What's That Inside My Egg?
The persona that I don most of the time is that of a responsible, caring, and efficient adult. My daily motto is, "Suck It Up and Deal With It Buttercup." The world is full of crotchety folk, and I kind of like being that odd creature that is chronically cheerful and mischeivious. Nothing brings out my impish nature more than holidays; especially those involving cultural traditions like Easter Egg hunts.
A close friend of mine has six boys, and one year we decided to do an Easter egg hunt for her kids and mine. It was a special year because there wasn't any snow on the ground! I would have really enjoyed hiding boiled eggs in the snow, and since that bit of joy was somewhat cruelly snatched from me Mother Nature; I must admit that I was feeling a bit impish not admirable.
Of course there were to be many, many eggs filled with all manner of candy, and I quickly accomplished that bit of work. However, there needed to be a prize of amazing awesomeness. It couldn't be just any old prize egg though. I mean, I remember the feeling of unadulterated glee when I would grasp an egg out in the hunt trenches that had a Sharpie scratched P on its outer plastic husk. In honor of tradition I did produce a couple of eggs in this manner, but I had one gargantuan, golden plastic egg that I wanted to do something special with. Enter Spotless Sputnik's contribution.
Spotless Sputnik is my gigantic pet rabbit. He has spots, but apparently my daughter, whom attached the wascally wabbit with that amazing moniker, had a healthy understanding of irony when she was six. As I moved Spotless's portable rabbit tractor pen one day, my eyes looked in appreciation upon his fertilizer contribution to that particular spot in my field. LIGHT BULB! I waltzed back to the house with all the glee in my step that one has when they feel the elation that can only be caused by impending orneriness.
Note the lack of spots...
The day of the hunt arrived. We decided to have it at my friend's house, and they were putting in a new septic drain-field. I couldn't have asked for a better setting to hide the eggs in, for it was like sending the kids through a historical battle field trench. I felt like Teddy Roosevelt ascending San Juan Hill as I crested the pile of soil that had been displaced for the future drain-field, depositing my plastic eggs in places of victorious concealment. That order of business was quickly dispatched, and I found myself clutching the special Golden Egg.
If I were to be completely honest, there was one child that I wanted to find my pinnacle of prize eggs. Timmy. This child is one of the smartest and yet most vociferous creatures that I have ever come across. He has read Candide and can cite the tale of Beowulf, a very educated and intelligent kid indeed. He also loves the sound of his own voice and was sometimes not the most astute at social cues. I so wanted to see Timmy open the Golden Egg of Easter Rabbit Deposit.
Note the lack of perfect green lawn, and shoes!
The five minutes that was the hunt elapsed with egg-discovery glee. The children looked like dirt-clad explorers by the time they found all of the petrochemical, candy filled poultry ova. I got lots of good natured squeals and ribbing thrown my way for some of my creative hiding spots, but seriously, most egg hunts are over in like, 30 seconds. This was egg hunting 201, or perhaps the graduate student edition. Grass stains on your Easter slacks not optional.
Imagine the @generikat glee when I heard Timmy shout, "I FOUND IT!"
Re-enactment of the prize egg victory thrust. I have the original moment captured, but somethings don't go on the Net.
I quickly ran around the side of the house and snapped a picture of Tim holding the Golden Prize Egg high in the air. The image of his victorious pose brings a smile to my visage whenever I happen to glance upon it.
"Open it!" I shouted.
Now might be the time to mention that my friend's kids have not been exposed to much in the way of animals, so when Timmy opened the Golden Prize Egg he looked up at me in the most curious way.
"What is this?" he called to me as the Easter Bunny pellets of defecation spilled out onto his outstretched paw.
"That would be Easter Bunny poo." I replied drolly with no amount of amusement in my tone (this was hard), "He only leaves that in extra-special prize eggs."
"Well, how is this a prize?" Timmy asked in confusement.
I had to bite my cheeks. Then replied,
"Perhaps if you use it to fertilize your garden; you will grow some golden carrots."
I could see the wheels turning, and then the light of enlightenment dawning.
"This is a joke, huh." Timmy said with a smile lighting up his face.
I slapped a gigantic Twix egg in his hands and said:
"Congratulations."
It has been years since the rabbit poo prize egg, and it still makes feel glee when I recall the look of bewilderment on Timmy's face as the rabbit droppings spilled out onto his hand. He is grown now, but he never fails to remind me of the time I put manure in an egg and called it a prize.