We woke up on Easter morning and converged in (Jon Cryer's) living room, sipping (Zabar's) coffee and reading the (New York Times.)
I've got to hand it to my folks. When they do New York, they DO New York. Suddenly, my father comes bounding down the stairs. "Close your eyes! It's Easter Egg time!"
Alex and I begrudgingly close our eyes, rolling them behind our limp, adult hands.
"Okay, open your eyes!"
My dad just stood there, a huge smile on his face. "Find the Easter Egg!"
"Daddy, I'm 30."
And yes, while I refuse to hunt for Easter Eggs, I still call my dad, Daddy.
Alex was over it. "Just get up and look, Beth."
I dragged myself off the couch and away from "We Are Marshall."
"Seriously. I've already agreed to attend Mass. You're making us hunt for eggs?"
My father stood by the fireplace, above which hung the television. And there behind the television was an orange, plastic egg. I pulled it out and handed it to him. "Here's your goddamn Easter egg."
"Open it!" He squealed.
I twisted the egg open to reveal a rolled note, and on it, in my father's block lettered handwriting was: "Dear Beth and Alex, You have been upgraded on your flight home. Love, the Easter Bunny."
Praise Jesus! It's an Easter miracle! Fuck chocolate! I got an upgrade!
We put on our easter fineries and headed across the street for Mass, having to obtain tickets to this event in advance. For those of you heading straight to purgatory, Easter (along with the obvious Christmas) is when many of us Catholics choose to suck it up, attend Mass and make our parents happy. Twice a year, I awkwardly kneel and stand and recite and bow, following the moves of those around me and checking out the cute Catholic guys my parents would totally approve of.
It might be church, but Greenwich Village has some trendy-ass Catholics. It reminded me of my youth, getting dressed, not for Jesus, but because church is when you saw EVERYONE. And the best people watching at church, my fellow Catholics can confirm, is communion. We all have to get in line to receive the Eucharist (edible cardboard representing our Savior) and it's basically a parade of fabulous. Silently, we sashay past each other, pretending to be deep in prayer while actually checking out everyone's ensemble and making eyes at the bored guy attached to his mother who obviously doesn't want to be there but begrudgingly attends events as instructed by women.
The Mass, while appallingly long, had it's high points. A hot priest, a robed choir, Gregorian chants, inscense flung in all directions, etc. Not bad.
Easter also means we all get re-baptized or something. One (of the seven) priests walks around dipping a bouquet of weeds into holy water and flinging the water at the congregation.
God bless Catholicism. We do drama well.
After mass, we headed across the street, back to the apartment for a little breather before a late lunch. As I was in charge of selecting our restaurant, I figured we could walk 2 blocks and dine at HAROLD DIETERLE'S new restaurant, Perilla.
I am a Top Chef whore and I love Harold.
So we're sitting there, sipping Bloody Marys and ordering duck burgers when who should emerge from the kitchen.
I love my parents deeply. but they subtlety is not an art they possess.
"Now, which one?"
"Chef's pants. 4 feet away." I hissed. "Shut the fuck up."
"Where!?!?!" My father screamed. "What's Top Chef!?!?!?"
This restaurant seets like, 30 people. And on their website, Harold makes nary a mention of why 27 of us are there. I guess he doesn't want to be known for Top Chef, but uh, Harold...don't bite the hand that feeds you.
After a fabulous, Top Chef-worthy lunch, Ma and Pa went for a stroll in the Village and Alex and I packed. We huged and kissed goodbye for an hour and headed out to Kennedy Airport.
FYI, as those who received my mass-text will know, the United Red Carpet Room at JFK makes you pay for drinks. Zoe texted back, "The terrorists have won."
I watched "The Kingdom" and "Darfur Now" on my provided DVD player and had steak and Cabernet until I fell asleep.
Thank you Easter Bunny. I'm both tipsy and informed.
My brother maintains than while flying, he's the only one allowed to sit next to me. And I quote, "I know how to handle you." Really, that just means he gets whatever seafood (gross, I don't eat fish) is piled on my chilled salad, holds my hand during turbulence and occasionally scratches the top of my head, just to let me know he's still there.
Alex's presence is like Prozac to me.
We landed early and Alex kissed me goodbye. "I love you, Bethy. Good trip."
No shit, bitch. Good fucking trip.
Photos later today. Weekends in Manhattan rock. And we should all give mad props to Joanne for going balls to the walls and living her dream. As Dani said, walking to brunch, "I so proud of Joanne. I can't believe she's doing this. It's so brave. It's almost beautiful."
I really think, if you bust your ass for 40 years, go throught LONG illnesses with both of your now-dead folks and have loved New York since Mickey Mantle, you get to go balls to the walls and live the dream.
So yeah. Rock on Joanne. We should be so blessed. She'll be back in July...