The Problem with Easter Eggs

You try to eat an egg that depicts an Alien dancing with his feet in a gas cloud, and his heart in a galaxy.

Okay, assuming said alien has a sex, feet, and a heart.

But you see my point?

The only solution I could come up with was to invest in a hundred dye kits now that Easter is over and the prices will go down, and then dye every egg that comes into the house.  That way I would become numb to the quirky charms of each dyed egg.  Also, I'd probably be less painstaking in the dying process.

Of course, now that there are children entering my life via friends and family, it made me think "what would happen if you grew up in a house where dying all the eggs, all the time was the norm?"

What, indeed?

Also thanks to Easter, I have discovered that I have limited patience (read: none) for basket weaving, but infinite patience when it comes to dying eggs.  Finally, for those of you who followed previous bogs (Ahem.  Blogs.), I inadvertently gave up Lent for Lent, life having gone so crazy with work, closing on the house, moving, and Dave's health issues, that I barely knew what day it was- never mind if it was Fatty or Ashy, or Palmy.  Easter made a dent because corporations can make money out of it, so it was harder to miss.  Plus, Willy Wonka had closed and I started getting my weekends back.

In closing, I suppose I should point out that Dave will probably save the day and eat the damned eggs without agonizing over them for aesthetic reasons.  Someday soon, I will open the fridge to see that the Alien Man Dancing has danced his way home to the heart of the universe.

Yes, that is what I will tell myself.