Easter in the Longo house was always filled with candy, good food, and a little bit of terror. As a kid, I remember Dad telling us the story of Easter. Not that one about Jesus Christ dying and being resurrected; I'm talking about the one where Dad would describe waiting up all night, rabbit snares at every doorway and window, waiting to catch the Easter Bunny. He'd go on and on about the feast we'd have Easter Sunday: rabbit stew, beer-braised rabbit, welsh rarebit with rabbit, rabbit sausage ... a veritable feast! Once we were crying good and hard, Dad would scoot us over to Mom in the kitchen to dye Easter eggs.
Sometimes, we'd dye them in the Greek tradition, which, for you non-Greek heathens, is to dye all of them a deep red. No multiple colors, no festive wax drawings or stickers. Just a dark ... blood red ... Easter egg. To represent the blood of Christ, you see. 
Good times for little kids, I tell ya.
Easter morning, we'd wake up to a magically filled Easter basket, complete with marshmallow eggs, jelly beans, and a giant chocolate bunny. That Easter Bunny, he never held back. Sometimes he even left extra candy for my parents, too. What a rabbit! He never held a grudge against my dad for wanting to trap and skin him.
We'd then go on an Easter egg hunt. Perhaps aware of the trauma blood red eggs cause, the Bunny would leave Cadbury Creme Eggs (R) throughout the house. Oh, what fun we had trying to find them before Dad ate them all! Then we'd sit down and peel off the foil carefully, biting into the sugary goodness. When my sister and I were about four creme eggs in, Mom would remind us that we had a dentist appointment on Wednesday.
All in all, Easter was full of happy memories. (Except for the year that we learned one should never, ever, die right before Easter because it's impossible to book a church for the funeral, but that's a hilarious story for another time.) Truly, the worst thing about growing up is no longer getting a basket full of goodies on Easter Sunday. But I have to tell you, the blood-red Easter eggs have really grown on me.

Χριστός Ανέστη!

When people meet me, they often think "Wow! What a fashionista!" (They don't say they're thinking this, but I can tell.) One of my favorite things to do is to find a picture of a model and recreate her look. Take this lady, for instance:
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Nice, right? She looks lovely. However, her whole outfit probably costs $4,000. I don't have that kind of money. What I do have is the innate ability to find a bargain. So off I went.
First off, her blazer is white, which is a terrible color on me. I decided to go with gray, which is a little more flattering. Also, I don't like wearing tops that button, so I went with a sweater (Price: free, raided my great-aunt's closet.)
Her skirt just isn't practical for New England in March. It might be spring, but it was snowing yesterday, and that skirt would just look silly over a pair of long johns. I swapped it out for a nice, sensible pair of corduroys (Price: $5.00, JC Penney clearance rack.)
Now for the accessories. Her Jackie Kennedy glasses seemed a tad pricy, so I went with cheap imitations that were equally as big and gaudy. (Price: free when you buy the first season of CHiPS on DVD.) Her heels looked a little cumbersome, plus, due to an old knee injury, I no longer wear heels as a rule. I like the pattern, though. It makes a personal statement. So I found some sneakers with my own personal statement - the logo of my favorite baseball team, the New York Yankees. (Don't you boo me, Red Sox Nation. I like a team that WINS.) I added my own personal touch - some orthopedic arch support inserts  - and I was ready to go! As soon as I found a purse, of course. (Price: $10 for the sneakers at the Reebok outlet; $14 for supports for my falling arches at Walmart.)
I LOVE the Vera Bradley bag the model has, but again, I'm sure I could make a personal statement for less. I found a great Halston-print bag at Job Lot for much less. Oops! Did I say Halston? I meant Holstein. Only $10! My look was complete.

Here's the result of my careful replication of the model's outfit:
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It's like we're twins, right? Right?
If you'd like me to come redo YOUR wardrobe for less, I'm available for consultation at the low, low price of $100/hr. Arch support inserts get expensive, you know.

