As Easter found its way to Nashville yesterday, I packed up the kit cats and headed out to see what the bunny left behind at my parent’s house.
New Cat was a little less chill, as he howled the meow of his people the entire 30 minute ride. That being said, this car ride was the longest one we’ve shared yet and the first time he’s been in a kennel that wasn’t whisking him away to the vet.
After the incessant bawling, Mama needed an Easter cocktail immediately upon arrival.
While sipping on refreshments, we got to FaceTime with the twins in Iowa. My niece has taken a shine to the phone (naturally) and being able to see herself on the screen.
My buddy The Wandering Poet spread the bunny love by decorating eggs with his Twitter Krew.
Which reminded me of the years full of egg hunts with cousins and our beautiful makeshift Easter baskets – plastic grocery bags.
While I didn’t have any cousins to trample, I was able to take my sweet time in collecting eggs and finding my Easter basket (I was very good this year…if you believe it).
Tedstar refused to move from the chick pail full of eggs scooped up from our annual money hunt (instead of candy, my bunny stuffs the plastic with cold hard cash). And this year, none of the eggs jingled when shook with the usual dimes, nickles and pennies.
What did get Teddy up and
running strolling was a Toblerone bar that he knew he couldn’t have – but tempted himself anyway.
Aside from our annual money hunt there is another family tradition that involves the cheap, Easter basket grass and my dad.
Being that I can’t help myself from leaving a trail of this stringy shit everywhere like my own version of the Tasmanian devil, my dad once made the mistake of voicing his disdain for my messiness with the fake plastic grass.
In the past I’ve hidden piles of this festive filler under his pillow, in his shoes, in the bed, etc…So this year the E. Bunny got smart and inserted paper grass into my basket instead, hoping to thwart finding strings of plastic on the floor until Christmas.
But…I can’t be stopped.
After planting the Monday am prank, the cats and I high tailed it back to our mini manse, where we closed the fabulous weekend with one last cocktail.
We hope Peter Cottontail was as kind to you as he was to Nashville.