It's just that it's that time of year when one page behind on the reading means an hour in the bathroom.
And bravo is at a constant very low decimal.
And that puddle of grease wont leave the left side of your crown no matter how hard you scrub. Must be all the hair nets and name tags. I mean you're twenty nine for Christ sake. That stuff builds.
But, yesterday's ham melted in my mouth as usual. And my not so little friend was sporting some blue patent leather seventy five inch high heeled wings of paradise like a champ of all champs age 14 and counting. Don't ask me where it goes.
I always liked Easter. Most people can appreciate that moment where everything dies, and everything lives at the exact same instant for only an instant. It's like those unitards in Cunningham's piece of the pie. Like how they keep dancing, even when they can't. Even when he's gone.
Holy week gets heavier every year. I swear. I blame the real house wives, the banks, the Bethanies. I wash my hands too much.
Then there's the champagne and the bonnets.
Then there's the meal with the folk; most sacred thing that there is.
Holy hug, biscuit of life, milk of salvation.
~Skin and Toast to Lamott