Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Dave Does Easter

Wouldn't it be funny if the first Easter fell on April 1st?

Jesus would be all like, "Hey, it's me, Jesus. I'm back."

And everyone would stop biting the heads off of their chocolate bunnies and be all like, "OMG! Jesus, you totally rose from the dead!  Awesome!"

And then he'd be all like, "April Fools! Hahahaha, I gotcha. Hahahaha, you should see your faces, you TOTALLY thought I was Jesus!"

And the people would be like, "Wait.  WAIT.  You mean, you're not the Lord our Savior? This isn't a miracle?"

And he'd be all like, "Yeah, no. Sorry, man. I'm Dave. I get the whole 'Did anyone ever tell you you look like Jesus?' thing a lot, so I thought it'd be funny to just...you know..."

And then there would this weird, uncomfortable silence.

And then Dave would be like, "Ummm, yeah.  So, I think I'm gonna go."

Then there would be an angry mob and everyone would be PISSED at Dave, so pissed in fact that they would gather all the Easter eggs for the Easter egg hunt and throw them all at Dave.

And then the Easter egg hunt would have to be cancelled and that would NOT be funny at all. So I guess it's good that the first Easter didn't actually fall on April Fool's Day.

Monday, April 4, 2011

GAAAH! Nature!

I don't do nature.


Scratch that.

I do pretty nature.  Like sunsets and sunrises and moons and stars and trees and flowers and beaches and oceans and mountains and stuff. 

And weather. 


I DO NOT, however, do gross, icky nature.

I'm talking dirt, bugs, camping, fungi (I'm looking at you, mushrooms), and, with all due respect to the ones that could eat me (which I believe to be many; like, way, WAY more than other people assume), most animals.

That's right, I said it. 

I'm NOT an animal girl.

I was never the little girl with the horse/puppy/kitten folder in her Trapper Keeper.  My folders were blue.  Or red.  Or green.  MAYBE with a rainbow here or there. 

But no butterflies.  No bunnies.  No unicorns.

NEVER unicorns.

It's not like I've never TRIED to like animals.  I have. 

There was my friend Matt's cat, who was pretty okay.  Except that Matt would regularly stop our phone conversations to announce that the cat was staring at his neck and was probably plotting to kill him.

And then there was the night the cat brought a mouse into the house and left it at our feet.


There was also my friend Sascha's dog, Bert.  I kinda dug Bert.  He was all big and sweet and tried really hard to be protective.  We'd come in and she'd tell him, "Go check the house, Bert!" and Bert would proudly trot from the back door to the front to give us the all-clear. 

Bert and I had a sort of understanding.  It went like this:

Me:  Bert, you're stinky.  It's not your fault; it's just because you're a dog and sometimes dogs smell like dogs.  No judgement.  Please don't eat me.
Bert:  We're cool.  I will not lick you, or jump on you, or eat you.  Now give me a french fry. 

In fact, my relationship with Bert reached a really great place.  I realized this one night when Sascha and I were leaving her house.  Always the gentleman, Bert saw us to the door. 

"Bye, Bert," Sascha called to him.  "I love ya!"

"Bye, Bert," I said, and then I paused.  I felt like I should say something more.  But I didn't love Bert, and I couldn't bring myself to lie to him by saying that I did. 

"I don't love you, Bert," I admitted.  "But I like you a lot." 

I like to think that Bert respected my honesty, my refusal to lead him on and let him think I cared for him more than I actually did.  He played it cool; he trotted happily away to go do whatever it is dogs do on a Saturday night.

But Bert was the exception to the rule.  And that was years ago. 

Now I have my own home, free of pet hair.  And pet smells.  And pet bills.


Kids who, thankfully, are happy with fish.

Even if all of our fish are now dead.  Flushed back to the ocean.  Back to nature.