wine in the backyard. That way we wouldn’t know the “whabbit” if we tripped over him — or in the words of Grace Slick,
“And if you go chasing rabbits
And you know you’re going to fall
Tell ’em a hookah smoking caterpillar
Has given you the call.”
Good stuff, Holly.
Yeah! Chocolate bunnies & Cabernet! My kind of Easter!
Oooh . . . the awful truth finally comes out. I feel so manipulated, both as a child and as a parent perpetuating a bizzarre ritual. Fortunately our family raised chickens. How come they don’t get a holiday where we could serve them up. I can hardly wait for your Christmas letter Holly. Your secret admirer, Vic.
Holly’s recipe for writing goes beyond Erma Bombeck, beyond Dave Berry. She starts with pathos, throws a handful of irony in the pot and garnishes with a twist of bizarre. Pulling the ridiculous from the mundane, Holly invites us to laugh with her.
Accept the invitation! Your life will be the better for having had a good laugh.
Thank you, Holly.
Oh, dear, I thought my comment would be awaiting mediation.
And I thought it was “In the Spirit”.
Carole,
Your comment was fine, I’ve just been buried with with operational problems and haven’t been over here yet. Once you’ve made a comment, you can post here without issues — but we get on average about 1400 would-be spam comments each day and so we gate-hold all new comments until they can be human-checked. (I may have lost one of yours — if so, please re-post)…. (Darn, it looks like I did — my error….)
Here’s what was supposed to have been posted — (but somehow lost in the shuffle of battling the spamsters)
“You’ll be hearing from our lawyer”.
The Woman Known as Mom
I like it and hope we can meet you IRL at some point!
Mark
Hey, I know “the pest”! And in my family, I was the pest! Loved the story. Can I contribute some bunnies? The puppy is getting close to catching the ones that sneak into the yard.
P.S. I also know the woman known as “Mom”. She’s still laughing about the story.
Hey great story and I didn’t know she was the Pest! but I do remember the paranormal abilities and have survived the 3-service Easter marathon… And let’s face it, the woman known as “Mom” does put together a mean Easter brunch.
Great story. Still chuckling and having flashbacks to Easters past. Can’t wait for the next “Humorous Holly”.
Oh dear. Poor Thumper. Again Holly’s column made me laugh out loud. Looking forward to the next one!
This is great. My “pest” was male and big brother did the hiding. “Mom” slept in after Saterday night celebration.. I love your style, Thanks for the laugh and the memories. Ham and Potato Salad my house 6:00pm
Listen, Girl, I was at one of those infamous Easter Dinners. In fact I was cooking it with my own 3 pests underfoot. A little credit here!! Baked ham as I remember. You guys were all lolling about some church all morning, singing your little hearts out. Ah “the good old days”. Great column, Holly, you’ve got the humor ‘touch’ for sure. Char.
A wonderful story Holly. It reminded me of parts of my own childhood I have not thought of in years. Thanks!