We don't have a drop of Irish blood in my family, but that doesn't stop us from celebrating what's really important about St. Patrick's Day: overindulgence.
What we DO have in my family is a St. Patrick's Day birthday, which is my sister Kim's big day. In recognition of this, I like to start my March 17th by calling Mozzicato's Bakery in Hartford and ordering a giant chocolate mousse cake. I have them write "Happy Birthday, Kim" on the top, and I go pick it up right away. Sometimes, I even remember to invite my sister over before I dig in.
I think everyone knows that the best part of St. Patrick's Day is that you get to imbibe as much as you want of your favorite drink, and when you puke on a stranger's shoes, they'll just chalk it up to holiday festivities. This is why I like to fire up not one, but twelve coffee pots early in the day. My college days are long over, my friends, but that doesn't mean I can't drink my favorite quaff - Dunkin' Donuts Morning Blend - to the point where I'm so hyped up, I start pretending I'm a smurf with a brilliant plan to outsmart Gargamel using just our living room furniture and spackle. Our first St. Patrick's Day together, Jason thought I had lost my mind completely, but once he saw my giant spackle fort, complete with a sofa moat, I could tell he thought my idea was smurftastic. Yippeee! More coffee, please!
Of course, the worst part of St. Patrick's Day is the way you feel the next morning. I can't tell you how many times I've woken up with the worst caffeine migraine in the history of headaches. I've found, though, that the best cure is the hair of the dog that bit you. Which is why, on March 18th, you'll find me with my coffee in a giant to-go cup, driving back to Hartford for my second chocolate mousse cake in as many days.
Happy St. Patrick's Day, everyone! And Happy Birthday, Kim!

I knew last Saturday that I was getting sick. Perhaps I should have spent the day resting and sipping orange juice, but no, I waited until I had a full-on sinus infection that brought me to my knees, begging for relief from the pain, before I stopped to take care of myself.
Having been told numerous times by doctors that if one's sinus infection is viral, antibiotics won't help, I turned to the internet for some home remedies to ease my suffering. Apple cider vinegar was being touted as a cure for sinusitis. I had distilled white vinegar, which I figured was close enough, so I kept reading. The home remedy expert suggested stirring two tablespoons of vinegar with salt in eight ounces of water and either sipping it or using it as a nasal spray. I contemplated using my turkey baster as a nasal mister, but as that sounded uncomfortable and a little icky, I nixed the thought. But I certainly didn't want to sip my vinegar, either. I mean, gross, right? However, I was well aware of another effective method of consuming unpleasant liquids in order to obtain a desired effect. I went to college, after all. I dug out an old shot glass, dipped the rim in salt, and started doing vinegar shots every two hours.
This did help my sinuses, surprisingly enough. However, the heartburn soon became unbearable. I went back to my online home remedy expert for relief.
Aloe was recommended for this particular ailment. They mentioned a specific kind of aloe juice that you can buy, but I wasn't going to waste my money when I had a perfectly good aloe plant here at home. I broke off a spine and started chewing. Soon, the waves of pain in my stomach and throat started to ease. However, it turns out that aloe is a natural laxative.
Back to the home remedy website, and fast! They recommended yogurt for this particular problem. Fine. I inhaled a pint and waited. My innards slowly seemed to settle down, but now I had another problem.
You know what's really bad for a sinus infection? Yogurt. It's clumpy and thick and makes you feel like you can't breathe. I was back to square one, and really, not feeling well at all. I felt like I'd spent the day eating weird stuff, and I was still tired, feverish, and now I couldn't breathe well.
I looked around the kitchen. The vinegar was still out, sitting next to the shot glass. My aloe plant had been decimated, and the sight of the empty yogurt tub made me want to hurl. On top of the refrigerator, though, was a little orange box, winking at me. There it was, that teasing little devil. A box of DayQuil Sinex, mocking me. I ripped open the child-proof seal with my teeth and started popping capsules.
DayQuil: home remedy of champions.