Someone resurrect me, please

Today really started with yesterday, a day during which I was so sensitive that were a person to breathe on me, I might experience it as complete and utter rejection. Since such an occasion did happen, I did all my mandatory zen Yoda stuff that I do during such occasions, which occur at cyclically spaced intervals. I breathe, I remind myself that nothing has changed other than my hormones, I step back and notice: "Ah, look. How interesting that I am experiencing total desolation because someone breathed on me. Isn't it wonderful that emotions are mere fleeting thoughts floating across the windshield of my brain?"

Then I distracted myself by eating an entire bag of jelly beans. Hey, who needed them more at that particular moment, me or my children? The horrible feelings went away, as they always do. Funny how feelings are that way.

Thus restored for the rest of the day, and with a short night of sleep under my belt (teenagers), we move to this morning. That would be Easter Sunday morning (as opposed to Easter Tuesday, I guess.) We had two services this morning, so Carl and I were up early, playing shower tag-team. I hear his shower go off and I dive in. To a bracing cold shower. Now, I consider rising in the morning a tribulation to bear rather than a joy. The only things that make it palatable are oatmeal and a warm shower.

I was not pleased.

OK. I continue breathing. Hardly the end of the world. Besides, it's a lovely Easter morning. The sun is shining, glistening off the sweetly scented, um, snow. Trot downstairs to try to make my hair look presentable. Today actually started several days ago, when I got my hair cut in a new and gloriously different style than ever before.

The women around me seem to like it, having proclaimed it "cute". My husband? As usual, he probably couldn't win no matter what he said. I believe his words were something like, "Well, it looks better than it did before you got it cut. But not as good as it used to look." Me? I think I'm still shell-shocked from the notion of having to apply "product" on a regular basis to release my inner curliness.

But I digress. Back to Easter Sunday morning. I apply said product, toss my graying locks around, and run into the kitchen to wolf down my oatmeal. Open the frig to grab my ground flax to toss on said oatmeal (hey, I don't eat vegetables so I have to do something right in the dietary department). Then I hear a rolling sound.

Rolling sounds early in the morning are rarely a positive portent. I look up. I look down. I watch a bottle of wine make that slow-motion fall off of the top of the refrigerator (hence the initial rolling sound to the edge of it) and take a step back just in time to avoid being christened.

A lovely bottle of blush something or another, all over my kitchen floor. Ceramic tile makes an exceptionally fine bottle breaker, should you ever to need smash a bottle or glass of any kind.

What to do, what to do. We must leave in 5 minutes. There is no time for simultaneous eating and cleaning. So I shovel in the oatmeal, grab an old bath towel, corral the wandering wine to a small area of the kitchen floor. Swish the broom about a bit to get the worst of the glass into a small pile. Toss the broom on top of the whole mess to signal to the still-sleeping teens, "Do not step here. Broken glass. Consider cleaning it up."

Ha.

We head to church. It occurs to me in the car that I did not let the dog out. She's still upstairs, sleeping with Annie. That's ok. Two teenagers can surely take care of a dog.

Life chaos suspends for 3 plus hours of worship, broken up by a brunch break. Lovely brass choir and timpani augmented the Senior Choir (so senior that we have a self-named soprano AARP row), Children's Choir and Adult Bell Choir for both services. I shifted between ringing and singing. What joy. :-)

Perhaps Gwen will blog about the service or the sermon or Easter or Good Friday. I had several lofty thoughts during each service, all of which are now lost in the ether. All that is left is the Schalk/Brokering "Thine The Amen", during the singing of which I alternately beatifically grinned and wept. After two such services I'm left with no theological or spiritual thoughts, save joy and exhaustion.

Because of said joy and exhaustion, I don't usually cook after church festival days. (Actually, I don't cook after church on any day, but that's another story.) We rarely do the big holiday meal, as it's just the four of us (family is all far away). Just as we've developed the Christmas Eve Chinese Dinner, our dining plans have also devolved into an Easter Chinese Lunch.

Very good. Very yummy. And I didn't lift a finger, other than to feed myself. Carl and I debriefed the services, Annie tried hard not to sing Handel's Hallelujah Chorus from The Messiah, Jonathan listened to music and played the curmudgeon.

During this sweet interlude, it occurred to me to ask if the children let the dog out. Nope. Nope. It is now 2:15pm. Maggie has been crossing her legs since 11:30p last night. This does not bode well for the cleanliness of our home. I spend the short ride home imagining the lengthy clean up that such a long crossing of dog legs could entail. Then I remember the rolling wine and feared a mixing of the christening events.

Jon hit the house first, and went looking for the little girl dog. Moments later, she dashed out the door, pupils dilated like a druggie. Not only was she crossing her legs for 15 hours, but she somehow locked herself into the Schafer Memorial Closet in Annie's room.

Those of you who are long time friends will well remember the story of Schafer locked in this closet during a thunderstorm and the pandemonium that ensued. Think small closet, what happens to the bowels of those who are terrified, a dog with the world's largest snout trying to dig his way out of said small, poop-filled closet and the resulting mess.

Perhaps because it was Easter, perhaps because the sun was shining or because some distant deity simply decided to take pity on us, Maggie's time in the closet was apparently not quite as traumatic. She clawed holes in the walls and door, but left no mark or bodily substance behind in her attempts to free herself.

We calmed the poor pup. I cleaned up the wine and broken glass. I put together Easter baskets for the still-clamoring 15 and 20 year olds, one of whom doesn't even celebrate Easter. I recorded this weighty description. And now I will repair to the den, where I will bury my head in the Sunday paper, possibly emit a small and polite snore, and mend my sanity.

Liz