Easter.
I tossed the choco bunny that was left on my desk at work. Everybody got one, and some foil-wrapped eggs that look like little bunny turds when unwrapped. Yum. The chocobunny was one of those sold in piles at Zellers, with yellow fish-like candy eyes that stare through the transparent bag and cry out, “For God’s sake, don’t eat me!” And upon close inspection, it turned out that my treat was a “chocolatey bunny.” Easter and real chocolate were both missing. Does anyone know what tallow is? Why is it in easter bunnies? Trash!
I did end up eating a lot of this crap this weekend, following kids like an egg hunt vacuum cleaner. What’s with those brightly coloured eggs with the white sugar insides? They call them Panned Eggs. Is that like someone has to pop these little oval sugar wobblers into a shallow dish full of food colouring and swish? Poor saps in China. They must hate us.
We had a big kidfest Easter brunch and egg hunt on Saturday at our place. And as things were winding down, Claudette did reiki on me. Now, do you “do reiki” to someone? I don’t even know how to spell it. Claudette took a crash course in reiki (2 days) and seems much happier since. She hasn’t lost her perspective, though. “Massage Therapist is a two year course. This was two days,” she said. Claudette wanted to do me. I’ve suspected this for years. So I couldn’t resist.
We sat in the basement playroom. She rubbed her hands together and then pressed lightly on my head. I could have gotten into this had her three-year-old son quit throwing panned eggs at me, shouting “Bunny! Bunny!” Claudette said she felt strong energy from my head. Rage? Gee, nobody’s ever said somethin’ so sweet.
We gave up when we heard the crash up stairs. Folks were packing up to go and the kids were losing it.
I felt relaxed, even after only a four-minute “treatment.” Then the weirdest thing happened. I walked out onto the street in front of my house and a passing middle-aged woman of east Indian origin who was walking by practically grabbed onto me. She was hurting from the walk and needed a ride home. So I drove her. Within a few minutes in the car she was telling me her life story, crying. The emotionally distant, verbally abusive husband. The financial woes. The neighbours who built a fence too close to the azeleas. A few minutes later I found myself standing in this strange woman’s kitchen, holding her as she cried.
“God sent you to me,” she said.
I told Claudette and she has agreed to do me again. Watch out.
