I spent Easter Sunday with my dear fiancee at her cousin's house on Long Island. We sat on the deck much of the afternoon, enjoying the pleasant spring breeze and warm early April sun on our faces. I think you know where this is going.
Half my face is sunburned. I look like Richard Dreyfuss in "Close Encounters of the Third Kind."
My dear fiancee's face and arms are as red as Texan politics. "I'm sitting on a deck in Long Island in the beginning of April for, like, two hours, and I get sunburn," she said to me as she winced through the pain, though not without a note of haughty vindication. "And you want me to go closer to the equator? I'll spontaneously combust."
Okay, enough of that. That picture is the egg that marked my place setting at the Easter dinner table. It was made by my dear fiancee's cousin's husband (cousin-in-law?). He likes to bust my chops about "joining the family."
"You don't know what you're getting yourself into," he'll say. "You've already signed away your freedom, pal. You have no idea." I believe he speaks from experience.
Yes, that's a ball and chain affixed to my egg.
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