There were two things that were always guaranteed at Easter in my youth: arguments, and my mother's shitty potato salad. Every year, my parents would get me up to go to church. They'd argue on the way there. They'd argue on the way back. We'd go to my paternal grandmother's house, and my mother wouldn't want to be there, and she'd let everyone know about it. We'd go to my great grandmother's house for dinner, and there would be ham, and more shitty potato salad, and more arguing. At least at Christmas, there were gifts to distract everyone from sniping at each other, and I could stay in my pajamas all day (we'd usually go to church the night before) and no one would care. On Easter, I had to get all dressed up in uncomfortable clothes, and dragged around by the adults. Ugh.
This year, I made a point to celebrate Ostara when it's meant to be celebrated, so my spring holiday was more than a month ago already. Matt is out driving today. I'm actually both relieved and annoyed by this. On one hand, I don't have to pretend to celebrate a holiday that is meaningless to me. On the other hand, most other people are celebrating while I am home alone in my pajamas watching things go terribly wrong for Manchester United. I guess I can't win.
At least all the chocolate and Peeps will go on sale tomorrow. And there's no shitty potato salad.
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