Crack me, over hard please.

What happens when it is Easter morning and the dogs are moping because The Mister has left us all to golf? We act out.

In fairness Mr. Morgan was treated to a round of golf that practically made him wet himself in glee. He's stressed, I'm stressed, even the dogs are stressed for lack of a better activity. We were left alone and fuck if we didn't feel like hunting for eggs or otherwise getting into trouble.

So I decided to dress up as an egg and walk around the neighborhood like an idiot. I'm very good at that. Keeps neighbors at bay.

I hate the below photo because really, I'm way cuter than it shows. The lovely drag wrinkle line thingy under my right eye isn't ... well it isn't as prominent in person. I fell into a pit of glass as a kid and the scar has drug it's way that direction. In person, the right side of my face does not look that god damned tired. Nor is my nose crooked and so pointy.


So, the dogs and I grabbed up our supplies - one garbage bag, some markers, a pair of shitty Mister socks, and walmart bags. It was the Russian's idea to make a cracked egg halo.

Mr. Morgan came home and said without a beat:

"You don't look like an egg."
"I know... but sorta egg?"
"Not even close to egg."
"But... I all made this thing from a trash bag man, do you know how reluctant paint will stick to plastic?"
"Just telling you....."
"Cmon, you know you want some of this egg!"


Kylee thinks she helped, so is in all shots. As for my chicken legs.... let's just NOT. I'm a fucking chicken egg, what do you expect? Ever seen a chicken? How they manage on those tiny stems are incredible, think of me like that, and Prada will be the first to say I made it to the top of the Mount Rose Hike before anyone else (I think it's around 36 miles or something round trip on that hike and much of it makes you want a rope to be dragged up, it's advanced level and very steep, although I suspect the men held back somewhat). My little kickers are deceivingly productive.

I do not look like an egg, but was given a solid nod from Mr. Morgan who said "Excellent attempt." It's as eggish as I got for the holiday.

After golf he was amped up to try a recipe he'd heard from a co-hat involving basically mac and cheese and chili. For real? On Easter?

Not that we are religious short of superstitions on my part, but I had planned a nice dish on my Grandmothers china, which I use rarely because he's wreckless. He wanted mac and cheese over a nice steak and potato supper. All the trimmings, etc. I said fine. Which generally as we know in women speak means "what a crotch."

He relentlented later and kissed my ass over the meal, that while quite tasty... I think was complimented more so that I will continue to cook. Bitch about a meal and the stove goes cold. Good Easter, share with me how yours was.

We watched Haunting in Conneticut, bleh. Ok lie, I watched it. Mr. Morgan is one of the most squeamish persons I have ever come across. To his credit, he makes zero excuses for being a pussy, it's just not his thing. The movie reaction, not the other interpretation.

- DM